by Tess Diamond
“Well, that’s what’s weird,” Zooey said. “The killer moved Mr. Anderson a little bit, but it looks like it was just for access to the door, to get out of the house. Moving Mrs. Anderson makes no sense. I have no idea why he’d do it. Come on, I’ll show you.”
She led them through a beautifully decorated living room and dining room—the crystal was set on the table, as if they’d been preparing to celebrate—and into the kitchen.
Grace swallowed, breathing through her mouth as she carefully edged around the kitchen counter, to see the woman lying on her stomach, her long dark hair matted with blood.
“Christ,” Gavin swore behind her. “Grace, careful.”
Before she could react, his hand slid to her waist, pulling her to the side, away from the pool of blood she’d almost slipped into.
“Thanks,” she said, shifting her attention back to the body, her mind turning over and over.
“I don’t get it,” Zooey was saying to her as Grace stepped back to take in the full scene. The husband hadn’t been the priority for the killer.
No, the priority was the woman. Why?
“What don’t you get?” she asked Zooey, moving back so two forensic techs who had finished taking photographs could get out of the way.
“Why drag her in here?” Zooey asked. “It seems like a lot of work, and for what, exactly? It caused a lot more mess, took more time, created more risk. So far, I haven’t found any footprints in the blood, but I haven’t gone through everything yet.”
Grace knew what she thought, but she looked over to Gavin.
She wanted to know what he thought. The man who’d left his dreams in the desert to become Metro’s finest homicide detective. He was back playing with the big boys—and girls—now. Was he up to snuff?
“What do you think?” she asked him.
His eyes glittered. He knew she was testing him, and instead of annoyance flicking in his face, an impressed acceptance was there.
Amazing, but it seemed this guy didn’t have the usual male ego. That meant he was really that good—or he was a moron.
She’d bet her life on the former.
“The husband’s collateral damage,” Gavin said. “He was in the killer’s way. The real prize to our guy? Is her.” He circled around the body, taking her in. There was an air of expertise as he bent down, pushing her hair back with a pen he took out of his pocket.
“Blunt trauma to the head before he shot her,” he said. “I’d bet anything he didn’t bash her head in just to get control of her.”
“He was angry,” Grace finished for him.
He looked up, his serious gaze meeting hers. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “This is pure misogynistic rage.”
“How do you reckon?” she asked, impressed that he’d use that word, and wondering if he’d noticed the thing she had the second she saw the body.
“The shoes,” he said.
Something inside her leapt, because this feeling? This was a true meeting of the minds.
This was rare. Like lightning in a bottle.
“She’s not wearing shoes,” she said carefully.
“Exactly,” Gavin said, straightening. “Barefoot? In the kitchen? This guy’s sending us a very clear message about how he feels about women and their place in the world.”
Zooey let out a low whistle. “I didn’t even notice that,” she said.
“I did,” Grace said, unable to tear her eyes off Gavin’s.
His mouth quirked. “I know you did,” he said. “You don’t miss anything.”
“Apparently neither do you.”
“I do my best,” he said with a shrug.
Grace looked back down at the woman’s body, frowning when she glimpsed something shining in the strands of hair that Gavin had carefully pushed back during his examination. Her stomach twisted, dread building inside it as she stepped forward.
“You see something else?” Gavin asked her.
But she didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Not until she knew for sure.
She crouched down, pushing the woman’s hair away from her ears with her gloved hand.
And there they were, glimmering against the mess of blood and torn flesh: diamond earrings, sparkling in her ears.
A chill trickled down Grace’s spine.
“What is it?” Gavin asked behind her. He bent down next to her, studying the woman’s battered face.
“Are you two done in here yet?” Paul came striding in, phone in hand. He frowned when he saw both of them next to the body and Zooey standing near the counter, her arms folded and waiting. “What’s up?”
“Grace was just about to tell us,” Gavin said.
