The young man held his gaze only briefly. “Taylor. Steven Taylor.”
“Couldn’t you get a better picture than this, Taylor?”
“No, sir,” he said. “We’re lucky we even got this one. It was taken with a telephoto lens from the window of the resort. It’s the best of about twenty that I managed to get at that time. Any other time I tried to take her picture, she somehow seemed to know there was a camera around and she covered herself almost completely. I have about five hundred perfect pictures where her face is nearly entirely obscured by enormous sunglasses or her hat. I have five hundred other perfect shots of the back of her head.”
“Yet you’re certain this woman is our Black Widow.” Miller didn’t hide his skepticism.
Daniel shifted in his seat. “I believe it’s her, John. Hear him out.”
Miller was usually unerringly accurate when it came to reading people. He knew for a fact that Patrick Blake disliked him despite his record of arrests. And he knew quite clearly that Steven Taylor was afraid of him. Oh, he was polite and respectful, but something about his stance told Miller clear as day that Taylor was going to request a transfer off this case now that he knew Miller was aboard.
Daniel Tonaka, on the other hand, had never been easy to read. He was unflappable, with a quirky sense of humor that surfaced at the most unexpected moments. As far as Miller could tell, Daniel treated every person with whom he came into contact with the same amount of courtesy and kindness. He treated everyone from a bag lady to the governor’s wife with respect, always giving them his full attention.
Daniel had spoken up to say he had a hunch or a feeling about a suspect or a case only a handful of times, and all of those times he’d been right on target. But this time he’d used even stronger language. He believed Serena Westford was the Black Widow.
Miller looked expectantly at Steven Taylor, waiting for him to continue.
Taylor cleared his throat. “I, um, used the computer to search out the most likely locations the Widow would choose for her next target,” the young man told him. “She prefers small towns with only one or two resorts nearby. I programmed the computer to ignore everything within two hundred miles of the places she either met or lived with her previous victims, and narrowed the list down to a hundred and twenty-three possibilities. From there, I accessed resort records and used a phone investigation to query the resort staff, searching for female guests under five feet two inches, traveling alone, staying for extended lengths of time.
“Frankly, there was a great deal of luck involved in finding Serena Westford. She’d arrived at the Garden Isle resort only two days prior to our call. When it became clear she was traveling under an alias, I went to Georgia myself to try to further identify the suspect.” He shook his head ruefully. “But as you can see, in all of the pictures we have of the Black Widow, her face is covered.”
“But her legs aren’t,” Daniel pointed out. “Steve got plenty of pictures of Serena Westford’s legs.”
“Her legs are visible in some of the other photos we found in the victims’ houses,” Taylor said. “We have no pictures of the Black Widow’s face, but we have plenty of photos of her legs.” He looked at Daniel and grinned. “Tonaka had the idea to take those pictures and these pictures and run a computer comparison. According to the computer, there’s a ninety-eight percent chance that the Black Widow’s legs and Serena Westford’s legs are one and the same.”
Miller glanced at Daniel. Damn, the kid was good at finding creative alternatives. “A computer match of legs won’t hold up in a court of law as proof of identity,” he commented.
“No kidding,” Taylor said, quickly adding, “Sir. But it’s enough to convince me that there should be a further investigation.”
Miller passed the photograph to Captain Blake, and again his hands shook. The older man glanced at him, eyebrows slightly raised.
Miller turned back to Taylor. “Tell me more,” he commanded.
“When Serena first arrived, she had traces of bruising beneath her eyes,” Taylor continued. “I’d dare to speculate that that was from recent plastic surgery—probably a nose job to alter her appearance.”
“We’ve been talking about the possibility of flying husband number seven’s former housekeeper to Garden Isle,” Pat Blake interrupted, “but if the Widow has had extensive plastic surgery, there’s no way she could make a one hundred percent positive ID. I want no room for reasonable doubt. This one isn’t going to walk away.”
Miller nodded. What they needed was to catch the killer in the act.
“She’s recently rented a beach house on Garden Isle,” Taylor continued. “That’s a clear indication that she’s intending to stay, although at this point, I don’t believe she’s targeted her next victim. I’ve compiled a list of all of the people—both men and women—whom our suspect has had contact with over the past several weeks. Out of forty-seven people, twenty-eight have since left the island. They were there only on vacation, and they’ve gone home. Out of the other nineteen, one in particular stands out.”
Taylor took a series of photos from his file, spreading them out on the table.
“Her name is Mariah Robinson,” he said. “Or so she says. According to our files, no such person exists. We’ve identified her as Marie Carver, former CEO of Carver Software out of Phoenix, Arizona.”
Miller leaned forward to look at the photographs. One was of a tall young woman with shoulder-length dark hair, wearing a bathing-suit top and shorts, seated on a beach blanket. Another bikini-clad woman was sitting next to her, her face obscured by a huge straw hat.
The woman in the hat had to be Serena Westford. Her barely there bikini was designed to make blood pressures rise, yet it was the woman sitting next to her that drew Miller’s eyes.
“Marie Carver—or Mariah Robinson as she calls herself—lives alone in a rented house on the island,” Taylor continued. “She spends most of her time on a private beach taking nature photographs. She has a darkroom in her cottage. Every few days, she goes off island—I don’t know where. I haven’t had the opportunity yet to follow her. She and Serena seem pretty tight.”
Mariah Robinson was more than tall, Miller realized. She was an Amazon—a goddess. She had to be only an inch or two shorter than his own six feet two inches. She was as tall as a man, but built entirely like a woman. Her breasts were full and generously proportioned to the rest of her body. Her hips were appropriately wide—enough so that she was probably self-conscious, hence the shorts. Her legs were impossibly long and well muscled.
Another picture caught her riding an ancient bicycle. She was going up a slight hill and standing above the seat, muscles straining in her legs, breasts tight against the cotton of her T-shirt.
Christ, what a body. There was so damned much of her.
Serena Westford was their Black Widow suspect. She had allegedly lured seven men to their deaths with her searing sexuality. She was a femme fatale in the most literal sense.
Yet it was this other woman, Mariah Robinson, who made Miller stand at attention. Of course, he’d always been a breast-and-leg man. And from what he could see from these pictures, she had more than enough of both. Enough for a man to sink into and lose himself in for a solid year or two.
