Last Girl Dancing

by Kate Aeon

  Last Girl Dancing

  Kate Aeon

  Published by OneMoreWord Books

  Last Girl Dancing

  Copyright © 2005, 2018 by Holly Lisle

  Cover Design:

  Cover Art:

  Holly’s Author Photo: © Holly Lisle

  2nd Edition Editor: Ky Moffet

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTICE

  This is a work of fiction. Resemblances to real characters, real locations, and real situations are entirely coincidental. Names, characters, places, and story conflicts are products of the author’s imagination.

  Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-62456-035-4

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-62456-046-0

  For Matt, with love and thanks

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgments

  About Kate Aeon

  Other Books by Kate Aeon

  Chapter One

  Deep-blue satin bustier, blue satin G-string, carefully applied makeup that covered and filled in the gaping half-inch incisions over each jugular vein. A halo of night-blossoming jasmine around a shining fan of long, silky brown hair. Sweet brown eyes, open, unblinking, beginning to dull and cloud.

  The makeup over the abraded wrists and ankles hadn’t covered as well this time as it had for the last two girls. This sweetheart had fought harder. She had been especially fun to hurt. To possess. Finally, to kill. But the makeup? Not good.

  The photographer, still crouching, spread the dead dancer’s legs wider, into a lewd pose. Appearances mattered. They told the story — pretty, wicked, filthy girls and the three friends who gave them what they deserved.

  Click. Flash. One Polaroid slid out into a latex-gloved hand, and — click, flash — another. A third. And, quickly, one last lovely shot, because the photographer was working in a public place, and those flashes could bring attention. But everyone needed one final souvenir of this adventure.

  That’s what friends were for.

  Heading up the back steps of the Special Crimes building, Jess felt like she was walking into a cathedral. She was on her way to the home of the Grand Old Men of Murder.

  For the last eleven years, her goal had been to become one of the Grand Old Men, not all of whom were old, not all of whom were men. Because what all the Grand Old Men had in common was that they were the best. They got the toughest, most baffling, most frustrating cases. They got the murders no one else could solve. Becoming an HSCU detective touched at the very heart of the reason she had become a cop.

  Jess knew her chance of reaching her goal was better than the odds of winning the jackpot in the state lottery, should she ever decide to play. But not much.

  HSCU — Homicide Special Crimes Unit — consisted of twenty detectives, two lieutenants, and one captain in charge of the unit. You had to have already been the best just to get a chance to apply. The waiting list stretched on forever.

  And yet Jess had received word the night before that she was going to be on loan from her own Major Crimes robbery unit, and that she would be reporting to HSCU for as long as she was needed, starting first thing next morning.

  No word about why. No explanation beyond a mention that she had been asked for specifically, and a comment that the HSCU team had a tendency to show up for work early, and she probably ought to be there half an hour before the official start of shift.

  Jess figured she had this one chance to make a great impression. So she’d dressed conservatively, in her best suit. She wore a navy silk blazer specially cut to fit comfortably around her shoulder holster, and a lean, just-above-the-knee skirt in nubby silk. She’d put her hair in a French twist. Skipped the jewelry, skipped makeup beyond a bit of lip gloss. Wore her good watch with the leather band and the Swiss movement, not the digital one. She looked professional. Respectable. Solid.

  Every choice she’d made that morning had been an agonizing decision. Each one had felt momentous. In the end, she’d been too nervous for breakfast.

  She felt like she was auditioning for a job seven years before she could hope to qualify, and she didn’t even know what they were going to ask of her. Why did HSCU need her?

  Jess came out at the top of the staircase into a wide corridor. Junk food and drink machines stood immediately to her left on the landing. Beyond them, the corridor stretched before her, with dark speckled linoleum and walls painted mustard yellow, fluorescent lights humming and flickering overhead. Doors to the left and right bore brass plates: Rape Special Crimes Unit, Robbery Special Crimes Unit. The third door on the left was Homicide Special Crimes Unit.

  Jess walked up to the door, swallowed hard, and opened it.

  Industrial gray cubicles lined the side walls. A few windows on the back wall let in the first glimmerings of dawn. The gray file cabinets beneath those windows had seen better days. Maybe, she thought, eyeing them uncertainly, better decades. In the center of the open area between the two rows of cubicles, a big wooden table squatted — pitted, scarred, and ugly — surrounded by a lot of comfortable-looking and surprisingly modern swivel chairs.

  And though she was over half an hour early, the place was hopping. Detectives sat in their cubicles thumbing through thick notebooks or typing at computer terminals or talking on phones. Two detectives sat at the table in the center of the room, suit coats off but holsters on, sleeves of white shirts rolled up, papers and three-ring notebooks piled in front of them, coffee cups and candy bar wrappers scattered around them in drifts. Behind them stood a tall detective wearing a silk suit.

