Free Chill Factor by Sandra Brown Page A

divorce?”
    â€œPerkins is working on that angle for me. He’s digging.”
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œHe’s forty-one. He has a U.S. passport and a Virginia driver’s license. Six feet three inches tall. Weight, one eighty-five. At least that’s what he weighed when he renewed his license two years ago. Hair, brown. Eyes, blue. No facial hair, tattoos, or visible scars.
    â€œThe manager of the lodge says he’s polite and undemanding, and he tips the housekeeper even though she doesn’t clean for him. He has one major credit card. Uses it for nearly everything and pays the total balance each month. No outstanding debts. No hassles with the IRS. He drives a late-model Jeep Cherokee. Registration and insurance are current.”
    â€œSounds like a solid citizen, a prince among men.”
    Despite his remark, Begley knew that one’s appearance and demeanor could camouflage a criminal,psychotic, or sociopathic mind. During his long career, he’d run across some very twisted folks.
    There was the woman who was widowed six times before anyone thought to investigate the bizarre coincidence. Her excuse for killing her husbands, each in a distinctive and inventive way, was that she just adored arranging funerals. She was as plump as a partridge and as pretty as a peach. No one would have thought her capable of killing a housefly.
    Then there was the guy who played Santa Claus at the neighborhood mall every Christmas. Jolly and kind, beloved by all who knew him, he would sit children on his knee and listen to what they wanted for Christmas, pass out candy canes, remind them not to be naughty, and then select one to violate sexually before dismembering the body and placing the various parts in Christmas stockings, which he hung from his mantel. Ho, ho, ho.
    Nothing surprised Begley anymore, especially not a woman snatcher who was polite, tipped generously, and paid his bills on time.
    â€œWhat about friends?” Begley asked. “Anyone ever join him in that cabin he rents?”
    â€œNo one. ‘He keeps to hisself,’ to quote Mr. Gus Elmer, the owner of the lodge.”
    Begley stared at a picture of Laureen Elliott, the third woman to disappear. She had a bad perm and a sweet smile. Her car had been found at a barbecue restaurant between the clinic where she worked as a nurse and her home. She didn’t pick up her phone-in order of ribs.
    â€œWhere does Ben Tierney call home?”
    â€œHe gets his mail at a condo he owns in Virginia, just outside D.C.,” Hoot replied. “But he’s rarely there. Travels extensively.”
    Begley came around. “Do we know why?”
    Hoot shuffled the stack of printed materials he’d brought in with him and came up with a popular magazine for outdoor sports and activities. “Page thirty-seven.”
    Begley reached for the magazine and thumbed to the page, finding there a story about rafting the Colorado River.
    â€œHe’s a freelance writer,” Hoot explained. “Goes on thrill-seeking adventures and vacations, writes about them, sells the articles to magazines that cater to particular interests. Mountain climbing, hiking, hang gliding, scuba diving, dogsledding. You name it, he’s done it.”
    Accompanying the article was a color photograph of two men standing on the rocky shoal of a river, white water in the background. One of the men was bearded, stocky, and a lot shorter than six feet three. He was identified beneath the photo as the guide for the trip.
    The other smiling rafter fit Tierney’s description. Wide, white smile in a lean, tanned face. Windblown hair. Calves as hard as baseballs. Sculpted arms. Washboard abs. Michelangelo’s David in a pair of cargo shorts.
    Begley scowled down at Hoot. “Are you fucking kidding me? He’s the kind of man women throw their panties at.”
    â€œTed Bundy was a reputed ladies’ man, sir.”
    Begley snorted, conceding the