Grace glanced down at the earrings again. It could just be a coincidence. Janice Wacomb—the woman from last night’s crime scene—her diamond earrings were out of place. But this woman had several diamond rings and a platinum tennis bracelet on her wrist.
But they’re not bloody, a voice whispered inside her.
Grace glanced down at the rings. They were stained with blood, and so was the bracelet. She’d tried to fight him off, so it made sense.
But despite the massive head wound, the earrings shone against the mess of blood, pristine and glittering, no trace of blood on them.
She hadn’t been wearing them when he attacked her.
He’d put them in her ears himself. After he’d killed her. Grace was sure of it.
“The earrings,” she said.
“What about the earrings?” Paul asked.
Grace reached over and grasped the woman’s earlobe gently, exposing the back of the earring’s stud.
No blood there either.
“Janice Wacomb had diamond earrings on,” Gavin said, and Grace felt it again, that spark, that connection, that amazing feeling of being on the same wavelength as another agent.
“Okay . . . ,” Paul said slowly, not getting it.
“You think they’re the same ones?” Gavin asked.
“They were exactly like these,” Grace said.
“Grace,” Paul said, looking at her like she was crazy. “Lots of women have diamond earrings. You have diamond earrings.”
“But these aren’t bloody,” Grace said. “Look. There’s blood everywhere but not on the earrings.”
“Good catch,” he said, sounding impressed. “That suggests they were put on after she stopped bleeding.”
Paul leaned down, frowning. “Okay, but what are we theorizing here?” he asked. “That our killer from last night is the same guy? That he’s . . . putting diamond earrings on women after he kills them?”
“Why not?” Grace asked sharply, because the skepticism was dripping off him.
“Grace, it was two totally different MOs,” Paul said. “This is a home invasion. A robbery, clearly. The safe upstairs is cleaned out. Last night was a sniper attack. And you think we’ve got a serial killer . . . based on some jewelry? That’s a whole hell of a reach.”
“It’s a pretty apparent signature, though,” Gavin said, straightening when Paul did. Grace continued to stare at the earrings. They were the same square-cut design as the ones Janice Wacomb had been wearing, at least a carat each, in a yellow gold setting.
That was another odd thing. The rest of Mrs. Anderson’s jewelry was platinum and white gold.
“Both murders are a little off,” Grace said firmly, finally getting to her feet. “Killing someone in that alley was less than ideal for an experienced sniper. This, the moving of the woman’s body? That’s just weird for a robbery, where speed’s essential—but our killer takes his time to drag her body into the kitchen? For what reason, unless it’s some sort of compulsion or way to send a message? There was no sexual assault, right?”
“No sign of sexual assault,” Zooey confirmed, shaking her head.
“So he’s a misogynist but not a rapist,” Gavin said.
“He could be impotent,” Grace suggested.
“And projecting his rage on women?” Gavin finished, nodding. “Possible. But
why the earrings? What is he telling us with them?” He spun his hand in circles as he thought, like he was used to tossing something back and forth at his desk. He was a tactile man, used to touching, feeling, as he thought things through.
“A gift, maybe? A sign of remorse?” Gavin shook his head almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “Nah, this guy? He’s not remorseful. He’s calculating.”
“If we follow the barefoot-in-the-kitchen message, he could be saying that women only want men for one thing: money.”
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” Gavin said, pointing at her.
Paul cleared his throat, breaking the two of them from their reverie. “Agent Walker, I appreciate you indulging her. But, Grace, come on. I know you’re always on the lookout for new book material, but a serial killer with a jewelry obsession? That’s going over the top.”
“But—”
“No,” Paul insisted. “There’s no connection between the cases. I need both of you to treat them separately. Okay?”
Grace resisted the urge to glare at him. As friendly as they were, he was her boss, after all. “Okay,” she said, not meaning it for one second. The facts were there, the clues were there, and if Paul refused to see them, she’d just have to make him. “Send me all the crime scene photos. I’ll give you a profile after I’ve examined them thoroughly.”
