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  Karen added, “He’s obviously not a slob. The Ballys, the care he took to leave no evidence on her.”

  “Well, that’s not entirely accurate,” he said. “Peanut shells, the baggie of coke, the hundred, tracks.” He paused. “Are we seeing any patterns to this yet?”

  “Checked lunar, zodiac, numbers, nothing, nothing, nothing. Random dump patterns, different types of places,” Karen recited from her notes.

  “Dump sites?” Kenny asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting the entire group to participate in the brainstorming session.

  “Deserted, but easily accessible. They were places he probably scouted out ahead of time. They aren’t easily seen from the road.”

  He paced up and down the room, slowly circling the table, occasionally making notes on the whiteboard as he passed. Intense in his concentration, he tapped the marker against the palm of his left hand while he walked. “What do we know about the victims?”

  Another detective spoke up. “All prostitutes, all users, no particular physical resemblance.”

  Kenny paused to write on the board, then continued around the table. “Now, the million-dollar question is why is this SOB doing it?”

  “Fun?” someone offered.

  Alex Bates spoke up again. “Too methodical, but it is for pleasure. He doesn’t maul them. Forensics show he seems to kill them during sex. This leads me to conclude that it’s sexual gratification he’s after.”

  Kenny looked at him. “So our boy literally gets off on killing them?”

  “Correct. I mean, he might be turning this into a sort of game. That’s why he doesn’t care about the peanut shells and prints on the baggies and bills. We’ve only gotten partials off them. But he always takes the condoms. He’s smart enough to know DNA evidence would send him to Ole Sparky.”

  “They don’t use Sparky anymore,” someone quipped. “They get a needle in their arm now.”

  “I know,” someone else added. “What a shame.”

  “Wonderful,” Kenny said sarcastically, but added it to his ever-growing list. “Physical traits?”

  Dr. Paul Drucker, the ME, went next. “Well, like Alex said, there’s no semen, apparently he’s still using a condom. We did find a few pubic hairs that indicate a dark blond, meaning white male.”

  “Typical.” Kenny wrote on the board. “Besides, it fits the victim profile.”

  Drucker continued. “He kills them at the dump sites. No physical evidence to support him transporting them post mortem.”

  “Okay,” Kenny wrote again. “He’s intelligent and methodical. Not a hothead. He bides his time. Am I right, Alex?”

  The psychiatrist nodded in agreement. “I’d say so.”

  “And he’s probably in pretty good physical shape?”

  Drucker checked his notes again. “He totally overpowered his victims. No ligature marks on the hands or feet. Strangulation in all three cases, bare hands by the looks of the bruises, and he’s got big hands. The victims weren’t marked up, no extraneous sadism or brutality.” He looked up. “Aside from the killing itself, of course.”

  Kenny added to his list. “Okay, George. What about those other cases FDLE came up with?”

  George thumbed through a few pages of notes until he found what he was looking for. “You’re not going to like this. The ones in Palm Beach and Tally are definitely our guy. However, they came up with two other probables. One in Miami, and one on the Tamiami Trail in Naples. We’re still waiting for a response from the ViCAP inquiry.”

  Kenny capped the marker and tossed it on the table. “I want autopsy, lab reports, and the ViCAP profile as soon as they come in. That’s all for now.” The rest of the group gathered their papers and filed out.

  Finally alone, Kenny slumped in his chair and swiveled around to stare at the board and the notes he’d jotted down.

  “Who are you?” he muttered.

  Chapter Four

  He backed his car out of the garage that sunny Saturday afternoon and examined it, studying it with a practiced eye. Just a tiny scratch on the hood. A little rubbing compound would easily take care of that. The car’s interior looked spotless. With the exception of a few splotches of road grime, the exterior was the same.

  This was part of his post-hunt ritual. He pulled the floor mats out and put them to the side, then went over every inch of the interior with his giant Craftsman shop vac. When he’d cleaned it to his satisfaction, he took a spray bottle of cleaner and several soft, white rags, and went over all the surfaces that could pick up fingerprints. This done, he put the vacuum away and uncoiled the hose to wash the car, starting with the floor mats.

