Page 46 of Girl, Sought

Ella put aside her warring emotions. The logic was sound even if the methods weren't exactly by the book. She turned to her laptop and pulled up the police database.

'Alright, Hawkins, I hope you're right. For both our sakes.'

She typed in the name: THORNE, GABRIEL.

Gabriel Thorne's file loaded with disappointing speed. 39 years old. No current address listed. No vehicle registration. But there was a string of misdemeanors beginning in his early twenties and stopping five years ago.

Ella wanted to be angry. Part of her - the agent who considered herself one of the top in the Bureau - needed Luca to learn that breaking rules had consequences. But if she did that, she’d be a veritable hypocrite. How many times had she taught him to dance on that razor's edge between procedure and necessity? She'd molded him in her image, shaped his investigative instincts with her own brand of creative interpretation of FBI protocols, and now she wanted to condemn him for following her playbook?

Maybe that's what really stung. It was like watching her younger self, before experience had taught her which rules could bend and which would snap back and cut you.

And not only that, but the profiler inside of her couldn’t deny the pattern unfolding on her screen.

‘Look at this.’ Ella jabbed her finger at Thorne's rap sheet, torn between professional excitement and wanting to strangle Luca for being right. ‘2012: caught lifting baseball cards from a hobby shop. 2013: swiped some Depression glass from an antique store. 2014: tried to boost a collection of rare coins. It's like watching someone work their way through Collecting 101.’

‘How does someone with multiple theft charges end up handling million-dollar collections?’ Luca asked.

‘Maybe the same way killers get jobs at funeral homes. Put yourself where the things you want are. Make taking them look legitimate.’

‘When was his last offense?’

‘2019. He got busted burgling a house. Son of a bitch.’ She rubbed her temples. ‘Do you know what pisses me off about all this?’

‘That my criminal behavior might have paid off?’

‘That, and the fact that this fits the profile too damn well.’ She pulled up one of the old mugshots. Young Thorne stared back with eyes that had seen too much or maybe not enough. ‘A collector of collectors would start small. Learn the trade from the inside out. Figure out how the whole ecosystem works before he started hunting in it.’

‘And maybe 2019 was when Vanessa hired him. He didn’t need to break the law because he had legit access to collections from that point. And maybe now, stealing isn’t enough for him. He’s had to up his game.’

Ella wanted to argue, wanted to pick holes in the theory just to teach Luca a lesson about proper procedure. But the evidence kept stacking up. The masks in that office. The drawer full of personal effects. The access to client information. The criminal record that read like a collector's origin story. It all fit a little too neatly.

‘Okay, now the million dollar question. Where do we find this guy? There’s no current address listed, and we can’t just sit outside his office waiting for him. What if he’s already got his next victim in his sights?’

‘Easy,’ Luca said. He picked up Gabriel Thorne’s business card and held it like a winning lottery ticket. ‘We’ve got his cell number right here.’

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Thirty minutes of pure adrenaline had shot the Collector’s nerves to hell. The Toyota handled like a dream, as always, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking on the wheel.

Not the bad kind of shakes. More like the full-body buzz you get after skydiving or bungee jumping.

Or killing a priest and stealing his prized crucifix.

Beside him, Jesus rode shotgun. Not the real deal, of course, but a pretty good facsimile rendered in latex. Crown of thorns included because if you're going to do something, do it right. The mask's empty eyes reflected the mild afternoon light as the Collector took the back roads home. Those same eyes had watched Joseph Carpenter's last confession and had seen the old man's faith crumble like communion wafers. It was a glorious experience and easily the most satisfying of the three.

Not because of the six-figure treasure that he’d swiped once Joseph lay at his feet, because this wasn’t about money. What made this such a sweet kill was that Joseph Carpenter had everything a man could want; money, prestige, a legion of devoted followers. But even all of that wasn’t enough for him.

Five million dollars of medieval craftsmanship sat in his trunk - human bone from first-century Jerusalem, if the carbon dating records were to be believed. The Collector wasn't sure he did, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that Joseph Carpenter had believed, and he’d built his whole identity around these precious fragments of divinity.

Just like Eleanor and her dolls. Alfred and his insects.

Fragments of lives collected and curated and ultimately corrupted.

A police cruiser ghosted past. The Collector’s heart tried to climb out through his throat, but his hands stayed steady. Let them look. They'd see what everyone saw - nice car, nice suit, another office drone heading to his next meeting. Nothing to see here, officer. Just your friendly serial killer having the best day of his life.

Unless they looked right. Unless they saw the Son of God idling in the passenger seat.

The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like foreplay.

---