by Dee Davis
The stoplight in front of Sara loomed red, and she slammed on the brakes, the Accord groaning in protest. The car slid to a stop, but not before skidding to the left, the shimmy in the chassis making her breath catch in her throat, her attention snapping to the present.
Car horns honked behind her, one angry driver gesturing with his hand out the open window. She exhaled slowly, and ascertained that despite her racing heart, everything was okay.
Truth was, she'd never really been comfortable driving, and since the accident it had only gotten worse. She might not have been in the car, but her imagination more than made up for the fact.
And daydreaming wasn't going to help anything.
Lydia Wallace's face flashed through her mind again, and Sara tightened her grip on the wheel. Not exactly a daydream. The light changed and she drove slowly through the intersection, ignoring the traffic streaming by her.
She had to talk to someone, tell them that she'd talked to Lydia, had pictures of her. It might not help anything, but she still had to try. She thought about Eric D'Angelo. She didn't know if he was handling the case, but even if he wasn't, he'd know who she should talk to. Her mind made up, she reached for her cell phone.
It rang before she could dial.
“Hello?”
“Sara? Is that you?” Ryan's voice held a note of excitement. “I just talked to Nate. He told me you took pictures of Lydia Wallace.”
She nodded, then remembered he couldn't see her. “Yeah, for the article I'm working on. I was just going to take them to the police.”
“No.” The word was somewhere between a plea and a command. “If you do that, we lose our edge. Let me print them first. We'll just change the angle of the story.”
“I don't know, Ryan. What if there's something there that can help find the killer?”
“Oh, come on, Sara, what are the odds of that? It's hardly likely the man was hanging around waiting for you to photograph him. Besides, what harm can come from holding off a day? We go to print tonight. I can make your photos the lead. Put Lydia on the cover. You can go to the police tomorrow, after the issue hits the stands.”
“I don't know.” She fought with her conscience. Ryan had been so good to her since Tom's death, she hated to deprive him of what would undoubtedly be a journalistic coup.
“I'll let Nate write the copy,” Ryan cajoled.
That cinched it. Even if she hadn't felt an obligation to Ryan, she certainly wasn't about to steal Nate's chance at the limelight. The police would have to wait.
“All right. I'll wait. But only until tomorrow.”
“Good girl. Do you have them with you?”
“No. The photos are at home, but the contact sheet is in my office. Nate knows where.” She clicked the phone off, praying she'd done the right thing.
“So where the hell are we?” Tony paced around the conference room, his agitation apparent with every step.
“Pretty damned convinced that Ramirez isn't our perp. He and Tompkins are too stupid to be behind the murders.”
“I hear that. But they did manage to fuck up the crime scene. Which means we aren't going to find a thing.” Tony stopped in front of the window, his hands gripping the sill. “The guy's too damn good for that.”
“So we go over the evidence again. And then again, if necessary. There's got to be something somewhere to give us a hint. Someplace he made a mistake. The dimwitted duo may have screwed up the crime scene, but that doesn't mean there isn't anything to find. Claire and her team know what they're doing. We just need to give them a chance to do it. And in the meantime, we go over what we know.” Eric walked over to the white board and picked up a marker. “We've got three victims. All more or less in the same profession.” He wrote the three women's names across the top of the board.
“Different ages, and race.” Tony flipped through the file folders, pulling pictures of each of the victims.
“Yeah.” He frowned at the board. “Laurel was the oldest, right?”
“Yup, then Candy and then Lydia. You thinking there's a pattern?”
“Could be. It's hard to tell with three. But it's something.” He wrote each woman's age under her name and then wrote the word “age” with a question mark. “What else?”
“Location varies, but, if Ramirez is to be believed, the body is left at the site, and the cause of death has been the same in all three cases.”
Eric wrote the location of each murder site under the women's names, along with the word “knife.” “And then there's the amputations. First one lost her ears.” He wrote the word. “Second her tongue. And Lydia lost her fingers.”
