I lie back with my head resting on his strong arm.
“Lauren’s here. She’s worried sick.”
I sit up too fast and regret it. “Can you go get her? I want to see her.”
“Sure. Be right back.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
SERIOUS TROUBLE
As soon asI exit MacKenzie’s room, Hank Flynn is waiting for me. He’s holding a plastic bag in his left hand and a small notebook in his right.
“Sam? Can I speak to you in private?”
“Of course. Let me get Lauren. MacKenzie wants her.”
Once I bring the girls together, I hesitate at her doorway long enough to hear both women crying. God, what the hell? How could this happen to MacKenzie? I head out of the ER and outside to meet Hank. He gestures for me to follow him until we’re far enough away to avoid being heard. He turns to me and begins talking. He sets the bag down on the ground and pulls a pen out of his breast pocket. “What we discuss here is confidential. You’re an ex-cop”—I was an FBI agent for a long while—“you know how investigations work. This can’t go beyond this point—for now, anyway.”
I nod waiting.
“Bobby Robinson didn’t do this.”
“I know.” I believe MacKenzie. “He saved her life.”
“That’s the way she tells it. I just spoke to Kent. He questioned Bobby, who gave the same account of the attack and a similar description of the perp that she did, although Bobbysaid he looked like a zombie. The assailant was a white male in his thirties, snow-white hair and pallid complexion. MacKenzie also mentioned ice-blue eyes. That’s something Bobby didn’t seem to notice.”
I put my hands on my hips and look down at the ground. “Who was this guy? What do you know?” He looks hesitant, but I persist. “Tell me.”
“Bobby said some other things that make sense. But it’s concerning. She could still be in danger.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Hank?”
“Bobby told us he’d seen the guy before.”
I stand completely still. My jaw clenches, but I remain silent. I want him to keep going. “And?”
“Apparently, Bobby has a thing for your girl.”
“No shit,” I growl.
“So he keeps an eye on her. Follows her home, watches her place, shit like that.”
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“Not unlike someone else I know,” he says, arching his brow.
I look up at him and see him smile. “Yeah, but I’m not a creep.” Flynn’s left eyebrow shoots up again. Skeptical. “All right,” I say resignedly. “Point taken. Keep going.”
“According to Bobby Robinson, the guy has been in her place. He’s the one who spray-painted her house.”
“And Bobby saw all of this?”
“He claims he did. He says the guy was in a hooded sweatshirt, so he only got glimpses of him. But he talked about the white hair and said he looked like a zombie, like I said.”
“A zombie? Who is this guy?”
“Here’s the most worrisome part. You know about the other three victims found in Chicago parks recently? All the women were about MacKenzie’s age, and they all resemble each other as well—same hair color, same body type. The other thing that’stroubling is that all four victims work in stores or shops in the River North area. Eyewitness accounts have mentioned a man in a hooded sweatshirt lurking around the victims’ homes and apartments. One witness said he thought the guy had light hair.”