  Cleaning the car was a precise ritual. It required painstaking attention to detail, but he had done it so many times that he had his method down pat, allowing his mind to drift.

  It was one of the few occasions he really allowed himself to delve into the past.

  During his reminiscing, he washed every inch of the car’s surface, including the mag wheels and sidewalls. He took a chamois and removed the water spots before buffing out the small scratch. Then he polished the entire car. The process took several hours, but when finished, the car looked showroom-new. Smiling at his work, he drove the car back into his tidy garage, closing the door behind him.

  No, the police would have to build quite a case against him. With the first two or three victims, he’d been young and stupid and didn’t wear a condom. As crime investigation became more sophisticated, he decided it was the prudent thing to do.

  He walked through his spotless house, into the den, and turned his computer on. It wasn’t his hobby he was concerned about the police discovering, but the web at his fingertips. He had a shipment due into Hernando Beach, but the boat had been out of contact for over twenty-four hours. Just one of many, he checked on the progress of the others, via a mainframe on Grand Cayman, where all the information was routed for him.

  Before the computer, his “business” was large, but it was difficult to keep track of everything. With computers, his organization grew by leaps and bounds, allowing him to easily keep track of all his holdings. He even went to the trouble of having an elaborate redundant backup system installed, one designed to his specifications. Easy to use and virtually foolproof, but with state-of-the-art encryption, and he could access it from anywhere. He kept none of this data on the one at the office. That was far too risky. He had a network program which allowed him access to his home computer from anywhere. He also incorporated a keystroke-capture program in case he ever suspected someone of tampering with the machines. Just in case, he had a nuclear option, a software script that would wipe and rewrite his home hard drive to prevent detection from law enforcement.

  He sat back and sighed. Something was wrong with the shipment, and he hoped it wasn’t what he suspected. His regular captain was in the hospital with a severe gall bladder attack, so he’d been forced to let the mate take the cruiser up the coast alone. Unfortunately, the mate had little experience navigating the shallow, rocky Intracoastal Waterway along the Gulf. At his last check-in, he reported that near Sanibel Island, he drifted off course out of a channel and hit bottom, damaging the props. The boat would have to be hauled and inspected for damage not only to the props, but the shafts as well.

  Oh well. A boat is a hole in the water you throw money into.

  He realized he hadn’t made his journal entry yet. He opened up the word processor program. He liked to keep track of his hobby.

  He never revisited any of the sites. That would be stupid, and it wasn’t something that interested him, anyway. He found pleasure in the hunt, followed by the kill itself, the moment, the final act. Once completed, it became a thing of the past, holding no meaning for him. He didn’t even follow the police investigations other than what he read in the paper.

  Except for his journal.

  With his journal entry completed, he saved it and ran a system backup before shutting the computer down. He got out of his chair and stretched. He was s
upposed to meet Jenna in a couple of hours and had to get cleaned up.

  Chapter Five

  The boat rocked slightly in the calm water as Mitch splashed in. Ed handed her speargun and stringer over the side. The men watched her descend and swim for the anchor line. Ed glanced at his two friends. “Might as well go ahead and drown some bait. She may be down there a while.”

  Jack reached for his pole. “So, Ed. When are you and Mitch going to become an item?”

  Ed, concentrating on Mitch’s bubbles, didn’t hear Jack’s comment. “What was that?”

  Ron laughed. “You and Mitch. She’s a beautiful woman, she’s intelligent, and she’s right in front of your nose.”

  Ed turned to the two lawyers. “You left out that she’s also married.”

  Mindful of his promise, Ron shook his head. “Details, details. She’s only married according to the State of Florida. How long’s it been since she’s lived with John? Three years?”

  “Three and a half,” Ed corrected.

  “Then there you go.” Jack’s bearded face lit with glee. “Hey, you have to be thinking about it if you’re keeping track.”

