Danger in Numbers Read online

  Hunter drew out his phone and showed the man the picture of Amy’s sketch he had taken earlier.

  “Have you possibly seen this young woman? Did she check in here?”

  “I... No... Wait! Yes, she did start to check in here...maybe a week ago?”

  “She started to check in?” Amy asked.

  “She was really nervous-like. And I know we may look like something dredged out of the Dark Ages—my grandfather built and started this place—but I must have a credit card for a deposit. Some biker-musicians checked in here once with cash only, trashed a room and took off. Funny world we live in, huh, when plastic beats cash. But it does.”

  “She didn’t want to give you a credit card?” Hunter asked him.

  He shook his head. “She said she didn’t have one. I felt sorry for her—she was so nervous, like a lost little waif. I was going to let it go, but she ran out of here too fast. Is there a reason you’re looking for her? Do you think she did something wrong?”

  “No, we’re just worried about her,” Amy said.

  “Now, after what’s happened... Well, I’ll keep a lookout for her, and next time I see her, I’ll just make sure that she’s in and safe,” the man said.

  “And call us,” Amy said.

  He nodded. “And call you.”

  “Thank you,” Hunter said, lifting his key. “I think we’ll just need the night. But—”

  “Go day by day, and stay as long as you like,” the clerk told them.

  They headed out of the office.

  Hunter took in the building. “Remind you of anything?”

  “The Bates Motel, right out of Psycho?” she guessed.

  He grinned. “Yep. Except there’s no two-story Victorian mansion looming on a hill. That fellow—” he paused, looking at his key “—Mr. Martin Sanders of the Sanders Inn, must live in the ranch house just in back of the motel.”

  “It’s hard to have a house on a hill in Florida,” Amy said lightly.

  They looked down the line of the outdoor path that led to the ten connecting rooms. “Well, we’re next to each other if there is...anything.” He turned to look at her. “I don’t have any luggage to bring in, and neither do you. Do you want a minute in the room, or are you ready to just head to the diner?”

  “I’m hungry as hell. Ready to go to the diner.”

  They stepped back into the car, and then they were on the road.

  “He said the young woman was here about a week ago,” Amy said thoughtfully as they drove. “A week. But it was only days ago Karyl saw her at the church. Do you think she could still be around? She wouldn’t have a room, a shower or any facilities.”

  “I don’t know why, but I think she might be. And her behavior is that of someone who wants help, but is terrified of trying to get it.” He glanced her way. “Once you’re in a cult, it’s damned hard to get out.”

  “But...” She paused, frowning.

  “Yes?”

  “How could people—a cult—be here and no one know it?”

  “I don’t know. But it certainly isn’t impossible.”

  “And it’s possible someone here is involved.” She glanced his way. “Maybe even something like a sleeper cell, people involved with something for years that is only now coming to light?”

  “That’s possible, too.”

  Amy was tired. It had been one hell of a long day—and it had followed another long day. But she found herself watching him, trying to fathom her own feelings. Her first impression of him had not been favorable. Arrogant. Know-it-all. Or, perhaps, despite the department always wanting to play well with others and accept federal help when needed, she might have simply read these things into the man because of the way he’d just shown up in the middle of her crime scene. Maybe he’d been asked to a murder scene in the north of the state, but he’d presumed to be involved here.

  She glanced his way, trying not to be obvious. It occurred to her that he was a striking man, tall and fit, though lots of law enforcement officers were. He had a good face. Eyes that were intent; when he was listening to someone, it appeared that he was really listening. He had a heart—he cared about John, certainly. He had the ability to command space when he walked into a room. There was something almost electrical about him—he entered, and things seemed to snap and sizzle.

  She looked back at the road. She wanted to find him palatable, not attractive.

  “There it is—ahead,” he said.

  There were scattered cars in the lot, but it was easy to park. Hunter opened the door and she went ahead of him into the diner.

  “New staff on,” he said softly from behind her.

  A sign said Seat Yourself, Please!

  They chose a booth along the front; the windows looked out to the night.

  “Pot roast is good,” he told her. “Down-home cooking.”

  An older waitress, softly bleached platinum hair pulled back in a French knot, came to their table, a pad in her hand. She’d obviously heard the last.

  “Absolutely,” she said. “Hello, and welcome. I’m Ida Peterson. My husband Frank and I own this place. He’s a meat master, and I swear, I make the best mashed potatoes this side of the Atlantic. And if I do say so myself, my grits are to die for!”

  Amy laughed softly. “Well, whatever I have, it must come with mashed potatoes.”

  “The pot roast, dear. It’s my husband’s specialty.”

  “Then I will have the pot roast and mashed potatoes. And an iced tea, please,” Amy told her.

  “And you, sir?” she asked Hunter.

  “I had the pot roast earlier, and it was delicious,” he told Ida. “So were the mashed potatoes—best I’ve ever had,” he acknowledged.