  All three men at the central table looked up at the sound of the door thudding shut behind her. And there was Jim Hennicut. Same shaved head. Same military bearing, same lean runner’s build. Grinning at her.

  “Princess Grace. We meet again.”

  Her heart felt a little lighter.

  “Jim,” she said, and returned the grin. “Are you the reason I get to be here?”

  He stood and nodded. “We needed someone with your skills and your intangibles. I vouched for you.”

  Jess had done the hooker walk as an undercover cop on a couple of trick task forces for Jim, back before she’d made detective. She didn’t like undercover, but the experience had been useful — and she’d been good at it. Jim had made her better. Her theater background from high school and dance school had come in handy, as had her looks. But Jim had taught her how to fade into the scene, which was not something anyone in theater ever tried to do. Jim had lived and breathed the job back then, and his zeal had benefited everyone who worked with him. She’d become a chameleon, and johns had flocked to her. One of them had intended more than sex for pay, however, and had, without warning, grabbed her by the throat and dragged Jess through the window into his SUV, speeding off with her, intending rape. She’d had to get him under control while her backup scrambled like hell to reach her.

  Her abductor had turned out to be a serial offender. Jess’s obs
ervations had been critical in obtaining search warrants, developing lines of questioning, and eventually offering testimony that had helped convict him of the rapes of more than twenty women in the area.

  Jess had made detective not long after that performance. Jim, seeing his own zeal and sense of mission in her, had been one of her staunch supporters in that promotion.

  “So I owe you again,” she said.

  Jim, fifty, still married to his work, and, if rumors were correct, recently divorced for the third time, said, “You make your own breaks, Gracie.”

  Jess rolled her eyes and smiled at that nickname. It had dogged her throughout her career, but it wasn’t insulting when Jim said it.

  “My name is actually Jessamyn Brubaker,” she said to the other two detectives. “I prefer Jess.”

  “And yet everyone calls you Princess Grace,” Jim said.

  Jess sighed. “But you’re the only one who does it to my face.”

  Jim laughed and turned to his colleagues. “See, she looks like Grace Kelly. And when she wants to” — and here he arched an eyebrow — “she has these finishing-school airs.”

  Jess looked at Jim sidelong, and saw that he was laughing at her embarrassment. “Someone long ago once told Jim he was amusing.” She looked him in the eye and said, “Whoever told you that lied to you, Jim.” She kept a straight face while she said it.

  Jim snorted. “Like I said, finishing-school airs. Anyway, this is Captain Howard Booker, supervisor of HSCU.”

  Booker, the standing detective in the good suit, nodded at her.

  Jess studied him with interest. Fiftyish, she decided, very tall, with a short-cropped Afro going to gray, deep brown skin, and dark, watchful eyes. She leaned across the table and shook his hand. He had a thin hand, long spider-leg fingers, and a good grip. She said, “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  Booker smiled politely. “Thank you for coming out this morning,” he said. His voice, high and reedy, wasn’t the voice she’d expected.

  The captain excused himself, leaving Jess with Jim and the detective she hadn’t met yet.

  Jim said, “And this is Charlie Sweeney. My partner. Charlie has a wife problem.” Jim winked at Jess. “He’s still married to the one he started with.”

  Charlie didn’t laugh. “Only two more years of you,” he said to Jim, then reached across the table, smiled at Jess, and shook her hand a little too hard.

  She guessed that Charlie was a few years younger than Jim. He had a bodybuilder’s physique, a street cop’s brush cut that made him look younger from a distance, and a wary, seen-it-all gaze. His short, stubby, wide hands had a lot of hair on the backs.

  Jess asked Charlie, “Is Jim still leasing child brides on the two-years-and-trade-’em-in plan?”

  “You really do know Jim,” Charlie said. “Glad you could join us, Jess.” He would have sounded like Darth Vader if Vader had come from Georgia. “Welcome aboard. They tell you anything about our little mess here?”

  Jess snickered. “Yeah. Two things. Dress nice. Be early.”

  Jim laughed. “That’s all I gave them. We’re trying to keep this case from landing in the papers with hundred-point headlines, though it’s going to eventually. It would be a very good thing, however, if it did it about the same time we solved it.”

  Jess took a seat beside Jim, across from Charlie. “So what do you have? And how can I help you?”

  “What Jim and I have,” Charlie said, “is probable serial homicide. We have three victims so far that we know of. The first was murdered eight months ago — white twenty-one-year-old Mila Petushka, stripper at Goldcastle Gentlemen’s Club. Then two months ago, same MO, Bernadette Chevalier — white, twenty-three, stripper at Goldcastle Gentlemen’s Club. And finally, three days ago, Gloria Houseman. Twenty-one. Also white. Stripper at Goldcastle Gentlemen’s Club.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, “but I thought serial killers were careful not to take their victims from the same place each time.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Charlie said. “But that’s only one of the irregularities with these murders.”

