Say You're Sorry

by Karen Rose

  “And it was good. We talked about Trish a little and he recommended checking out the surveillance tapes in the bar for both last night and Thursday. I think he’s right.”

  “You think her killer followed her to the community center from work on Thursday?”

  “Yeah. She said she’d had an altercation with a customer. She downplayed it, but that she mentioned it at all was unusual.” Now that Daisy was remembering, more details were coming back. “She was used to rude men. She got propositioned all the time. This guy, though . . . He was belligerent. Kept baiting her until she lost her temper. She called him a tool. Had to report him to the manager, who tossed the guy out.”

  “I’ll tell Rafe. I’m about to join him at the—” Gideon stopped himself. “In the investigation.”

  But she thought she understood his self-edit. “At the morgue?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “I’m almost there.”

  “Okay.” She wasn’t going to think about the morgue. About poor Trish lying on a cold slab. “Have . . . have you heard from Philly?” She was as careful as she could be, very aware that Irina and Sasha hung on her every word.

  “Not yet. But he said he’s nearly finished. Do you have a bag packed? We may end up spending the night in Redding if we get a lead.”

  “I’m still coming?” That made her feel better somehow.

  “Yes, of course.” A slight hesitation. “I need to know you’re okay. I don’t want to leave you alone. Even with the Sokolovs, although I know you’re safe there. I’ll get to you as soon as I can.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 5:55 P.M.

  He snugged his tie up against his throat, his step a hundred times lighter. The cops had nothing on the disappearance of Kaley Martell. No leads. Nothing to aid them in finding her—or whoever had taken her. That had come straight from Marlena Martell’s mouth as she’d tearily served him weak tea and stale Oreo cookies and prayed for her daughter’s safe return.

  I have absolutely nothing to worry about.

  But he did have an excellent disguise that he didn’t want to go to waste and some remaining questions about Daisy Dawson. The crowd around Trish’s apartment had thinned, but there were still a few reporters and rubberneckers milling about.

  The reporters were gathered around an older lady who appeared to be holding court. Someone had brought her a folding chair and she sat there answering questions.

  So he listened.

  Her name was Mrs. Owens, he learned, and she’d discovered Trish’s friend Daisy and “that FBI agent” crouching over the body. Okay, so he was a Fed, not a cop. It was splitting hairs, in his opinion. He had to fight back a smile as the older woman dramatically spun her tale, making it sound like Daisy and the Fed had killed Trish.

  Now that’s not right. She needs to be giving credit where credit is due.

  Daisy had been “distraught,” sobbing in the arms of the FBI agent.

  That made him frown. In his arms? No. He was just her bodyguard.

  It doesn’t matter. Daisy Dawson was nothing to him. She was not a threat. He’d be giving Daisy-Poppy-Eleanor Dawson—and her Fed—a wide berth.

  But she was so nice. He almost wished he really were an out-of-work drama teacher looking for a job at her radio station. It would be nice to work with her every day. She was no more like Sydney than day was like night. Just thinking about Sydney made him sick to his stomach. But Daisy? It would be nice to have a woman like her to come home to.

  Really, really nice. His stomach fluttered, but not with revulsion this time. This time it was . . . what? Desire? Was that what that was? He’d never felt it before. Not ever.

  Certainly not for Sydney, and all he felt for his guests was rage. Not desire.

  He let himself picture it—Daisy Dawson in his bed. Not the one in his basement, but the one in his bedroom. The bed that Sydney had never defiled. No one had. She’d lie in his bed and smile at him the way she’d done at the pet store.

  She’d take off her clothes for him. Without being forced to. And she’d smile at him. And he’d never have to tell her he was sorry for anything. Ever. The mental image of Daisy naked in his bed was more than nice. It had his dick taking interest. On its own.

  Without pills. Without Sydney.

  This was . . . huge. Mind-blowing, even. That he could have something normal, like everyone else? It was almost too much to consider.