  “You were in here earlier with our holy foursome,” she said. “I was back in the kitchen. You’re law enforcement, right? Working that horrible murder with Victor Mulberry.”

  “Right. I’m Hunter Forrest and this is Amy Larson. She’s with the state of Florida and I’m with the federal government.”

  “They’ve brought in the big guns. As it should be. We just don’t have things like that happen around here,” Ida said. “Well, welcome. I’ll get this order in for you. How about some key lime pie, Mr., um, Hunter Forrest? I’m sorry. How do I address you?”

  Amy looked down, trying not to smirk.

  “Hunter is my given name, and you’re welcome to call me by that. Officially, I’m Special Agent Forrest. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Peterson. Key lime pie would be lovely. And a cup of coffee, please.”

  She laughed. “You just call me Ida, hon. We’re all like family around this place.” Her smile disappeared and she frowned. “You all catch that monster who came here, do you hear me? You have to catch him and catch him fast. This is a good place. We—we’re not used to being afraid out here. Miles of dark highway and tons of cows and folks often far from each other—and we’re still not used to being afraid out here.”

  “I promise you we’ll do our best,” Hunter said.

  She nodded and hurried behind the counter and to the window that led to the kitchen. She handed the ticket with the order to a man Amy thought must be her husband, Frank. She spoke to him; he looked out at Amy and Hunter.

  He didn’t pretend not to study them; he waved as he did so.

  They waved back.

  “You do think someone here is involved with this murder in one way or another. Did you feel that way in Micanopy?” Amy asked him.

  “My opinion? The head of the cult isn’t in either location. Perhaps somewhere in between—maybe even enjoying all the rides and attractions in Orlando while his apostles carry out his dirty deeds in other locations. Do I think someone long-established in the community—or the head of any church—is secretly a cult member? Not impossible, but I don’t think so. What we found out is that there’s a nervous stranger around. We
don’t think she was the victim. And I do think she’s around here somewhere. She’d be too afraid—especially since the murder—to move very far.”

  “If she finds out we’re here, and we’re able to keep her safe, she may just appear.”

  “Right,” he replied. “But if she’s involved, she could also be afraid of law enforcement.”

  Amy shook her head. “I don’t understand. She should just head toward...the city. Any big city. They can be found in all directions. Of course, if she’s walking...”

  “She couldn’t use the main road. They could be looking for her. She can’t travel much to the west—she’d come across alligators for certain.”

  “You know, you can find them sometimes on the golf courses in Miami and Naples and on up.”

  “We’ve built into their terrain for years,” Hunter acknowledged. “I’m not all warm and cuddly on alligators, but this is their domain. Along with cottonmouth snakes, rattlers, pygmy rattlers, coral snakes—”

  “Not to mention an onslaught of pythons and boa constrictors.”

  He nodded. “You have farms, you have cows. Horses. Ranch animals. And there are miles and miles of sugarcane. You’ve still got tons of predators. They don’t acknowledge the difference between nature preserves and farmland.”

  “So, you think she’s smart enough to stay around here.”

  “I think she’s still here somewhere. Afraid to move.”

  Amy leaned back, studying his eyes. “I think you’re right,” she said at last.

  He reached into his pocket; she saw he was going for his phone.

  He looked at the message he had received.

  “Carver. Guess he never stops working, either. He says your sketch is not of our dead girl. Federal, state and local agencies are still searching for her ID.” He paused, pursing his lips and shaking his head. “We still have nothing on our Maclamara victim.”

  “Should you have...stayed up there?” she asked.

  “Probably. But now I’m here. The trail is fresher.”

  “So, we could be here a few days.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad I always have a toothbrush in my bag.”

  He grinned. “You do? Good.”

  “And you?”

  “Always.”

  “Well, of course,” she said.

  Her pot roast and tea arrived, along with Hunter’s pie and coffee. Ida waited for them to taste her offerings, smiling.

  “Delicious,” Amy assured her.

  “Best ever,” Hunter said. “You have to try this, Amy.”

  Why not? She reached across the table and tasted a forkful of his pie. “Wow,” she told Ida.

  Ida was pleased. “You two must come back in while you’re out here investigating this awful business. The least I can do is keep you well-fed!”

  They thanked her.

  “You—you really are law enforcement?” Ida asked.

  Hunter produced his credentials; Amy did the same.

  Ida sighed. “Can’t say as I’d know if they were fake. But Frank has a nose for bad things. He says you’re all right.”

  Amy smiled. “Frank is—well, he’s got good senses. I swear we’re the real deal.”

  Hunter handed Ida a business card. “We’re staying up at the motel. Here’s my phone number. Easy to reach us if you need to.”

  Ida took the card and slid it into the pocket of her uniform. “Frank and I close up at ten—or as soon as we get the last customer out of here. But we live in a little house out back. You come see us any time you need to, okay?”