“You can’t just do it now?” Paul asked.
“No,” she said sharply. “I can’t. Walker, you coming?”
“I am,” he drawled, clearly amused and knowing she had no intention of following Paul’s orders.
Without another word to Paul, she turned and walked out of the house.
Chapter 9
“I thought you said you and Harrison got along,” Gavin commented as they made their way through traffic toward the freeway.
“We do,” Grace said, but even she sounded a little skeptical.
Harrison hadn’t respected her in the Andersons’ house, and it rankled Gavin more than he’d like to admit. She was the profiler, the expert, and Harrison had dismissed her insights and put down her writing.
“It’s been a bad few months,” she said eventually, when Gavin didn’t say anything. “He’s being extra cautious lately.”
“Can’t say I blame him, what with the whole bomb-strapped-to-his-chest thing,” Gavin said, flipping the turn signal and merging into the next lane. “And I don’t want to start defying my boss on my first case, but, Grace, those earrings . . .”
“Are exactly the same kind Janice was wearing,” Grace finished for him, holding out her phone. She’d pulled up a crime scene picture of Janice, zooming in on the earrings. He looked at it, seeing exactly what she saw: The earrings were exactly the same kind as the ones Mrs. Anderson had been wearing.
“Well, damn,” Gavin said, shaking his head. “Defying the boss it is.”
“Seriously?” she asked.
He glanced over at her. “I’ve got your back,” he said. “No matter what.”
“Just like that,” she said.
“Just like that,” he said. “I mean, it helps that I’m pretty sure you’re onto something. But even if I wasn’t sure”—he shrugged—“you are. That’s enough for me.”
Her brows knit together. “So the whole loyal thing isn’t an act.”
“No,” he said. “I’m your partner. I’ll take a bullet for you, if need be. Figuratively or literally.”
That rendered her silent, though it really shouldn’t have. FBI agents had each other’s backs—or at least they should. But as much as she’d accused him of being a lone wolf that morning, he knew the truth: Grace was the real lone wolf here.
“So what’s our next move?” he asked.
“Well, since you’re on board . . .” she said, taking out her phone. She dialed a number and turned it on speaker.
“This is Zooey,” said a voice.
“Hey, it’s Grace,” Grace said. “Your team was looking for the jeweler who made Janice Wacomb’s earrings, right?”
“Yep,” Zooey said. “We tracked them down this morning. A little family-run place called McCord’s Jewelers.”
“Excellent. Mind texting me the address?”
“Defying Paul, are we?” Zooey asked.
“Someone has to,” Grace said, and Zooey laughed.
“Gavin in on this with you?”
“You know it,” Gavin called into the phone.
“Already got him on your side . . . I’m impressed,” Zooey said. “I texted the address to you. Don’t come running to me when Paul finds out and gets pissed.”
“He won’t be pissed when it turns out I’m right,” Grace said. “Thanks, Zooey.”
“Anytime. Bye, you two.”
Grace reached over and plugged the address Zooey had texted her into the SUV’s GPS. “Want to take a road trip?” she asked.
Gavin grinned. “Let’s go hunt down some diamonds.”
McCord’s Jewelers was a tiny place, tucked in a nondescript brick building just outside of downtown DC. The gold-leaf letters on the door shone bright as Gavin pushed it open, and bells tinkled as they entered.
Gavin automatically glanced all around, taking in the two cameras situated in the room. Surveillance meant tapes. Maybe they’d be able to catch their guy buying the earrings. That’d make this an open-and-shut case, for sure.
An older man with gray hair and a sweater-vest looked up from his place at the counter, where he’d been examining a tray of loose diamonds. “Welcome,” he said with a smile. “How can I help you? Wait.” He held out his hand. “Let me guess. An engagement ring?”
