Page 22 of Facing the Enemy
“Absolutely. I’m friends with an English professor.”
I relaxed slightly. “I’ll print two copies for us to mark up. I know how you prefer hard copy. It won’t take but a minute.”
A few minutes later I handed him black coffee and Carson’s two-page story. I added yellow and pink highlighters to the mix and two pens, then lined them up before I eased onto a barstool.
Gage savored a long sip of his coffee. I’d forgotten his large hands that overlapped around the mug. We both valued good java. “Excellent as always,” he said. “How about I read, and you tell me if something’s true? If it’s a fact Carson found on the police report online, I’ll circle it. But if the info is one only an observer would know, then I’ll highlight it.”
“That leaves speculation to what’s left. Pink or yellow highlighter?” How strange it felt to tease him.
“Do I look like a pink kinda guy?”
“Gage, embrace your feminine side.” Seemed like another lifetime since we’d bantered.
Gage picked up the yellow. “I’m being bold. Here we go. ‘Houston’s summers melt the ice flowing through the killer’s veins, but the heat just makes him meaner. I—’”
“The first seven sentences mean nothing to me. Carson doesn’t have my address, and my walking to the restaurant isn’t in the police report. Highlight that.” I swallowed a lump in my throat, the perpetual reminder of my grief. “I took great effort to hide my FBI past from the faculty and students. The dean is aware, and he assured me no one would hear about the FBI from him. How did Carson have a clue that his English professor had been a federal agent?”
“Much is missing, and we won’t have answers until we talk to him.” Gage continued to read until I stopped him.
“The killer believes he has others fooled, but he claims to follow me and is aware of how I fill my hours.” I took a sip of coffee with a shaky hand. “That’s creepy, and the statement might or might not be true.”
“It reads like the killer planned to gain access to you through a pizza delivery. Since when do you eat pizza?”
An allergy to tomatoes stopped me from enjoying it. “Never, but there are two pizzerias close by.”
“You’ve gotten in the way of something, Risa. It’s obscure but a clue.” Gage read the fifth paragraph, and I stopped him again.
“The paragraph is accurate as though he followed me inside the restaurant and watched my every move. There’s nothing to contradict, and the whole section scares me.”
“Did anyone at the restaurant stick out?”
“Not particularly. It wasn’t crowded. I arrived early and scanned the few people sitting at tables and booths. Habit, I guess. The killer doesn’t state he left his car, so I’m thinking he had a straight view inside the restaurant. Or possibly used binoculars.”
We marked our copies before Gage read again.
“Paragraph six and the first two lines of seven are spot-on,” I said.
Gage used his highlighter and returned to the story.
Remembering the night held a paralyzing chill. “The hit is exactly how I remember. But I paid no attention to the seconds left on the pedestrian walk. The security cams showed the driver ran the light and abandoned his SUV a few blocks away. Then we learned the vehicle had been stolen.” I shoved aside the anguish. “That says premeditated murder to me.”
He worried his lip and frowned. “Carson is an eyewitness, or he’s the murderer.”
“If he killed Trenton, then why write about it in a story? It’s too coincidental that he’d take my class and give this to me. Is he a psycho who wants to be arrested?” I paused to analyze conversations with Carson and his interactions with other students. “If it’s a game, Carson is dangerous.”
“We’ve got to talk to him. Not sure when because my schedule is booked solid.”
“I’d forgotten about the Addingtons’ case. Finding who abducted that baby takes priority over any of my problems.” I patted his arm. “Always. Life isn’t about me or you. It’s those who need what we offer.”
He placed his other hand over top of mine, strong, warm. “Early in the morning. I’ll run Carson’s pic through facial recognition and see if the FIG can locate him. I’ll let you know what I learn.”
The Field Intelligence Group was an elite group of FBI professionals who included special agents, linguists, intelligence analysts, and surveillance specialists. If Carson was hiding anything or trying to avoid detection, they’d find him.
I’d contributed to Gage’s stress level by adding to his workload. “Thanks. I’m sorry to have pressured you. I’m hoping he calls me or his parents, but he’s not stupid. I really like the kid, and I want to believe there’s a logical explanation for his story.” I paused, considering remote possibilities. “He could be consumed with guilt and willing to turn himself in, or someone close to him confessed to the crime.”
“Do you believe that?”
Gage’s gaze nailed me, and I shook my head. “Wishful thinking on my part. Analyzing his behavior in class and the truth of his story equate to him being deranged. But I long to believe he’s simply scared.”