  He’d thought that Sydney had ruined him for any kind of normal relationship. He’d honestly thought there was no one for him. But then there was Daisy, smiling at him and being so damn nice.

  It was about time he got something really, really nice. Right?

  Yes. He deserved something nice. He deserved a woman in his bed, like everyone else. He deserved Daisy Dawson.

  It was definitely worth thinking about. And now it was all he could think about.

  And her bodyguard? The one who held her in his arms while she cried? The Fed.

  He has to go. It was as simple as that. With him out of the picture, she’d need someone else to hold her when she cried. Which would be me.

  “What was the agent’s name?” one of the reporters called out, yanking his attention back to the old woman holding court in the parking lot.

  Yes. I’d like very much to know.

  “Special Agent Reynolds,” Mrs. Owens said with an emphatic nod. “He showed me his badge.”

  “Where is Daisy, ma’am?” another reporter called out.

  Another very good question.

  “Her friend came to get her, the one who was friends with them. Sasha something. I didn’t catch the last name, but I’ve seen her around before. Told the FBI agent that she was taking Daisy to ‘Mom and Dad’s house.’” She quirked her fingers for air quotes.

  “Do you know where that is?” the same guy asked.

  “No,” Mrs. Owens said, clearly sorry that she did not have this information.

  “Can you describe the body, ma’am?” a third reporter called.

  The woman shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it, but . . .” She leaned forward, expression avid. “It was awful. The woman had been stabbed at least twenty times. Maybe thirty! And her head . . .” She swallowed hard. “He’d slit her throat. Nearly cut her head off.”

  Now that’s just not true. He’d strangled Trish. His knife had never strayed above her collarbone. He always strangled them. If they died of their wounds, it just felt . . . empty somehow.

  But the audible gasp from the small group seemed to satisfy the woman, who sat back in her chair with a nod. “She ran wild, that girl.”

  “Ma’am,” a female reporter called out. “Are you suggesting that the victim brought this on herself?”

  The old woman shrugged. “He certainly didn’t break her door down. How else would he have gotten in if she hadn’t brought him home willingly?”

  He was starting to feel sorry for Trish. Too bad the old biddy wasn’t his type. He’d take care of her for the simple pleasure of it.

  The female reporter’s lips had pinched into a straight line. “Thank you, ma’am.” She started to walk away and he followed, hoping the woman could give him some more information. Like where the Fed was now. It was likely that wherever the Fed was, Daisy would be there, too.

  “Excuse me,” he said softly, fixing his expression into one of shock and sorrow.

  The reporter turned and took him in in a glance. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I . . . just heard about Trish. We . . .” He closed his eyes. “God. We were dating.” He let a sob escape his throat.

  The reporter took a few steps closer, patting his arm. “How long were you dating?” she asked, her tone compassionate, but he wasn’t fooled. There was a gleam in her eye that said she was looking for a fresh angle
.

  He’d give her a story. He just had to make sure he wasn’t photographed. Couldn’t have his face in the newspaper. Mrs. Martell might recognize him as her daughter’s “friend.”

  “Not long,” he told the reporter. “About a month.”

  “And what’s your name, sir?”

  “John,” he murmured distractedly. “John Senegal. I need to talk to the FBI agent who was with Daisy, Trish’s friend. What that woman said about what was done to her . . .”

  “I don’t think the woman was telling the truth,” the reporter said kindly. “I don’t think it was that . . . extreme.”

  Yes, it was. It was totally extreme. I just didn’t cut off her fucking head.

  “I need to talk to the agent handling the case,” he repeated more forcefully. “The old woman said it was being handled by the FBI.”

  “Well, an FBI agent happened to find the body, but a pair of SacPD homicide detectives is on the case. Sokolov and Rhee.”

  “Sokolov and Rhee,” he murmured, pretending to be taking his leave. “I’ll go to the station right now. Thank you.”

  “They weren’t going to the station,” she said when he turned to go back to his car.