  She smiled and left the table, sweeping up a coffeepot to refill the cup of a trucker sitting a booth or two down.

  Amy looked after her, and then she looked at Hunter.

  “She knows something,” she said softly.

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  “We need to question her, we need to—”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Let her come to us,” he said softly. She was surprised when he didn’t suppress a yawn.

  “The company you’re keeping?” she asked dryly.

  He grinned. “The day. Eat up. Let’s go. You never do know when it might prove to be a long night, too.”

  His phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, mouthing to her, “John Schultz.”

  “I’m going to throttle him! He had a heart attack and he’s calling us now?” she said incredulously.

  Worry struck her first; then she wondered why he had called Hunter and not her.

  Hunter answered the phone, his eyes telling her he had no idea why John was calling, either.

  Hunter quietly repeated what John was telling him.

  “He says to keep an eye on the Unitarian church. Apparently, our charming friend Pastor Colby is close friends with multimillionaire Ethan Morrison. I’d talked to John about running a search on the donor who had supplied the money for that fantastic stained-glass window at Colby’s church. A forensic accountant who didn’t know John had had a serious health incident called him with the info—Ethan Morrison was the donor. And he’s never trusted Ethan Morrison. Especially not with all the things in the news about him.”

  “It’s not illegal to be friends with a millionaire,” Amy said. “Except that...”

  She let her voice trail. Ethan Morrison had faced a lot of allegations in his life—accusations of abuse from two of his ex-wives, and there had been an attempt to link him to another millionaire friend who had been known to secure the services of underage prostitutes.

  He was known to have invested in private detention centers at the border. And there had been accusations that young women had disappeared from those centers.

  “Not to worry,” Hunter told John. “We’ll be out there again in the morning. We’ll do everything we can. We will find out what happened.”

  He ended the call.

  “I don’t know why John has possession of his cell phone, but that’s interesting that Ethan Morrison is involved with Colby’s church.”

  “I see,” Amy said.

  “Right,” Hunter murmured. “But,” he added, “what you don’t see is why John called me instead of you.”

  She shrugged. Right. She didn’t understand why John would bypass her so easily.

  “He was just informed the FBI was asked in officially to take over the investigation.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know that doesn’t sit well with you.”

  She shrugged. “Florida murders, Florida cases.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be. I mean, honestly, if we can just find out who did this—and stop more horrible murders—that’s fine with me.”

  “Is that sincere?” he asked her.

  She laughed. “Yes, actually, it is.”

  “Okay, then.” He looked at her empty plate. “You all set?”

  She smiled. “Hey. You told me to finish up. I did.”

  “Nice to have an agreeable partner,” he said.

  “An obedient partner?”

  “An agreeable partner,” he repeated.

  She shook her head. “Okay, let’s go, partner.”

  5

  Amy liked to think she had never been a fool.

  She didn’t mind another agent being in the room next to hers. They were out in what many might consider a no-man’s-land, where a woman had been savagely murdered.

  The best and toughest agent needed someone at their back at times.

  But she had just thrown her jacket on a chair and was pulling the elastic and pins out of her hair when she heard a rap at the room’s connecting door.

  She moved over to open it, looking cautiously at Hunter.

  “I think we should keep these open—easy proximity and within earshot.”
>
  “Do you snore?” she asked him.

  “Only when I have a really bad cold. Do you?” he asked.

  “Not often.”

  “Then we should be good. And it’s just in case. I won’t bother you in the least,” Hunter said.

  She just nodded and turned away, leaving the door ajar.

  She brushed her teeth and washed her face, but then she hesitated when she came out of the bathroom. She’d figured she would strip down to her underwear to sleep.

  It had been a long day, and airing out her clothing overnight might help a little.

  “Screw it,” she muttered to herself, and she stripped down and crawled beneath the sheets. She was sure he was in his boxers or briefs or whatever he wore.

  Checking her Glock on the nightstand and glancing at the door one more time, she rolled to her side.

  She was exhausted.

  But she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to sleep well.

  She’d drift off, then awaken again.

  She realized she was completely doubting Pastor Jared Colby.

  How could a man of any kind of legitimate house of worship count someone like Ethan Morrison as a friend? The multimillionaire had escaped prosecution because of missing evidence and because of the death of a witness—while that witness was in jail, awaiting trial. It had been a Florida case, but it had been in the news everywhere.

  Personally, Amy never believed the man had died by suicide. He had been ready to testify that the disappearance of young women from his detention center had nothing to do with them being transferred to another place. There were no records of the girls arriving at their transfer. But no one had been able to prove he had been murdered while incarcerated.

  There had to be a connection—or there didn’t. Ethan Morrison might be involved in many criminal schemes, but that didn’t mean he had anything to do with ritualistic murders. She knew she couldn’t jump to conclusions just because she hated so many things the man had likely done, and gotten away with because of his position of privilege.