Stolen(84)
“No,” Hatcher said.
Spense ran a hand through his hair. “GHB messes with your memory, Caity. You probably don’t fully recall what happened, but I’d still like to hear you out when you say Grady doesn’t quite fit the profile.”
“There are profiles, and there’s evidence.” Hatcher had his coat on and his hat in his hand. “Evidence beats profiles like a royal flush beats a pair of deuces. As much as I’d like to stand here all day and listen to Caitlin explain why the man who drugged and attacked her, who lied to the cops, and whom we can place in the vicinity of every last victim at the time of her disappearance is not our guy. But I’ve got a serial killer sitting down at the jail, and I gotta figure out how to get enough proof to keep him there before a judge decides he’s a model citizen with ties to the community and lets him out on bail.” Then, without waiting for a response, Hatcher left.
Exactly what Spense would have done in his shoes.
But Caity knew Webber better than they did. He wanted to hear her explanation. “First, I wanna say I’m sorry you didn’t feel safe telling me about Webber and the dress shop.”
She pulled her afghan tighter around herself. “I wanted to tell you. I realize now, no matter what, I should’ve been honest.”
He sat down beside her and laid his head on her shoulder. “I can’t promise I’ll never lose my cool again, babe. But I promise to do better, to try harder, and to learn from my mistakes.”
“And I can’t promise I’ll never get hurt again, but I do promise to do better, to try harder, and to learn from my mistakes.”
He squeezed her knee. “I guess we both have a lot to learn. Now, if you wanna explain why you don’t like Webber for this, I’m all ears.”
“Just in case the moms are all ears, too . . .” She got up, checked the hallway and then closed the door to the study. “I agree Grady’s a misogynist. Educated, cunning, feels entitled. He manipulated Laura with psychotropic medication—there’s no question about that, but we don’t know for what reason—he quite possibly thought it was for her own good. Then there’s the fact that he’s a hedonist. Whatever makes him feel good, he believes to be morally correct.”
“So far, I’m with Hatcher—Grady seems like our guy.”
“As much as I deplore the man, Grady Webber, while not above using his position of power to take advantage of women lacks one key element of the profile—he doesn’t have poor ego strength.”
“You mean he’s an arrogant SOB and our UNSUB . . .”
“Many rapists obtain sexual gratification by instilling terror in their victims. But our UNSUB doesn’t. He can only get off when there’s no threat. No witness to his perceived inadequacies. Think about it. No one is less threatening than an unconscious victim because they can’t criticize or fight back.”
“And you’re sure Webber wouldn’t enjoy taking such complete control over a woman?”
“I am. I hate to have to think about my own experiences with him, but based on those, I believe that in the bedroom, Grady needs an audience. He uses intellectual discourse as foreplay, and he needs someone who can appreciate how clever he is.”
“Someone educated, like you.”
“And like Inga . . . someone awake to tell him he’s brilliant. Whenever I think about Inga, it crushes my heart. I don’t believe Grady’s our UNSUB, but I do wonder if he might be responsible for Inga’s death.”
“How long will it take you to get dressed?”
“One minute to put on my shoes. Why?”
“I still like Webber for our UNSUB. But I get your point, and one way or the other, I think a field trip is in order—you said Inga’s sister lives in Boulder, right?”
Chapter 45
Tuesday, October 29
10:00 A.M.
Boulder, Colorado
“Ms. Rundstrom, thanks so much for seeing me.” Caitlin had phoned from home and mentioned she was an old friend of Inga’s. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought someone with me. This is Special Agent Atticus Spenser.”
“Call me Spense,” he said.
“Call me Asta.” She looked like a worn-down version of Inga—tall with blond hair and blue eyes, but she had smoker’s lines around her lips. The sunlight on her makeup-free complexion accentuated a sprinkling of broken capillaries on her cheeks, and the deep creases in her forehead aged her beyond her years.
Caitlin believed her to be only a couple of years senior to Inga.
Asta swung open her front door in invitation for Spense and Caitlin. They followed her through a small foyer into an open family room, graced with natural-wood floors and high ceilings. Though leaded glass windows and old world architectural style lent the home a certain panache, Caitlin couldn’t help noting the place had been neglected. A thick layer of dust coated the mantle on the fireplace. Old newspapers were piled everywhere, and unopened mail had commandeered the love seat, leaving the couch and a rickety wooden chair for seating.