  Jim nodded. “The first known body was found eight months ago on a softball field pitcher’s mound in Rhyne Park in Cobb County, and the Cobb County Sheriff’s Department picked it up and started working it. The second known body was discovered four months ago on a picnic table in the pavilion at Pinckneyville Park in Gwinnett County, and the Gwinnett County Sheriff’s Department started working that case. Both bodies were found within hours of death; the killer left them very prominently displayed. The third girl landed in a flower bed, on a bit of green south of the zoo in our very own Grant Park three days ago, which was when the Atlanta PD got involved. However, the officer responding to the call happened to have a friend on the force in the Gwinnett Sheriff’s Department who’d been talking about their stripper find, and our officer realized that his body fit the same MO. So he did some digging, located the other case that fit his parameters, triangulated the killer into the heart of Atlanta based on the body dump locations, and passed the three cases on to Homicide/Robbery. And they, in turn, passed everything they had on to us. They don’t have the manpower to expend on this. We do.”

  Jess nodded. HSCU ended up with the cases that would run the overburdened zone homicide departments into the ground. It got the cases that crossed jurisdictional lines or had multiple victims, extended timelines, celebrities on either end of the bullet, or other complications.

  “I’m guessing we assume we haven’t located all the victims?” she asked.

  Charlie sighed. “Good guess. After we were brought on board, the FBI and the Georgia Bureau of Investigations showed up, of course. To the great joy of all involved,” he added. “Though the FBI and the GBI are in enough of a pissing contest with each other over territory that they might leave us alone to get some goddamned work done. Before he locked horns with the GBI investigator over turf, though, our Feeb consultant gave us a profile. Killers are — he says — white males, late twenties to mid-forties, neat and well organized, college-educated and working in well-paid white-collar or executive jobs.”

  “Killers? Plural? Serial killers working together?”

  “We’ll get to that,” Charlie said, voice grim. “The killers are planning the killings, are meticulous in the handling of the bodies, and are unlikely to leave us any crime scenes in the future. All three known victims were murdered elsewhere and dumped in locations that involve police organizations which historically have not worked well together.”

  Jim said, “So the killers have given this some thought. To this profile, we can add that crime MOs are identical — and all have the marks of organized killers who have had time to work out their method. We aren’t getting the practice kills, before our murderers had their kit together or had all the elements of their fantasy in place.”

  “But... more than one serial killer working together. That’s not unheard-of, but—”

  Charlie cut her off. “There are three of them,” he said. “That’s unheard-of. We have evidence for a blond guy, a redhead, and a brown-haired guy.”

  “Christ. And the GBI and the Feds,” Jess muttered.

  Jim and Charlie made identical growls, and Jim said, “Oh, yeah. Everybody wants to get a dick in this one. But it’s Booker’s job to entertain the Feebs and Geebs. So far, he’s been on top of it.”

  Jess thought for a moment. “The profiler give any suggestions on how long these guys might have been in business?”

  “Years, probably.” Jim sighed.

  Jess frowned. “Three killers working together. That doesn’t work too well over the long haul. They will have made mistakes. Over a period of years, one or more of them will have been stopped, taken in for questioning, maybe arrested for something related to a victim. Serial killers almost always have close calls for years before justice catches up with them. And with three of them, one should have turned state’s evidence on the other two by now.”

  Charlie g
ave Jim a meaningful look and said, “Okay. Now I believe you.”

  Jess was curious about that comment, but not all that curious. She was used to being doubted, written off as a Barbie doll with a gun. Police work was still very much a man’s world. She’d found that excellence was the best defense against prejudice, so she strove to be excellent. But excellence had to be proven face-to-face, so she ended up winning her colleagues over one by one. She didn’t let it bother her. Much.

  “Those thoughts have crossed our minds,” Jim said, ignoring Charlie’s remark.

  “Any chance it’s one killer, and that what looks like evidence... isn’t?”

  “Well, there’s always a chance, but it doesn’t seem like the best chance. First off, forensics has cleared the semen samples of any lubricant or spermicide traces.”

  “Which would make semen obtained from condoms unlikely,” Jess said.

  “Yep.” Charlie glowered down at the stack of murder books. “Second, fiber and hair samples from three assailants are consistent across all of our known victims. The possibility of lab screwups exists, of course. Or that the actual killer reacted violently to either seeing the victims having sex with multiple partners, or as a follow-up to being a participant himself.”

  “That would work,” Jess said.

  “Not as well as you might think. We are keeping that possibility open. But see...” Charlie sighed.

  Jim took over. “The MO on each of these is ugly. Signs on each girl of bondage, forcible rape, and torture before death. According to the medical examiner, death is by exsanguination, with the dancers hung upside down by their ankles while their jugulars are cut with surgical precision.”