Gavin could feel his cheeks heating up a little as he glanced over at Grace. But she just smiled, shaking her head, pulling out her badge. “I’m afraid we’re here for business, not pleasure,” she said. “I’m Special Agent Sinclair. This is Special Agent Walker.”
“Oh, my,” he said. “I’m Anthony McCord. I own this place with my wife. How can I help you?”
“We’re investigating a murder,” Gavin said. “We believe the victim in question was wearing earrings purchased from your shop.”
Grace held out her phone, the screen showing a picture of Janice Wacomb’s earrings in an evidence bag. “Do these look familiar to you?”
Mr. McCord pulled on his glasses, leaning forward and looking at the phone. “Yes, those are definitely my work.”
“Can you remember who you sold them to?”
“If you get me the serial number, yes,” Mr. McCord said.
“Serial number?” Gavin asked.
“Each diamond that we sell has a serial number engraved on the stone. It’s microscopic; you can’t see it with the naked eye. It’s done for insurance purposes—if a piece of jewelry gets stolen or lost, it can be traced that way. Isn’t that how you found the store?”
“We’re not forensics, but I’m sure that’s how they found you,” Grace said. “Just give me a moment; I’ll get the serial number for you.”
She stepped away and Gavin smiled at Mr. McCord. “While she’s doing that, mind if I ask just a few more questions?”
“Anything I can do to help,” Mr. McCord said.
“What’s your surveillance like here? I see the cameras. Do you save your tapes?”
“We don’t have the capacity for that, I’m afraid. We’re just a mom-and-pop shop. We keep the tapes for only a week. Then they’re erased and recorded over.”
“Okay,” Gavin said. Damn, unless their killer had bought the earrings in the last week, they weren’t going to get a video of him. They would have to rely on Mr. McCord’s memory to discover if he’d been the one to sell the killer the earrings. “And how many employees do you have?”
“Just my wife and me,” Mr. McCord said. “She does the books, I make the jewelry.”
“Sounds like a good system,” Gavin said.
“She’s always had a better head for numbers than me.”
“And what about your customers. Anyone stand out to you latel
y? Maybe he was nervous?”
Mr. McCord smiled. “I’m a jeweler, Agent Walker. That means most of the men coming in here are looking for engagement rings. And that’s almost guaranteed to make a man nervous.”
Gavin laughed. “Okay, fair enough,” he said. “What about someone who put in a big order? Was there someone in the last few months who ordered multiple pairs of those earrings Agent Sinclair showed you?”
Mr. McCord frowned. “Actually, there was,” he said. “I remember there was a gentleman who came in to buy a pair of earrings for his wife. And then about a week later, he came back in and put in an order for three more pairs. He said that his wife had loved them so much, she wanted their granddaughters to have matching pairs. It was very sweet.”
“You remember when this was?”
“I’d say maybe two months ago?” Mr. McCord said.
“I’ve got those serial numbers for you.” Grace pushed a piece of paper across the counter and Mr. McCord took it.
“Let me go look in my files,” he said. “Just a moment.”
He disappeared into the back room, and Grace leaned lightly against the counter, gazing at all the baubles surrounding her. Gavin couldn’t help but think she shone the brightest, even surrounded by all these diamonds.
“You like this stuff, Sinclair?” he asked, gesturing to the dazzling array of bracelets in the glass case in front of him.
“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” she said, but there was a dry note of sarcasm in her voice that surprised him. He looked over to her questioningly, and she shrugged. “I’m more of an art collector,” she said. “Most jewelry isn’t exactly practical in our line of work. I have a few pieces, but they’re mostly sentimental and inherited.”
“From your grandmother,” he said, remembering how she had mentioned her that night they’d spent together. She’d been wearing a necklace then; the sapphires had glittered darkly against her skin, making it seem luminous.
Something flickered in that extraordinary face of hers, her eyes widening in what looked like confusion . . . or maybe surprise. “You remembered,” she said.