  He pivoted back to face her. “Where did they go?”

  Her expression became intensely sympathetic. “To the morgue.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Oh. Thank you.” He made a show of squaring his shoulders. “All of them? The FBI agent, too?”

  “Yes, he was with them. If you hurry, you can catch up to them. They only left a short time ago. I’m so sorry for your loss,” she added softly, then handed him her business card. “My cell and my e-mail are on there. Please contact me if you learn anything new. I’ll make sure your story is told with dignity.”

  Sure you will, he thought sarcastically, but he took the card. “Thank you,” he breathed, then hurried to his car, waiting until he was behind the wheel to bow his head and let his grin take over his face.

  Excellent. He tapped Maps, found the county coroner’s office, and started driving.

  Fifteen minutes later he was slowing as he drove by the coroner’s offices—just in time to see the Fed park his car in between a blue Range Rover and a red Subaru, then hurry inside.

  Daisy had been in that man’s arms. He really didn’t like that.

  He’d given the subject some thought while driving to the morgue and realized that not one of the women he’d ever met—and that included his guests, passengers, everyone—had made him feel the way Daisy had today.

  Not one had made him want her. Like a normal man wanted a normal woman. Not like Sydney, that was for damn sure. No one until Daisy Dawson. He might not ever find this feeling again, so he was going to make sure he held on to her.

  He needed to see if this was real or something he’d only imagined. Of course he knew that she was very attractive. He’d seen that today. He knew she was nice. He’d watched her be kind to everyone she saw today, including himself. He’d watched her smile, and watched others smile back. He knew she was generous with her time, volunteering with the animal shelter.

  She was the kind of woman a man brought home to meet his mother. Unless the man’s mother is dead and he has a vicious stepmother that makes Cinderella’s stepmom look like freaking Mother Teresa. Then . . . no.

  If she’d only been “nice,” he could have kept walking. He could have ignored her. But it was his body’s response that had floored him and that was what he needed to explore. She made him feel sexual.

  That was it. Sexual. For the first time ever.

  That decided it for him. He’d find a way to take Daisy home with him, so that he could take his time finding out if this feeling was real. If it wasn’t, he’d kill her quickly and painlessly.

  Because he’d have to keep her. Once he took her home, he could never let her go. He’d have to reinforce his doors and windows, probably even locking her in the basement so that she couldn’t escape when he was gone to work.

  But he’d make her happy. And in return, she’d make him very happy indeed. He could keep a woman alive. He’d done it before. He didn’t kill all his guests right away. He’d kept Susan for almost a year. He’d have kept her longer if she hadn’t gotten fucking pneumonia. If he kept Daisy, he’d have to do something about the dampness of his basement guest room.

  He’d also need to get rid of that Fed who hovered over her like she belonged to him. Then he’d figure out what to do with her. If she proved a problem, he’d have to kill her, no matter how nice she was.

  He parked a half a block down and put money in the meter. Just in case. He did not want to be delayed by an overzealous meter maid.

  He’d tail the Fed when he came out of the coroner’s. Because if the man really had held Daisy in his arms, he’d go to her at some point.

  I just have to be patient.

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 6:10 P.M.

  Gideon found Rafe and Erin waiting for him outside the door to the autopsy suite. “How is Daisy?” Erin asked.

  “Holding up,” Gideon said, then told them what she’d said about the customer who’d been bothering Trish on Thursday.

  “Shit,” Erin murmured. “I should have asked her that. I took her home from the ER on Thursday. I should have asked.”

  Gideon sighed. “You couldn’t have known, Erin. We all thought he was after Daisy.”

  “He did grab her,” Rafe said, “and try to abduct her.”

  Erin shook her head. “Only after she confronted him, thinking he was her friend Jacob. He must have figured that it didn’t matter which of them he took. Except that he tracked Trish to her apartment. If he comes after Daisy, too, we need to be ready. We can’t let our guard down.”

