Absolute Pleasure

“True,” Georgia commiserated. “But we should be thankful these aren’t violent crimes.” She looked back at Sunny. “Do you really expect the lab to find anything after all this time?”

“Maybe. If we’re lucky, they’ll give us something new to go on,” Sunny said, but she wasn’t about to pin her hopes on the lab turning up viable evidence. For one, it’d been over two weeks since Wilder accompanied the UNSUB to the theater. Countless individuals had no doubt contaminated the private box, from patrons to theater staff and cleaning crews. With any luck at all, they might turn up physical evidence from the art gallery since the place was closed, but even she had to admit it was unlikely. They already had the guy’s DNA from four of the known crime scenes, but no identifying factors to provide them with a name. All she could realistically hope for would be a match confirming Abbott was their UNSUB.

Georgia offered her a sympathetic smile. “The clerk did promise to call as soon as the warrants were signed.”

Sunny frowned at the silent phone, wishing Duncan would return her call. Whether or not he could give her the information necessary to form that pattern she suspected existed, she could only guess. She wanted to know more about those two cases he’d mentioned he was investigating in addition to Wilder. Were the claimants on her existing list of victims? If not, that would bring the total number of victims to nine nationwide. And if there were more victims, why hadn’t local authorities advised her office when she’d published an alert weeks ago?

Because SEDSCAM was a nonviolent crime, she reminded herself, making it a low priority for local jurisdictions. If rich, affluent, campaign-dollar-contributing women were being raped, murdered and dumped along the roadside for Joe Citizen to discover on his morning jog, she’d have the high-ranking officials from those cities storming her office demanding action.

By sheer accident they’d discovered the connection to Wilder, albeit five days after the fact. The credit belonged solely to Georgia for bringing an article in the newspaper about the theft to Sunny’s attention. If the incident hadn’t occurred in their own backyard, or if the Wilder name hadn’t attracted press coverage, weeks may have passed before they’d been notified, if at all. She’d acted quickly and rather than dealing with the usual pissing contest over jurisdiction, the local authorities had been happy to hand the investigation off to her.

The time factor was short in relation to the other cases, not that it had garnered her much headway with regard to solid leads thus far. They still had no idea where the UNSUB might strike next, where he went after pulling a job or what he did with the millions in cash and property he’d lifted from the vics.

Sunny let out a frustrated sigh. “I need to get a visual on this case.” She dragged a yellow legal pad in front of her and drew two lines down the page. “What do we know? What do we suspect? What can we prove?” Once she had a list, the entries would go onto three-by-five index cards which she’d be able to move around on a chart, like a giant jigsaw puzzle.

“We know there are seven vics in seven different states and no confirmed pattern,” Ned started. “We also know one man is responsible for at least four of the crimes based on DNA evidence collected.”

Georgia flipped through her printouts. “DNA was collected from hair samples in Philly and St. Louis. Miami from a cigar stub…” Confusion filled her blue eyes when she looked up at Sunny and Ned. “A sweatband from the Atlanta location?”

Sunny shrugged and entered the names of the victims and their geographic locations in the first column, followed by the DNA links. “We suspect he’s responsible for all seven crimes.” She looked up at the two rookie agents. “There’s a possibility we could have nine victims. A recovery expert hired by Wilder’s insurance carrier was at the estate this morning. In addition to Wilder, he claims his office is handling two additional cases with similar M.O.’s.”

“Did you get the names?” Georgia asked. “Do you know which locations?”

“Not yet,” Sunny answered. She wasn’t proud of the fact she’d been so thoroughly distracted by the awareness sizzling between her and Duncan that she’d failed to ask him even a few pertinent questions regarding his investigations. “I’ve left a message for him.”

Georgia moved the printouts and other documents from her lap to the floor, then reached across Sunny’s desk for the file containing the six composite sketches of the UNSUB they’d obtained from the victims. “Which of these four guys match our DNA evidence?” she asked.

“Ian Banyon, Burke Conners, Scott Kauffman.” Sunny consulted her notes. “And Adam Hunt.”

Georgia separated the four composites, helped herself to the plastic box of pushpins from Sunny’s drawer, then hung the four sketches on the wall near the map. “Okay, now give me the order?”

“Conners first in St. Louis, Atlanta was Hunt,” Sunny told her. “Miami is Banyon, and put Kauffman last for Philly.”

Georgia pulled the neon-orange pins from the map, exchanging them for bright yellow, then arranged the composites in corresponding order. She stood back and examined the map, then looked over her shoulder to Sunny and Ned with a satisfied smile. “Do you see it?”

Sunny pushed out of her chair and moved in to get a closer look at the map.

“He’s getting sloppy,” Ned suggested from behind her. He indicated the first two locations with the tip of a pen. “Seattle and Napa produced no DNA evidence. The UNSUB was careful, cautious. By the time he got here,” he said, pointing to the yellow pinhead marking the St. Louis crime scene, “his confidence was up, so he relaxed and got careless.”

“I don’t think so,” Sunny said. “He’s not careless, he’s very thorough and methodical. I’d suggest arrogance, but you don’t get cocky from only two successful jobs. Plus, it was a hair sample found in the drain pipe of the victim’s shower in St. Louis, so that could be a fluke. By the time he hit Miami, it may have been intentional if he’s playing with us, but our involvement isn’t public yet. If there’s any meat to Ned’s theory, though, then we have more crimes to worry about.”