  Ed glanced away long enough to get a fix on Mitch’s bubbles, then turned back to his friends. “If she was interested in me, she’d tell me. I’m not going to spoil a good friendship.”

  Jack scratched his head. “Ed, let me tell you something. If you don’t make the first move, you’re going to waste a lot of time.”

  “I don’t need a lecture on my love life.”

  “What love life?” the other two men quipped.

  Ed frowned at them. “I sometimes think the two of you have made getting Mitch and me married your sacred mission. Why don’t the two of you try to put some fish in the cooler? You know damn well you’ll never live it down if she comes up with more fish on her stringer than you catch.”

  “C’mon, Jack,” Ron said. “He’s right about Mitch. She’ll never let you live it down after the way you shot off your mouth this morning.”

  Jack agreed.

  They opened a cooler and removed the partially dissolved chum block in its nylon mesh bag. Ron hung it over the gunwale and tied it off to a cleat while Jack made a show of waving his hand in front of his face.

  “Boy, that thing stinks.” he said.

  Ron laughed. “Hey, if you’re a grouper, it’s Chanel Number Five. Now let’s catch some fish.”

  * * * *

  Mitch’s promise to Ed rang in her ears when, at forty feet, a dark form took shape beneath her. It came into focus as she continued to descend. She released her grip on the anchor rope and kicked to the bottom. A nice fishing yacht, white with blue trim, and about forty feet long, she guessed, although it was hard to tell with the limited visibility.

  Mitch dodged a jellyfish and hovered over the stern. The yacht rested on her bottom, listing to starboard. Painted on the transom in navy blue script was the yacht’s name and home port—the Emmerand out of Coral Gables.

  Well, that answers that question. No wonder they didn’t answer those hails. She’s a long way from home. I wonder if they came around the Keys or through the Okeechobee Waterway?

  Mitch moved closer. She removed her right glove and ran her fingers along the gelcoat. She felt no telltale slime, meaning the yacht hadn’t been on the bottom more than a day or two. It was a nice boat and wouldn’t go unreported as missing for long. That brought another question to mind.

  Where’s the crew?

  Mitch replaced her glove and slowly circled the yacht with growing unease. The wreck’s anchor rope stretched from the windlass on the bow pulpit off into the murky distance.

  They were anchored when they sank.

  She saw no immediate signs of fire or hull damage, and there had been no storms severe enough to sink a vessel this size in weeks.

  What sank her?

  She returned to the stern, dropping closer to the bottom. A large teak dive platform hung from the transom, supported by two chains. It bobbed up and down slightly in the weak current. Mitch rested one fin-tip on the bottom to steady herself and lifted the platform, allowing her a closer look at the props. Both looked damaged, one missing nearly half a blade.

  Damn, they hit hard!

  That answered her question. A hit that serious likely bent the prop shafts. While the boat ran, the bent shafts would vibrate and wallow out the packing around them. Once anchored, the packing would leak. A malfunctioning automatic bilge pump float switch would send the vessel to the bottom. Especially if it happened at night, while everyone on board slept.

  Mitch let go of the platform and swam over the stern. A thin, intermittent stream of diesel fuel and bubbles escaped through the fuel tank vent near the cockpit. A vessel of this size could easily hold four hundred gallons of fuel or more. The Coast Guard would have to be notified.

  Something brushed against her leg and she jumped, annoyed to find a remora cleaner fish trying to suction itself to her. She smacked it on top of its misshapen head, only to have it circle and try again on her other leg.

  All right, fish. You’re pissing me off. Remoras were notorious for bothering divers. The fish often rode attached to sharks, turtles, large rays, and whales, but were frequently found near reefs.

  It swam off. Mitch watched to see if it would return. A movement off to her far right caught her eye. Startled, she brought her spear gun around and spun the powerhead down as a large shark materialized.

  Her heart jumped. At first, Mitch thought it was a bull shark until she recognized the familiar whiskers of a better-natured nurse shark, approximately eight feet long. Mitch backed into the cockpit when she noticed the milky cataracts in its eyes. Nurse sharks usually didn’t bother divers unless antagonized. The older, blind ones could be annoying, however, especially if startled.

