Free Dead Sleep by Greg Iles Page A

woman appeared to be dead?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    Baxter reaches into the file, removes a photograph, and pushes it across the table at me. It’s a head shot of a young dark-haired woman, a candid shot, probably taken by a family member. It’s well off horizontal, which makes me think it was taken by a child. But that’s not what sends a shiver through me.
    â€œThat’s her. Damn it. Who is she?”
    â€œLast known victim,” Baxter replies.
    â€œHow long ago was she taken?”
    â€œFour and a half weeks.”
    â€œWhat was the interval between her and the one before her?”
    â€œSix weeks.”
    â€œAnd before that?”
    â€œFifty-four days. Seven and a half weeks.”
    This decreasing time span bears out my reading, as well. One theory says that as serial offenders get a taste for their work, their confidence grows, and they try to fulfill their fantasies more and more frequently. Another speculates that they begin to “decompensate,” that the neuroses driving them begin to fracture their minds, pushing them toward capture or even death, and the path they choose is accelerated murder.
    â€œSo you figure he’s due for another soon.”
    The two men share a look I cannot interpret. Then the psychiatrist gives a slight nod, and Baxter turns to me.
    â€œMs. Glass, approximately one hour ago, a young Caucasian woman disappeared from the parking lot of a New Orleans grocery store.”
    I close my eyes against the fearful impact of this statement. Jane has another sister in the black hole of her current existence. “You think it was him?”
    Lenz answers first. “Almost surely.”
    â€œWhere was she taken from?”
    â€œA suburb of New Orleans, actually. Metairie.”
    He actually got the pronunciation right: Met -a-ree. He’s picked it up from a year and a half of working the case.
    â€œWhat store in Metairie?”
    â€œIt’s called Dorignac’s. On Veterans Boulevard.” This time he missed it. “ Dorn -yaks,” I correct him. “I used to shop there all the time. It’s a family-owned store, like the old Schwegmann chain.”
    Baxter makes a note. “The victim left her house a few minutes before the store closed—eight-fifty P.M. central time—to get some andouille sausage. She was making dip for a birthday party at her job tomorrow. She worked in a dental office, as a receptionist. By nine-fifteen, her husband started to worry. He tried her car phone and got no answer. He knew the store was closed, so he got the kids out of bed and drove down to see if his wife had a dead battery.”
    â€œHe found her empty car with the door open?”
    Baxter gives a somber nod.
    This happened to two victims before Jane. “It sounds like him.”
    â€œYes. But it could be a couple of other things. This woman could have been seeing a guy on the side. She meets him at the store to talk something over, maybe even for a quickie in the car. Suddenly, she decides to split for good.”
    â€œLeaving her kids behind?”
    â€œIt happens.” Baxter’s voice is freighted with experience. “But talking to the detective, this doesn’t sound like that type of situation. The other alternative is conventional rape. A guy on the prowl with a van and a rape kit, looking for a target of opportunity. He sees her going to her car alone and snatches her.”
    â€œHas anybody like that been operating in the area over the past few weeks?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid any other victims shop at Dorignac’s? Jane must have gone there sometimes.”
    â€œSeveral shopped there occasionally. The store stocks some regional foods other stores don’t. The Jefferson Parish detectives are grilling the staff right now, and our New Orleans field office is already taking their lives apart. With help from the Quantico computers. It’s a full-court press, but if it’s like