The Love Killings Read Online Free Page A

Matt’s TV switched on and CNN interrupted their schedule with a special report from Philadelphia.
    There was no mention of Baylor. No connection to the serial killings in LA and New Orleans. In fact, Matt was struck by how little information had been released. He switched between the cable news channels, then flipped back again. The stories were thin to none on every network.
    But like most attempts to keep something buried, every reporter and news anchor seemed to sense that something was wrong and, whatever it might be, was probably extraordinary.
    Matt could hear it in their voices and see it on the screen. He could feel it.
    It was in the video images of the Strattons’ mansion hidden behind the stone wall and obscured by a carriage house and long row of leafless trees. The patrol units parked along the property line, and the massive blue tarp blocking the narrow driveway. A press release stating that within the first hour of discovery, the case had been passed from local authorities to county detectives, and now, two days later and for reasons that hadn’t yet been explained, the FBI and Department of Justice were involved.
    Nothing ever moved that quickly. Unless the crime defied the imagination and was extraordinarily vicious like this one.
    As Matt looked at pictures of the victims provided by friends and family, a handful of snapshots from happier times released by the FBI’s field office in Philadelphia, he wondered how long it would take the media to figure it out. How long it would take them to guess, or when the first leak would occur. But even more, he wondered how much time Doyle and the FBI’s task force had before they would be forced to step before the cameras and answer more than a handful of difficult questions.
    What exactly happened to Jim and Tammy Stratton and their three children? What is the FBI hiding, and why are they hiding it? Why are you going through so much effort to keep us out of the loop? How bad could the details really be? There’s a rumor, Mr. Doyle, that you are overseeing the prosecution of Dr. George Baylor, the serial killer who fled Los Angeles and New Orleans. Is this true, and if so, why are you here in Philadelphia?
    Why are you here?
    Matt’s mind surfaced. The plane was landing in darkness, and he reset his watch ahead three hours to 7:30 p.m. According to the e-mail he’d picked up while waiting to be deputized in Westwood, agent K. Brown would be meeting him once he passed through security. While the message didn’t offer a description, Matt guessed by the lack of a first name that he would be greeted by a woman. Curiously, K. Brown shared the same last name as Baylor’s first victim, Millie Brown, the daughter of former congressman Jack Brown.
    The name was meaningless, but still, it set off a—
    Matt let the thought go and got out of his seat to open the carry-on bin overhead. As he turned, he caught a man two rows back staring at him. The stranger appeared nervous and quickly dropped his gaze, but Matt was still recovering from those four gunshot wounds and couldn’t afford to look away. Instead, he did the same thing he’d been doing since he was released from the hospital. He committed the man’s face to memory. Something about his appearance seemed familiar, but Matt couldn’t place it and quickly sized the man up: late thirties or early forties, three maybe four inches shorter than six feet, a tough call because he was still sitting down. In spite of the belly, he seemed thin and soft and out of shape, with black wavy hair, dark-brown eyes, wire-rimmed glasses, and a complexion so pale and colorless it stood out.
    Once Matt had the image locked in his mind—a practice his shrink had called a textbook case of paranoia—he grabbed his briefcase and leather jacket, made his way up the aisle, and exited the plane. The gate was more than halfway down the terminal, and Matt was grateful for the chance to stretch his legs. As he walked past the shops and