She looked over at Georgia. “Can you pull all the data reported from crimes in the last two years that match our UNSUB’s M.O.?”

“I can try,” she said, but didn’t look too hopeful. “If the stats aren’t entered into the national database, there’s not much I can do.”

“They usually don’t bother,” Ned added, “unless it involves a violent crime. On the surface these have the characteristics of theft. That’s not something anyone would commonly associate with a serial-type offender.”

Sunny turned her attention back to the composite sketches. “See what you can find anyway,” she said to Georgia. “I know it’s a long shot, but we could find gold.”

“The lab could come up with more DNA from Wilder’s place,” Georgia suggested. “How long before you’ll hear something?”

“Could be days.” Sunny moved closer to the map, meticulously studying each sketch for what had to be the six hundredth time. She was missing something…but what?

Ned adjusted his glasses and peered at the sketches of Burke Connors and Ian Banyon. “How does he do it?” he asked. “How does he manage to completely alter his appearance? I see basic similarities, but it just doesn’t look like the same guy. You know, I could style my hair differently, wear contacts, but I’d still look like me.”

“I know what you mean,” Georgia agreed. “I could go brunette or blond but I’d still be me. If it wasn’t for the evidence, I’d swear we should be looking for four different men. Nothing suggests this is the same person. It’s spooky.”

“Oh my God,” Sunny blurted. “That’s it!” She turned to look at the two agents and grinned. “These are not sketches of the same person.”

Georgia took a step back and looked down at Sunny as if she’d lost her mind. “Come on, Mac. You’re reaching. The evidence indicates otherwise.”

“I’m not refuting the evidence,” Sunny explained. “Stay with me a minute.” She went to her desk for the remaining two composites, then pinned them to the wall above the other four drawings.

“Marcus Wood.” She pointed to the first sketch. “Tansey Middleton’s favorite cause is animal rights. She writes big checks to support no-kill shelters and foots the bill for an adopt-a-pet event twice a year. Wood comes along posing as a dog-loving, animal-rights activist.”

Ned folded his arms and rocked back on the heels of his polished wingtips. “Yeah, so?”

“Maddie Bryson takes over the operation of the family vineyard when her brother loses a lengthy battle with cancer. To recoup their losses, Maddie explores the possibility of exporting their award-winning Napa Valley grapes to several French winemakers. Travis Reisner shows up claiming to be a buyer for a French winemaker.”

Georgia’s eyes filled with understanding. “Joy Tweed is a professional college student,” she said. “Some guys don’t change their socks as often as Joy changes majors. She’s what they used to call an M.R.S. degree candidate way back when. Burke Connors is a Ph.D. candidate, another professional student, in Joy Tweed’s eyes.”

“Exactly,” Sunny agreed. “Bettina Manchester falls for the supposed owner of a chain of sporting goods stores. Celine Garfield is conned by a guy posing as an importer of Egyptian artifacts. Scott Kaufman is a rich playboy for a socialite, and Justin Abbott is a patron of the arts to an art connoisseur.”

Ned pushed his glasses up the slope of his nose again and studied each of the composites more closely. He looked over his shoulder at Sunny, his pale blond brows knit in confusion. “Sorry, Mac. I’m not following you.”

Sunny tapped her finger on the first drawing. “Doesn’t Marcus Wood look like one of those lunatics that would run through a dog show opening cages, freeing the dogs in the name of animal rights? And Conners here has egghead professor written all over him.” Next she indicated the composite drawing of Adam Hunt. “This guy looks like a jock, just the kind of guy you’d expect would own a chain of sporting goods stores.”

Ned scratched the back of his head. “I still don’t see what you’re saying.”

“Each of these drawings appear to be a completely different guy, right?” She waited for Ned and Georgia’s acknowledgment before continuing. “That’s because the vics aren’t remembering the way the UNSUB actually looks, but how they saw him. The composites aren’t going to give us an accurate physical description because they aren’t of the actual man, but of the image he portrayed to his victims.”

“It is an interesting theory,” Georgia said. “Didn’t Celine Garfield say that Banyon spoke with some sort of British, or maybe a South African, accent?”

“She did,” Sunny confirmed. “And when Wilder sits down with the sketch artist tomorrow, if the composite of Justin Abbott isn’t a perfect example of a patron-of-the-arts type, lunch is on me.”

Ned still didn’t look as convinced as Georgia. “The UNSUB’s ability to transform himself may very well be his recipe for success,” he eventually conceded, “but how is your theory going to lead us to him?”

Undaunted by Ned’s lack of vision, Sunny’s smile widened. “We might be able to narrow down possible locations since we know what attracts him.”

“Money,” Georgia added. “A whole lot of money.”

“You’re talking haystacks and needles, Mac,” Ned argued. “You know how many people in this country come into big bucks every day? How many of them are women? A new millionaire comes along every couple of weeks if all the state lottery stats are accurate.”

“But we’re only interested in the perpetually single and recently unattached,” Georgia added helpfully. “That should narrow the field considerably.”

“Divorcées, widows,” Sunny told the analyst. “Any woman between the ages of twenty and fifty-five that fits the profile.”

“I’ll play with some data, see what comes up.”