Valerian shrugged. “I’m no expert on the matter, but I did read an article once that said serial killers were both amoral and opportunistic. They may prefer brunettes, but if a blonde stumbles into their path and is an easy target . . .” He shrugged. “Good enough.”
“So, they might change other things too if circumstances call for it,” Tybo said thoughtfully.
“They might,” Valerian allowed. “But there have been no other murders in North America where the victims were fully drained of blood since the last prostitute was found.”
“What about accidents, or deaths thought to be accidents where the victims lost a lot of blood?” Tybo suggested. “He could still be killing, just not taking credit for it because he can’t do his snow angel thing.”
Valerian didn’t respond, but his mouth was turned down at the corners as he considered the suggestion.
“What are you thinking?” Tybo asked when Valerian remained silent.
“I’m thinking that while he can’t make snow angels without snow, he could have made chalk drawings of wings on pavement, or spray-painted wings on grass, or something like that,” he pointed out. Valerian then shook his head. “But there’s been nothing like that either.”
“No, but he could also have done something less likely to be noticed, like leaving little angel necklaces or earrings or bracelets on them, or even placing little angel statues somewhere near the bodies,” Tybo pointed out. “Investigators might not recognize the significance of them. Especially if Eshe and Mirabeau made the memories of the Angel-Maker’s previous victims hazy in the minds of the police and reporters.”
Cursing, Mortimer gestured for them to follow as he turned to lead the way out of the office.
“We’re going to have to look into that,” their boss said as they started across the yard toward the Enforcer house. “I thought serial killers stuck to a certain pattern and didn’t deviate, so I assumed spring had put a temporary halt on his activities and we’d just have to pick up his trail again in the winter if he returned. It never occurred to me that he could just be following a different path now. I’m going to have someone look into the police files for any deaths since April where there was a lot of blood lost, and have them check to see if there’s a mention of any kind of angel anything at the scene: necklace, statue, etc.” Heaving out a sigh, he growled, “Lucian will be super pissed if the bastard’s been killing all summer and we just haven’t been taking notice.”
Valerian cast the man a sympathetic glance. While officially Mortimer was the head of the North American Enforcers, he answered to Lucian Argeneau, who was head of the North American Immortal Council and made all their laws. Lucian was a hard-ass. Which was why Valerian hesitated before saying, “The Angel-Maker sent letters to a reporter for the last couple of snow angel killings. Have you had anyone check to see if there have been any more of those?”
“The reporter who got those letters accepted a job in the States. I guess the Angel-Maker story garnered some attention and got her the new position. The Angel-Maker would have to write to someone else. I have a person situated in the office keeping their ears open, but there’s been nothing so far.”
“Are they just keeping their ears open or reading minds too?” Valerian asked with concern, and pointed out, “Whoever gets the letters next might keep it to themselves until they release their own story. They wouldn’t want another reporter jumping on it and stealing their story if it might get them an offer from a bigger paper in the States too.”
Valerian could actually hear Mortimer’s teeth grind together at the suggestion. His voice was resigned when he said, “I’ll have my hunter read everyone to be sure that isn’t happening.”
“I could—”
“Your shift is done,” Mortimer interrupted before Valerian could finish the offer to look into it for him. “In fact, your week is done. It’s the weekend, Valerian. Go home and enjoy that new farmhouse of yours.”
“He enjoys his farmhouse every day,” Tybo announced with amusement. “He still has his apartment in the city, but pretty much lives in the country full-time now.”
They’d reached the back door of the Enforcer house. Stopping with his hand on the doorknob, Mortimer turned back with surprise. “That’s a hell of a commute, Valerian. The drive from your house to Toronto is three and a half or four hours one way depending on traffic. And your shifts are usually a good ten hours long. When the hell do you sleep?”
“I don’t drive back and forth,” Valerian assured him.
“He helicopters in,” Tybo said with a grin. “He has his own helicopter and put in a helipad in his backyard at the farm. He flies out from there and lands on the roof of his apartment building in the city and then drives here.”
“Your apartment building has a helipad?” Mortimer asked with amazement.
“It has two helipads,” Valerian told him, and explained, “It’s Harper’s building. He put them in when he had the building erected. He lets me use one.”
Mortimer stared at him blankly for a minute and then gave his head a shake and asked, “Why don’t you just land on the airfield here?”
“I didn’t want to interfere with flights landing or leaving,” Valerian explained.
Mortimer opened the door with a laugh and led them into the house. “We aren’t an airport with flights constantly coming and going, Valerian. You’re more than welcome to park your helicopter here during your shifts. It would save you a good half hour each way from the apartment building every day.”
“Thank you,” Valerian said solemnly.
Mortimer nodded as they approached his office. “So, I’ll let the boys know to expect your helicopter on Sunday night.”
“Okay,” Valerian said.
Mortimer stopped outside his office door, and was about to speak, but paused when the sound of a ringing phone drifted out to them. After glancing inside he grimaced and said, “I need to take that. It’s Lucian.”
Tybo gave a disbelieving laugh. “You have a special ringtone for Lucian?”
“No. I have caller ID on the landline and it pops up on my TV screen any time there’s a call,” Mortimer explained.
When the man then headed into his office, Valerian stepped up to the door to peer inside with curiosity, aware that Tybo was on his heels. They both eyed the television screen on the wall. There was no sound, but the television was on the news streaming channel, and a box opened across the bottom of the screen showing Lucian Argeneau’s name and number as the phone rang again.
“That’s nifty,” Tybo murmured beside him.
“Close the door for me, will you?” Mortimer asked as he walked around his desk.
“Do you want us to wait in case he needs something done?” Valerian asked.
“No. Your shift is over. You two go on. Have a good weekend.”
“You too,” Valerian said, backing out of the doorway as Tybo began to pull the door closed.
“So,” Tybo said as they headed back down the hall. “Any plans for the weekend? No, wait, let me guess,” he added before Valerian could respond. “Golfing.”