Pensacola Beach, Florida
Maggie had been walking the beach for hours. Looking for him. It felt like a futile effort while she waited for more information from her team. Her time would probably be better spent resting, but she was restless and had ended up pacing her hotel room.
She weaved her way around the streets closest to the water where most of the luxury house rentals were. Alonzo had provided a couple of photos of Peter Gregory. Headshots of an ordinary-looking man, his widow’s peak and slicked back dark hair the only defining characteristics. But she remembered the tall man running away from the crime scene. In her mind, she conjured up his lean frame beneath the long, black coat billowing out behind him.
She figured his complexion would be pasty after spending months in snowy D.C. Maybe he’d stand out on the beach. So far, she’d seen no one who came close. Late on a December day, there weren’t many to choose from.
The horizon had faded from reds and oranges to deep blue. It was dark now as she walked back along the beach to her hotel room. This was ridiculous. They’d never find him like this. He could already be on the road again. Just because the Mercedes sat in a storage unit, didn’t mean Peter Gregory was anywhere nearby.
She decided she needed to sleep at least for a few hours. She’d tried earlier after her shower, but her mind wouldn’t shut off. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Nessie in her hospital bed, then Nessie in that huge canvas bag at the edge of the swamp.
When her phone rang, she automatically expected Alonzo, hoped it would be Ryder, but was pleasantly surprised to find it was Gwen.
“I heard you skipped out on us,” her friend said. “How are you doing?”
“Tired. I spent all night following him and I still might have lost him.”
“Your instincts are usually spot-on, so hang in there.”
“They weren’t this time. I think I really screwed up.”
“Racine makes her own choices. Even she will tell you that. And Nessie? She’s going to be okay. She’s conscious. I just talked to her, and goodness, that woman can talk. But more importantly, she is a survivor.”
“They let you talk to her?”
“You forget, I still have hospital privileges. As of a few hours ago, I am officially one of her consulting doctors.”
Before working with the FBI, Gwen had her own successful practice as a psychiatrist. She still saw a few clients on a regular basis.
“I have an amazing team,” Maggie simply said.
“You got that right.”
Her phone vibrated with another call.
“Speaking of my team,” she told Gwen. “Alonzo is calling.”
“Get your mind off Nessie and get some rest. We’ll get this guy.”
“Thanks.”
She clicked off and tapped on Alonzo’s call.
“I might have something,” he said immediately.
“Good, because I have nothing.”
She paced. Stopped to grab a cold French fry from the room service tray she had abandoned a few hours earlier.
“I’d been coming up empty-handed because I was using the wrong name.”
“You found another alias?”
“No, not an alias. Peter Gregory was adopted when he was eleven. It wasn’t until years later that he went back to using his birth name of Gregory. He actually grew up outside of Pensacola in Milton. That’s where he went to elementary and high school. Left to go to Florida State in Tallahassee. Didn’t graduate. When he turned twenty-five, he inherited money his biological father had left him in a trust. The man died when Peter was ten, but he had a family trust fund. Looks like it was something he’d inherited from his father. The fund has built up over twenty years. It’s worth over ten-million dollars.”
“This doesn’t sound like our guy.”
She couldn’t add up a profile of a millionaire traveling from city to city and bludgeoning homeless men to death. She’d seen photos of the victims. There was too much passion. The murders looked personal.
“Hang on a minute. This might help. I went back to see what happened to his father, Thomas Gregory.”
“Go on.”
“The family was going home late one night and stopped to help a motorist stranded on the side of a country road. The motorist started attacking Thomas Gregory. Get this...with a crowbar. The wife sped off to get help. Said her husband gestured and called out for her to go. Headlines emphasize that she saved her boys.
“By the time sheriff’s deputies got back there, the vehicle was gone and so was Thomas Gregory. There was blood at the scene. But Thomas’ body was never found. Newspaper reports called the motorist a transient.”
“Okay. That’s pretty...incredible. How many years ago are we talking about?”
“Nineteen, almost twenty now.”
“Something triggered him to start killing,” she was thinking out loud.
“Or he’s been killing for a long time but getting away with it, because he’s a rich, smart bastard.”
“Have you checked if his mother still lives around here?”
“I did, and yes, she does. She remarried. Usually it takes five years, but because of the circumstances, she was able to have Thomas Gregory declared dead in about a year.”
“What was Peter Gregory’s adoptive name? The one most people know him by?”
“Ramsey. His stepfather is Carl Ramsey. The man owns a major construction company in Santa Rosa County.”
“Carl Ramsey. That name sounds familiar. I think I may have met him. What’s Gregory’s mother’s name?”
“Isadora. Looks like she goes by Dora.”
“I need to pay them a visit.”
“I knew you’d say that. I have their address for you.”