  Gideon had already thought of this—several times. It still made his gut tighten painfully. “I won’t. What does the coroner have?”

  “Not sure,” Rafe said. “Let’s find out.”

  Gideon followed Rafe and Erin into the autopsy suite just as a man came out of one of the offices, gowned and goggled. He gave a nod when he saw them coming.

  “Dr. Sifuentes,” Rafe said, “this is Special Agent Reynolds. He’s working with us on this investigation.”

  “Good to meet you,” Sifuentes said, his rich voice echoing off the white tiles.

  “And you.” Gideon looked to the body covered by a sheet. “This is the victim?”

  “Yes. I haven’t started the examination yet. I won’t get to her until late tomorrow, but I thought you would want to see what we found when we prepared her.” He lifted the sheet from her face, folding it back at her abdomen.

  With the body washed of its blood, more stab wounds were visible.

  “Oh God,” Rafe murmured. “Trish.”

  Gideon had nearly forgotten that the Sokolovs had befriended the woman. But he was abruptly paying no attention to anything except the pattern of stab wounds on her lower torso. “He marked her,” he said, leaning in for a closer look.

  The stab wounds in her upper torso were random slashes, but those in her lower abdomen were in the shape of the letters “S” and “Y.”

  Erin, too, had leaned in closer and now looked up with a frown. “‘SY’? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Gideon said. “But I’m betting he’s done this before.”

  “Very precise cuts,” Dr. Sifuentes agreed. “No hesitation on the lower abdominal wounds.”

  The stabs and slices that formed the letters were more like puncture wounds, stylized with curly ends and cuts that looked like asterisks in between and around.

  “‘They all do,’” Rafe said quietly, and they stood quietly, staring down at the letters that appeared to have taken an inordinately long time to create.

  “I can run a search in the Bureau database,” Gideon said, “to see if there ar
e other cases of victims found with these letters carved into their torsos.”

  “We’ll do the same,” Erin said. “Is there anything more, Dr. Sifuentes?”

  “Not visibly,” he said sadly. “She’ll have to tell us any other details during the examination.”

  “We found a butcher knife in her dish drainer,” Erin told Sifuentes. “Could that have made both sets of wounds?”

  “It’s certainly possible that a butcher knife made the lower torso stab wounds,” Sifuentes said. “But I assume he’d need a smaller knife for the letters. It would have been awkward to use the butcher knife in such a fashion. But I can’t categorically say.”

  “There was a smaller knife in the knife block,” Erin said, “but it didn’t seem to have been used. Perhaps he brought a finer blade with him along with the bleach.”

  Sifuentes’s forehead bunched above his goggles. “I’m sorry. I wish I could give you the answer you want.”

  “We’d rather get the right answer,” Erin told him with a wistful smile.

  “Thank you for calling us in,” Rafe said, taking a final look at Trish’s body before Sifuentes pulled up the sheet. “Let’s take our discussion outside.”

  Gideon had to agree. The autopsy suite always made him slightly ill. He couldn’t imagine what Rafe was feeling at the moment, having known Trish.

  Gideon knew what he was feeling, just imagining Daisy’s body with all those stab wounds. If she hadn’t gotten away . . .

  Stop. You can’t think like that or you’re no good to her or anyone.

  If only it was that easy.

  The three of them left the morgue, each of them drawing a deep breath of the crisp outside air. “You okay?” Rafe asked him. “You’re looking a little green.”

  “I’m fine,” Gideon lied. “I don’t see the morgue every day,” he added truthfully. “I’m a linguist.”

  “Nor do you have to imagine those wounds every day on someone special,” Rafe murmured, ignoring his deflection. “I get it, Gid.”

  “We need to get back to the scene,” Erin said. “I want to finish interviewing all the neighbors to see if anyone saw anything last night. We’ve got Latent taking prints. As for the knife, it was washed and bleached, but I’m hoping we’ll get something off it that we can use. Some nook or cranny that he missed, assuming that was the murder weapon.”