  The shark looked like it was going to turn toward her, but didn’t. Instead, it cruised away and the Gulf swallowed it as it swam out of visual range. She let out a sigh of relief and turned to examine the cabin.

  It was about three o’clock and the sun no longer shone directly overhead. Dark shadows filled the wreck’s interior. She fished around in her BC for her flashlight. The batteries were a little weak, but it made a difference as she played the narrow beam around the wheel house.

  A closed hatch led below to the main cabin. She remembered to reset the safety on the powerhead before moving into the cramped passageway. The wooden door was swollen from being submerged, but she braced her leg against the top of the hatchway and got enough leverage to pull it open.

  An inky hole faced her, the darkness a gaping maw below her. Mitch paused to clear some accumulated water from her mask and, with her speargun before her, she aimed her light ahead and carefully moved into the main salon.

  The cabin resembled a NASA space film. Objects hovered, suspended in midair, and gently swaying in the current her presence created. Mitch penetrated further and trained her light on something in the far corner. Tiny fish darted in and out through the open hatch behind her, dodging out of her way while she investigated.

  A pale, ghostly shape slowly waved back and forth in the beam of her light. She approached. Startled, she pulled back when she realized what it was.

  * * * *

  “Oh, hell. What are you doing?” Ed muttered as her bubbles all but ceased. Small ones broke the surface in the same spot, but with no discernible pattern.

  “What’s wrong?” Jack called.

  “She just went inside.”

  “Inside what?” Ron asked.

  Ed looked at them. “There’s got to be a boat down there. We can’t see her bubbles anymore because she’s gone inside.” He turned back to the patch of water thirty yards off their starboard bow. “Come on, Mitch, hurry up,” he said.

  * * * *

  The man was dead. His pale hand, now just another inanimate object subject to the forces of current, drifted in a slow parody of a wave.

  Well, he’s not fish food yet, and he’s not floating. He hasn’t be
en dead more than a day.

  Being a professional search and recovery diver imparted her with grisly facts the average person wasn’t usually aware of. It wasn’t the first body she’d recovered, but at least it wasn’t in a nasty mining pit or a mucky sinkhole.

  Mitch glanced at her dive computer and pressure gauge. She still had half a tank of air, and plenty of time left to avoid a decompression stop on her way to the surface. The cabin felt eerie with only the dead man for company. He was a large man, and would be difficult for her to manage by herself. She finally decided to leave him and head for the surface. There were two more doors in the main cabin, both closed, one leading forward and another aft. She decided against looking around and risking entanglement.

  The Coast Guard will have to search anyway. And I don’t particularly want a body on my boat.

  She carefully turned, doing her best not to kick the corpse in the head with her fins, and exited.

  The swollen hatch would not close. Mitch braced herself and pushed, but it was too swollen to fit back into the jamb. When she turned to leave the wreck she jumped, a brief scream causing an explosion of bubbles from her regulator.

  The nurse shark was back, a giant beige hulk slowly zigzagging back and forth around the wreck. Mitch reset the powerhead.

  I don’t want to shoot you, fella.

  Not only was it a waste, but the blood would attract other sharks to the area. Near the bow, a small school of barracuda had gathered, about ten in all, the largest no more than two feet in length. They hovered, motionless, like a group of black and silver torpedoes, with only their toothy mouths moving, working to pump water across their gills.

  An involuntary shudder went through her. She wasn’t afraid of sharks. Cautious, definitely. Nervous, slightly. Afraid, no. Barracudas, on the other hand, gave her the willies. It wasn’t the mouth full of jagged teeth that unnerved her, because they rarely attacked divers. They just went after fish that’d been shot or strung. It was the way they seemed to materialize out of nowhere, and in the blink of an eye, disappear again. In all the years she’d been diving, Mitch had lost countless fish to barracudas. Some even taken right off her shaft, before she had a chance to retrieve them. Barracudas were the hit-and-run artists of the sea. Ed referred to it as “fish-jacking.”