Mr. Perfect Read online

  There was dead silence for a moment; then Roger said, “You’re shitting me.” He sounded as appalled as Sam felt.

  “We excluded the female employees from the NCIC search. We hog-tied ourselves. We have to go through their files, too.”

  “You’re telling me a woman—” Roger fell silent, and Sam knew he was thinking of the things that had been done to Marci’s body, and Luna’s. “Jesus.”

  “Now we know why Luna opened her door. It didn’t make sense that she would. But she was on guard against a man, not a woman.” That feeling of having missed something was growing stronger.

  A woman. Think of a blond woman. Immediately he flashed to Marci’s funeral, and the tall blond woman who had broken down and wept in Cheryl’s arms. A drama queen, T.J. had said, but Jaine had a different take on it: The wheel’s still going around, but her hamster’s dead. She thought the woman had a loose screw, that there was something wrong there. Damn it! She had even mentioned her when he asked about employees who had experienced difficulty getting along with others at work.

  T.J. had said something else, something that hadn’t clicked at the time: the woman was in her department, human resources. The woman had access to everything, all the information in all the files, including private phone numbers and the names and addresses of relatives to call in case of an emergency.

  That was it. That was what had been nagging at him. Laurence Strawn had specifically told him the personnel files weren’t on computers with Internet connections; it was impossible to hack into them. Whoever had called T.J.’s cell phone number had gotten it from her file, but that file, without specific authorization, was accessible only to those in H.R.

  What was her name? What was her damn name?

  He reached for the phone to call Jaine, but the name popped into his head before he could dial Shelley’s number: Street. Leah Street.

  He dialed Bernsen instead. “Leah Street,” he rasped when Roger answered. “She’s the one who was crying all over Marci’s sister at the funeral.”

  “The blonde,” Roger said. “Shit! She fit the profile, too.”

  Right down to the ground, Sam thought. The nervousness, the excessive emotion, the inability to stay in the background.

  “I’ve got the file here,” Roger said. “There are several complaints about her attitude. She didn’t get along with people. God, this is classic. We’ll bring her in for questioning, see what we can shake loose.”

  “She’ll be at work,” Sam said, and alarm clawed his gut. “T.J. went to work today. They’re in the same department, Human Resources.”

  “Get on the phone to T.J.,” Roger said. “I’m on my way.”

  Sam quickly looked up the number at Hammerstead. An automated answering message picked up on the first ring, and he ground his teeth. He had to listen until the recording gave the appropriate extension for Human Resources, which took valuable time. Damn it! Why didn’t companies use real people to answer the phone? Messages were cheaper, but in an emergency the delay could cause real trouble.

  Finally the recorded message gave the extension he wanted, and he punched it in. A harried voice picked up on the fourth ring. “Human Resources, Fallon speaking.”

  “T.J. Yother, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Yother has stepped out of the office.”

  “How long has she been gone?” he asked sharply.

  Fallon wasn’t a pushover. “Who is this?” she asked just as sharply.

  “Detective Donovan. It’s important I find her. Listen to me: is Leah Street there?”

  “Why, no.” “allon’s tone had changed. She was a lot more coopertive now. “She and T.J. left together about half an how ago, I guess. The phones have been ringing like crazy and with both of them gone we’ve been short-handed. They—”

  Sam interrupted, “If T.J. returns, tell her to call me immediately, Detective Sam Donovan.” He gave the number. He thought about alerting Fallon to the situation but quickly decided against it; if Leah hadn’t bolted, he didn’t want to alarm her. “Can you switch me to Mr. Strawn’s office?” Only Laurence Strawn had the authority to do what he wanted.

  “Yes—sure. Of course.” She paused. “Do you want me to?”

  Sam closed his eyes and bit back a raw curse. “Yes, please.”

  “Okay. Hold on.”

  A series of electronic tones sounded in his ear, then the smooth voice of Mr. Strawn’s executive secretary. Sam cut into her practiced welcoming spiel. “This is Detective Donovan. Is Mr. Strawn available? It’s an emergency.”

  The two words “detective” and “emergency” got him put through immediately to Strawn. Quickly Sam outlined the situation. “Call the gate and don’t let anyone leave, and start searching for T.J. Check every broom closet and bathroom stall. Don’t confront Ms. Street, but don’t let her leave. Detective Bernsen is on the way.”

  “Hold on,” Strawn said. “I’ll call the gate right now.”

  He was back on the line in about thirty seconds. “Ms. Street left the premises about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Was T.J. with her?”

  “No. The guard said she was alone.”

  “Then find T.J.,” Sam said urgently. He simultaneously wrote a note and signaled Wayne Satran. Wayne took the note, read it, and jumped into action. “She’s somewhere in the building, and maybe she’s still alive.” Maybe. Marci had been dead from the first hammer blow. Luna hadn’t died immediately, but she had also suffered head trauma so severe she died before she could completely bleed out from the stab wounds. The M.E. estimated, based purely on his personal experience, that she had lived, maybe, a couple of minutes after the initial attack. The attacks were vicious and overwhelming.

  “Should I be discreet about it?” Strawn asked.

  “At this point, finding her fast is what’s most important. Leah Street has already escaped. Alert everyone in the building to assist in the search. When you find her, if she’s alive, do whatever you can to help her. If she’s dead, try to preserve the scene. Emergency personnel are on the way.” That was what Wayne had been doing, getting the wheels rolling. Law enforcement officers from several different jurisdictions were converging on Hammerstead, as well as medics and evidence techs.

  “We’ll find her,” Laurence Strawn said quietly.

  Sam’s instinct, as a cop, was to go to the scene. He stayed where he was, knowing he could do more good right there.

  Leah Street’s file was on Roger’s desk. Sam called the Sterling Heights P.D. and got the detective who answered to look in the file and give him Leah’s home address and phone number, plus her social security number.

  After a minute the detective picked up the phone and said, “I don’t find a Leah Street. ‘There’s a ‘Corin Lee Street,’ but no ‘Leah.’”

  Corin Lee? Jesus. Sam rubbed his forehead, trying not to wonder what in hell that meant. Was Leah a man or a woman? The names were too similar for coincidence.

  “Is Corin Street a man or a woman?” he asked.

  “Let me see.” A pause. “Here it is. Female.”

  Maybe, Sam thought. “Okay, thanks. That’s the one I want.” The detective read off the information Sam had requested. He copied it down, accessed the motor vehicle department and got her license plate number and description of the car.

  He then had a BOLO—“be on the lookout”—issued for the car. He didn’t know if she was armed; so far, she hadn’t used a firearm, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have one, and she might well have a knife with her. She was unstable as hell, like nitroglycerin; she had to be approached with caution.

  Where had she gone? Home? Only a real looney-tunes would—but Leah Street was a real looney-tunes. He got officers en route to her house.

  While he was getting everything in motion, he tried not to think about T.J. Had they found her yet? Were they too late?

  How much time had lapsed? He checked his watch; ten minutes since he had talked to Strawn, so that was thirty minutes since Leah had left Hamm