Wade said. “He said when Inman left, he walked around behind the hotel. I’m waiting on the manager to show up so we can check the security cameras. We might get lucky and see what he’s driving.”
“Good call,” Tate said.
“Either he’s getting careless or he’s getting cockier,” Wade muttered.
“He’s challenging us. These pictures are an in-your-face statement. I’d say his failure to kill Nola and then getting injured made him feel helpless. He’s angry. That’s why he’s gotten so personal with his victims. Before, he killed from a distance. Now it’s up close and personal, and leaving them naked is a reflection of his own humiliation. He doesn’t want to be the only one who was shamed,” Tate said.
“That makes sense,” Wade agreed. “But it also makes him more dangerous.”
The desk clerk returned.
“The manager will meet you in his office. If you’ll follow me?”
They followed the clerk through a maze of hallways, then into an office.
“Mr. Comfort, these are the FBI agents staying in our hotel.”
“Thank you, Walter. Gentlemen, how can I help you?”
“This is Agent Luckett, and I’m Agent Benton. We need to see footage from the security cameras around the perimeter of your hotel,” Tate said.
The expression on the manager’s face became one of instant concern.
“What’s wrong? Has something happened that’s going to endanger our guests?”
“At this point we don’t think so,” Tate said.
“How far back do you need to look? We don’t keep them beyond—”
“Just the last couple of hours,” Wade said.
The manager picked up a phone and made a call, then escorted them to yet another location.
“This is Rick Chavez. He’s in charge of hotel security. He’ll help you from here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Comfort. We appreciate your cooperation,” Tate said.
Chavez looked to be in his mid-forties and was built like a linebacker: broad shoulders, stocky body, with the biceps of a bodybuilder.
He eyed both men curiously, and then waved at some chairs against the wall.
“Mr. Comfort gave me the timeline you wanted to see. Pull up a chair. I don’t have popcorn, but the movie is ready to roll.”
“I’ll stand, if it’s all the same to you,” Tate said.
Wade nodded in agreement.
Chavez shrugged, checked the discs and started the playback.
Moments later four different screens were playing footage of the hotel exterior. They leaned in, watching eagerly for signs of Hershel Inman’s arrival.
Three
A few minutes into watching the footage, they saw Hershel walk into camera range, carrying the envelope, but there was no sign of a vehicle on any of the screens. They saw him approach the bellhop, hand over the envelope and the money, and then the bellhop walked out of camera range into the hotel. But it was what Hershel did next that startled them. He paused, looked straight up into the camera, then turned and walked away.
“Look at that!” Wade said. “He wanted us to know it was him!”
Chavez frowned. “Who are we looking at?” he asked.
“The man who’s been killing survivors of your recent tornado,” Tate muttered.
Chavez jumped. “The Stormchaser? That’s the Stormchaser?”
Wade nodded. “That’s him.”
“Son of a bitch,” Chavez whispered. “Are we in danger here? Should I put on extra security?”
“That’s not been his pattern,” Tate said. “He targets people who have survived a natural disaster and kills them at the disaster site.”
“Good Lord. He’s a piece of work,” Chavez said.
“Can you make us copies of that footage?” Tate asked.
“Yes. It’ll take me a few minutes to burn them for you.”
“We’re in room 444. Would you have them sent up when you’ve finished?”
“Yes, sir,” Chavez said.
They left the room with mixed emotions. Hershel Inman continued to move among them like a ghost, taunting their inability to take him down. He was there, and then he wasn’t. They knew what he looked like—now they even knew exactly what he looked like with the burn scars—and they still couldn’t find him. Frustration was high, and by the time they reached their room they were ready for a change of pace.
“I’m going to take a shower before I start writing reports,” Wade said.
“How about some dinner? Do you want to go down to the restaurant or order in?” Tate asked.
“It’s your call,” Wade said.
“Room service,” Tate said.
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” Wade said.
“Except for three candy bars and a Pepsi,” Tate countered.
“That’s not eating. That’s just passing time,” Wade said. “I want a medium-well rib eye, steak fries and a salad. You pick dessert. I’m heading to the shower.”
“A man who knows the important things in life,” Tate mumbled as he reached for the menu to check his own options.
* * *
The doorbell rang as Jo Luckett was in the kitchen making coffee. She grabbed the cash she’d set out and ran barefoot through the apartment. She could smell the pizza even before she opened the door.
A few minutes later she carried the food into the kitchen, transferred a couple of slices to her plate, made a glass of iced tea and set the cinnamon sticks aside to have with coffee later. She carried her plate to the living room, plopped down on the sofa with her food and took her first bite before turning on the TV.
She’d been reading Stormchaser files all afternoon. Both the killer’s brutality and random choice of victims made it all the more important to take him down as soon as possible. Now she was ready to take a break.
But no sooner had she turned on the evening news than she realized they were airing coverage of the murders in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She upped the volume and took another bite, paying more attention to the tornado damage than she did to what the news anchor was saying. She’d grown up in California and gone from UCLA straight to FBI training. She’d
