CHAPTER TWENTY

When Rachel and Jack entered the precinct, the place was humming with activity. Word had clearly spread about the most recent murder and everyone was moving around with purpose, fulfilling whatever duties they could to help.

"Agents!" a cop called out to them as they passed through the lobby at the front of the building. "Right through here."

They joined the cop and fell in beside him. As he led them around the busy bullpen section of the building, he turned to them and said, "As soon as we got your call, we booted up all those recorded calls. And we've already got a team working with the theater to get the credit card information for everyone who purchased tickets online or through the app."

"That's great," Jack said.

The cop looked rather proud as he brought them to the end of a wide, brightly lit hallway. He ushered them into a cramped and cluttered room filled with monitors and a tangle of wires. Rachel took in the banks of equipment, each screen flickering with data and lines of code. It was here that calls came to die or to evolve into leads, she supposed.

A woman sat behind one of the monitors, queuing up a file for them. She waved them over and said, "Have a seat."

Rachel and Jack took two of four seats that were situated almost haphazardly around the room. As they sat down, the woman—presumably one of the heads of the tech department—handed them wired headphones that were patched into a thin, black control panel.

"Put that on, and I'll play you one call at a time," the woman said. Rachel noticed for the first time that the woman had dark half-circles under her eyes. She looked quite tired, making Rachel think she'd already analyzed the calls as much as they could.

Still, she brought up an audio file on her computer and pressed play. Instantly, Rachel heard the call in her headphones. The call was brief, a voice slightly distorted. It was clear he was using a voice modulator.

"There's been a murder," he said. "3811 Faber Way."

That was the end of the call. "That was for Sarah Jennings," the lady said. "The first one. Hold on for the second…"

Again, she brought up another file and pressed play. "Emily is dead," said the murderer. "801 Sycamore, Apartment 3B." This was followed by what sounded like a soft sigh before the line went dead.

Rachel knew these were all too short to trace. The killer had obviously known this too, or they wouldn't have made the risk of calling. Frustration knotted in Rachel's stomach. Another dead end, another phantom caller guiding them to bodies without faces.

Just as the weight of futility began to settle, Rachel's phone vibrated against her hip. She removed the headphones and excused herself, stepping into the hallway. Her fingers trembled slightly as she swiped to answer.

"This is Gift."

"Agent Gift, this is Officer Kayden Daniels. I'm one of the officers looking into your request to find other actresses with murder in their roles…" He spoke slowly and with the tone of a question to each word, wanting to make sure he got it exactly right. It was, after all, an odd request. But there was an urgency in his voice that made her focus sharpen.

"Go ahead," she prompted, not wanting to waste a second. This was actually one of the items she'd expected to take the longest amount of time to cover. She was surprised to already have a development.

"We got a name for you: Natalie King," he began. "She was Sarah Jennings's understudy for a few months two years ago, according to a director we spoke to. And, per your request, she's the lead in a current production in which her character commits murder on stage."

"Do you happen to know the method of murder?"

"No, sorry. I didn't think to ask."

"That's fine. Excellent work, Officer Daniels."

She ended the call with a small spark of excitement forming in her gut. The theatrical link, the shadow of Sarah Jennings—murdered just days prior—and now Natalie, stepping into the spotlight with an act of staged violence. It fit the pattern perfectly, and she felt certain she'd be on whatever morbid list the killer was keeping.

She went back into the tech closet, but instead of reclaiming her seat, she tapped Jack on the shoulder. He was in the middle of listening to one of the calls, the headphone cans pressed tightly against his ears. He jumped a bit, startled, and then turned to her.

"We've got a name," she said. "An actress who acts out a murder on stage. An actress our killer hasn't gotten to yet." Then, looking to the woman who was running the controls, she said, "Can you get us in the criminal database from here?"

"Sure can," she said, turning her tired eyes to a small laptop that sat on the same desk as the other equipment, pretty much forgotten. She pulled up an application, typed in her credentials and asked: "What's the name?"

"Natalie King. For right now, I just need her contact information, phone number and address to start with."

"Just one second…"

They watched as the woman inputted the name and then made a few clicks. Rachel was, of course, familiar with the process and though the woman was clearly adept at the task, it felt like it was taking forever simply because of the weight of the moment.

"Here we go," the woman said, rolling her chair to the side so they could see the number that had popped up on the screen.

Rachel wasted no time, calling the number right away. Her fingers danced over her phone as she typed the number in. Jack stood at her side, his face etched with concern as they huddled in the corner of the room. She hit the call button, and the line rang in her ear.

"Come on," Rachel murmured under her breath, a plea to the universe as much as to the absent actress.

But the call rang hollowly before diverting to voicemail, the automated voice grating against the tension that hung between them. Jack's eyes met Rachel's—a silent exchange heavy with dread.

"We have the number. How long would it take you to trace the phone?" she asked the woman at the controls. Rachel, of course, knew that she could call the bureau and have the location in about fifteen minutes, if not sooner. But they seemed to be on a roll here, and she didn't want to get out of the groove.

"Ten, maybe fifteen minutes."

"Perfect. Can you run that search?"

The woman smiled and said, "Already doing it."

"Thank you."

Rachel and Jack stepped out of the tech closet while they waited. Back out in the hallway, the smell of coffee from elsewhere down the hall pinged her senses. Yes, she was tired and she knew more caffeine would only give her the jitters, but she needed something. Besides that, maybe a nice little jolt of caffeine would help the stubborn headache to go away.

"You look tired, Rachel," Jack said as he followed behind her.

"I'd imagine so, because I feel tired," she said with a grin.

"And you're sure you're up for all of this? This case…it's a hell of a test to jump into after almost six weeks off the clock."

"Yeah, I'm good. I promise. I may not be if you keep worrying about me, though."

They found the small breakroom where the smell of coffee was emanating from. She poured herself a cup from one of the two pots and did not bother doctoring it up with cream or sugar—even though she usually took it with three sugars. Jack elected to skip a caffeine fix, settling for a bottled water from the fridge.

"You know what I've been wondering?" Jack said. "What if this guy thinks he's putting on his own performance?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the calls to the police after he's murdered them…they come very soon after. He's not waiting a day or so. He wants them found right away. Maybe he sees himself as an actor of some kind, putting on a show."

"Could be," Rachel said after a sip of her coffee. "But if that's the case, who would the audience be?"

"Maybe an old drama teacher or an ex-lover. Who knows? Anyway, if we think about it in that cont—"

There was a rapid knocking noise from the doorway of the room. They both turned and saw the woman from the tech closet. Her eyes were slightly widened with anticipation but she still looked tired.

"The trace went faster than expected," she said. "We've got a location on Natalie King's phone."

"Where?" Rachel asked.

"It's several miles out, by Easton Street. I've pinned it and can text the location to you."

"That would be amazing," Rachel said.

"Give me just a few seconds."

And again, the woman was gone like some sort of technical wizard. Rachel and Jack shared a glance, first uneasy and then morphing into a tired smile of understanding. Things were happening fast now and hopefully, that meant they'd be on the heels of their killer before he could claim another life.