two agents were hard to miss. Mackenzie sighed internally when she saw that they were both men. One of them, though, looked like he was brand new. There was no way the guy was any older than twenty-four. His partner looked rather hardened and older—probably reaching fifty any day now.
Ellington headed straight for them and Mackenzie followed. Neither of the agents stood but the older one offered his hand to Ellington as they approached the table.
“Agents Heideman and Thorsson, I take it?” Ellington asked.
“Guilty,” the older man said. “I’m Thorsson, and my partner here is Heideman.”
“Good to meet you,” Ellington said. “I’m Special Agent Ellington and this is my partner, Agent White.”
They all shook hands in a way that had become almost tedious to Mackenzie ever since she had joined the bureau. It was almost like a formality, an awkward thing that needed to be done in order to get to the task at hand. She noticed that when Heideman shook her hand, his grip was weak and sweaty. He didn’t look nervous but perhaps a bit shy or introverted.
“So how far out are the crime scenes?” Ellington asked.
“The closest one is about an hour away,” Thorsson said. “The others are all within ten or fifteen minutes of one another.”
“Have there been any updates since early this morning?” Mackenzie asked.
“Zero,” Thorsson said. “That’s one of the reasons we called you guys in. This guy has taken three women so far and we can’t generate as much as a single scrap of evidence. It’s gotten so bad that the state is considering the use of cameras along the highway. The hurdle there, though, is that you can’t really keep over seventy-five miles of back road under surveillance with cameras.”
“Well, you technically could,” Heideman said. “But that’s a ton of cameras and a huge chunk of change. So some folks at the state level are only viewing it as a last-ditch effort.”
“Can we go ahead and see the first scene then?” Ellington asked.
“Sure,” Thorsson said. “Do you guys need to handle hotels and things like that first?”
“No,” Mackenzie said. “Let’s get to work for now. If you guys are saying there’s that much road that needs to be covered, we can’t waste any time.”
As Thorsson and Heideman stood, Ellington gave her a peculiar look. She couldn’t tell if he was impressed with her dedication to get out to the first scene as quickly as possible or if he found it amusing that she wasn’t letting him take the entire lead on this. What she hoped he couldn’t sense was that the thought of going anywhere near a hotel with Ellington made her feel far too many emotions at once.
They left the Starbucks in something of a single file line. Mackenzie was slightly touched when Ellington waited for her, making sure she didn’t bring up the back of the line.
“You know,” Thorsson said, looking back over his shoulder, “I’m glad you guys want to get out there right away. There’s a bad vibe going around about this whole thing. You can feel it when you talk to the local police force and it’s starting to rub off on us, too.”
“What kind of vibe?” Mackenzie asked.
Thorsson and Heideman shared a foreboding look between them before Thorsson’s shoulders slumped a bit and he answered: “Like it’s just not going to happen. I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s not a single clue to be had. The guy’s like a ghost.”
“Well, hopefully we can help with that,” Ellington said.
“I hope so,” Thorsson said. “Because as of right now, the general feeling among everyone working this case is that we might never find this guy.”
CHAPTER THREE
Mackenzie was rather surprised that the local office had provided Thorsson and Heideman with a Suburban. After her own clunker and the template rental cars she’d been stuck with over the past few months, she felt like she was traveling in style while sitting in the back with Ellington. When they arrived at the first scene an hour and ten minutes later, she was almost glad to be out of it, though. She wasn’t used to such nice perks with her position and it made her feel a little uncomfortable.
Thorsson parked along the edge of State Route 14, a basic two-lane back road that wound through the forests of rural Iowa. The road was bordered with trees on both sides. During the few miles they had been on this road, Mackenzie had seen a few small dirt roads that seemed to have been long forgotten, chained off by a thin cable and two posts on either side of the tracks. Other than those few breaks, there was nothing more than trees.
Thorsson and Heideman led them past a few local cops who gave perfunctory waves as they passed. Up ahead, in front of two parked police cars, was a little red Subaru. The two driver’s side tires were completely flat.
“What’s the police force like around here?” Mackenzie asked.
“Small,” Thorsson said. “The nearest town to here is a little place called Bent Creek. Population of about nine hundred. The police force consists of one sheriff—who is back there with those other guys—two deputies, and seven officers. They had a few suits from Des Moines come in but when we showed up, they stepped back. It’s the FBI’s problem now. That kind of thing.”
“So they’re glad we’re here, in other words?” Ellington asked.
“Oh, absolutely,” Thorsson said.
They approached the car and all circled it for a moment. Mackenzie took a look back at the officers. Only one of them seemed legitimately interested in what the visiting FBI agents were doing. As far as she was concerned, that was fine with her. She’d had her fair share of meddling small-town police officers making things harder than they had to be. It would be nice to work a job without having to tiptoe around the sensitivities and egos of the local PD.
“Has the car already been dusted for prints?” Mackenzie asked.
“Yeah, earlier this morning,” Heideman said. “Help yourself.”
Mackenzie opened the passenger side door. A brief look around told her that while the vehicle might have been dusted for prints, nothing had yet been removed and tagged as evidence. A cell phone still sat in the passenger seat. A pack of gum sat on top of a few scattered and folded pieces of paper in the center console.
“This is the author’s car, correct?” Mackenzie asked.
“It is,” Thorsson said. “Delores Manning.”
Mackenzie continued checking the car. She found Manning’s sunglasses, a mostly empty address book, a few copies of The Tin House scattered in the back seat, and spare change here and there. The trunk offered only a box of books. There were eighteen copies of a book called Love Blocked by Delores Manning.
“Was everything back here dusted for prints?” Mackenzie asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Heideman said. “It’s just a box of books, right?”
“Yes, but some are missing.”
“She came from a signing,” Thorsson said. “Chances are pretty good she sold some
