“Say he lives here or works here. That means he would probably buy groceries? Eat in restaurants? Fill his car with gas?” Zack threw out ideas.
“Let’s start here. Ask the ferry workers if they recognize him.” Olivia put out her hand to stop Zack from pacing. “You take the crew below, I’ll take the crew on the observation deck, and we’ll meet back at the car when we dock.”
“You’re right. I should have thought of it.” He ran a hand through his hair, intensely frustrated that Driscoll had taken another girl when they were so close to finding him.
They split up, and Zack went down where the passenger cars waited. Most of the people had headed up to the observation deck; a few mingled outside, huddled in jackets. The air was distinctly colder on the water than in the city, and now that fall had taken firm hold, temperatures would continue to drop.
Zack started with the security crew. He asked all four on the car deck and none recognized Driscoll. Two barely glanced at the picture. What good was security if they didn’t see anything?
Ten minutes later, when the first whistle blew, Zack was ready to go to the transportation authority over the idiots they hired.
Until he met Stan Macker.
Stan Macker was nearing retirement, bald, with the leathery face of a man who’d worked outdoors most of his life. He looked like he would prefer to die working the lines and be buried at sea. His post was at the gate.
Zack approached him, not expecting anything.
“Detective,” the old man nodded.
“How do you know I’m a cop?”
“Name’s Stan Macker. I’ve worked ferries forty-two years. I’ve been watching you since you came on board. You and that cute little filly. Saw that you asked all the security guards and half my crew to look at a picture. I suspect you want me to look at the picture.”
Zack held out the sketch.
Stan stared at it, nodding, handed it back. “Dark green Ford Ranger. Late nineties’ model. He was here today.”
“When?”
“Took the one-ten across to Flauteroy. Hasn’t returned.”
“Why do you remember him? You must see thousands of people and cars every day.”
“I’ve been here so long, I remember cars. People. There’s a woman who lives on Vashon who’s been taking the ferry every weekday for sixteen years. She didn’t show up one day. I was surprised. I called over to the Vashon substation, described her and her car, said she hadn’t been sick a day in sixteen years, maybe something happened. Something did. She’d had a seizure that morning. The medics saved her life.” He shrugged. “I just remember.”
“What makes this man memorable? Does he commute?”
Stan shook his head. “Naw. Very irregular. But he stays in his truck. Every time. No music. Doesn’t get out and stretch his legs. Doesn’t read-we get a lot of people who’ll read a book or newspaper while they sit in their cars. Not this one. He stares straight ahead. That’s why he stands out.”
“Do you have security tapes? I need to see his truck, get a license plate.”
“Talk to the head of security. He can get them for you.”
“Have you ever seen him in another vehicle? Perhaps a large truck or SUV?” Zack didn’t want to lead him, but he needed to know if Driscoll brought his victims to the island.
“No. Only the Ranger. But I’m not on duty 24/7.”
“Thanks for your help. I’ll talk to the security head. What’s his name?”
“Ned Jergens.”
“He was a cop.” Zack hadn’t known him well, but he recognized the name.
“Yep. Good guy. He’s stationed on Flauteroy, but here’s his direct number. They give it to us in case we have some trouble.”
“Thanks a lot, Stan. I appreciate it.”
“The guy’s bad news, isn’t he?”
“The worst. If you see him, call Jergens immediately. And me.” Zack handed him his card.
As soon as Zack and Olivia disembarked, he called Chief Pierson and told him what Stan Macker had said. Pierson would contact the Seattle Port Authority and Ned Jergens and get all security tapes since Jennifer Benedict’s abduction last month.
The shopping district on Vashon was lively at night, and Zack and Olivia split the street. Thirty minutes later, Olivia walked into a restaurant at the end of the pier. The scent of good food made her stomach growl; her only meal that day had been a prepackaged sandwich at the San Francisco Airport.
She asked to see the manager. A few minutes later a young twenty-something Asian girl came bouncing out of the kitchen. “Hi! I’m Denise Tam. Can I help you?”
Olivia introduced herself and showed her FBI ID. “We’re looking for a man we believe lives on the island. He drives a dark green Ford Ranger.” She handed Denise the sketch. “Have you seen him? Perhaps he’s been in to eat?”
“Ohmigod,” she said, her hand covering her mouth. “That’s Steve.”
Olivia’s heart leapt to her throat. “Steve? Does he have a last name?”
“Steve Williams. He’s been a server here for nearly two years. Ohmigod. What happened? He’s not in trouble?”
Olivia glanced around the restaurant, trying to spot Driscoll. “Is he working tonight?”
She shook her head. “No, he swapped shifts. He has a daughter who goes to college in Oregon and went down to visit her.”
Daughter? There was nothing in his records that indicated he had any children or had ever been married. It could be the truth, or a ploy.
“Do you know his daughter’s name?”
“Angel.”
Olivia sucked in her breath, but quickly recovered. “I need to see his employment records right now.”
“I-I don’t know if I’m supposed to do that.”
“I can get a warrant and come back in an hour, but in the time it takes me to return someone might die. Do you want that on your conscience?”
Denise looked like she was ready to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Come to the office.”
“One second.” She flipped open her phone and dialed Zack. “Bingo. Restaurant at the pier… the Crab Shack. I’ll be in the back office with the manager.”
Thirty minutes later, Zack and four sheriff deputies from the Vashon Island substation had the cottage rented by Steve Williams, a.k.a. Chris Driscoll, surrounded.
The small house sat on the edge of the woods where Jillian Reynolds’s body had been discovered less than a mile away. The property felt empty, but Zack didn’t take any chances. He had the deputies do a complete perimeter check, then knock on the door. When there was no answer, they entered the house.
Chris Driscoll had lived on Vashon Island for well over a year, but the cottage reflected nothing personal. No photographs. No pictures on the walls. When Zack had called the landlord about the property, he’d learned that it had been rented partially furnished. Driscoll paid cash rent and told the landlord it was from his tips. He never paid late.
The cottage was sterile, immaculate, without personality.
The garbage had been emptied. No dishes on the counter or sink. No plants in the window box. The glass-topped table had two chairs perfectly aligned.
The bedroom didn’t look slept in except that the bed had white sheets and two blankets tucked tightly in, military style. Zack feared Driscoll had already escaped, that he had no intention of returning after Nina Markow.
He checked the drawers, relieved to find clothing. Three sets of uniform clothes for the restaurant-black slacks and black polo shirt-were stiffly folded. Even Driscoll’s underwear and socks were orderly. There were no dirty clothes in the hamper; no clothes in the washer or dryer.
Because the room was devoid of everything personal, the lone picture stood out like a beacon.
Gloved, Zack picked it up.
The boy was Driscoll, age nine or ten. Blond hair cut in a short buzz popular in the fifties and early sixties. The girl was four or five, a beautiful little girl. A little girl who at nine would look remarkably like Michelle Davidson or Nina Markow. There was a woman kneeling between the two children, her arms around their shoulders. Smiling for the camera.