“The perp's style is improving, the last amputation cleaner than the first.”
Eric made a note of the fact. “But the big question here is why. Why take body parts at all?”
“Maybe a trophy of some sort? These guys like proof of their power.”
“Could be. But why body parts? It's not symptomatic of the torture. All three amputations occurred post mortem. And he's not covering anything up. The vics have been readily identifiable, and except for the fingers, he hasn't removed anything that would have deterred discovering I.D. So maybe it's something specific to each woman and the part removed.” Eric stared at the board, willing it to yield answers. “Or maybe it's something ritualistic. Something that has meaning only for the killer.”
“Which means we have to read his fucking mind?”
“Something like that.” Eric slammed his hand against the board, the resulting pain helping him to focus. “We've got to try and think like him. Look at what he's done through his eyes.”
“By the light of a full moon?” Tony's tone was teasing, but there was a note of derision present as well.
“No,” Eric corrected dryly. “We use our heads. Think like the perp. It's common sense when you think about it.”
Tony shrugged. “Can't hurt. Although I've got to say this is one sick son of a bitch we're going to be emulating.”
Eric turned to study the board. “So we've got an angry guy with a grudge against women, or maybe more specifically prostitutes.”
“Not out of the ordinary. Hookers are low-risk victims. A killer can take them out without raising much of a stink.”
Eric frowned, turning to face his partner. “Except that our killer obviously isn't afraid of the limelight. If he was, we'd have seen more of an attempt to cover up his crimes. This guy's practically waving them in our faces.”
“Which tells us what?”
“That if he's using hookers as low-risk victims, it's because they're easy to get to. Not because no one cares. Which means that sooner or later it won't be enough to satisfy him. Hell, his pattern's already changing. He's moving toward higher-risk kills.”
“I don't follow.” Tony frowned at the board. “They're still all hookers.”
“Yeah, but they're getting younger, and by definition more innocent. Lydia Walker was just a kid, and a hell of a lot more likely to raise public sympathy than either of the previous victims. Every parent in a hundred-mile radius will be watching their daughters tonight. So he's upped the ante.” Eric rubbed the back of his neck, frustration knotting his muscles. “Unfortunately, we're not even sure what game it is we're playing. Which is probably just exactly the way he wants it.”
“So we look at what else we've got. The music was present at all three scenes.” Tony went back to the file. “All Sinatra, and all played on homemade CDs.”
“Well, we know for certain that the music didn't belong to the vic in Lydia's case. And I think we can feel fairly confident that it wasn't in Candy Mason's collection either. Which only leaves Laurel. What about the boom boxes?”
Tony consulted the files. “They were all identical. Probably planted along with the CD. Which still begs the question why?”
“Could be for us. Or it could have to do with the ritual. My guess is both. What about the songs. Any significance there?”
Tony flipped through Laurel's file. “The
first one was ‘I Think of You.’ The second was something about breathing.” Tony flipped through Candy's file. “Oh yeah, ‘With Every Breath I Take.’”
“And the last one was ‘I Dream of You.’” Eric wrote it on the board under Lydia's name.
“How the hell did you remember that?” Tony's eyebrows arched with surprise.
“My mother loves Frank Sinatra. She and my father spent entire evenings listening to albums and dancing around the living room floor. I guess it kinda rubbed off.”
“Okay, Mr. Sinatra lover, you see something that might connect these particular songs?”
“No.” Eric studied the board. “Not off the top of my head, anyway. But I think it'd be a good idea to get the lyrics. He's playing the music for some reason. Hell, for all I know there's something to the progression of the notes, but not being a musician, I figure it's easier to start with the words.”
Tony shrugged, his expression changing to one of resignation. “Fine. I'll get to work on the lyrics.”
“It doesn't mean you have to listen to the recording, you know. All you have to do is check out lyric sites online. Not that it would hurt you to listen to a little Frank. Add some romance to your life.”
“Hey, buddy, I got all the romance I need. It's just that Bess and I prefer Garth Brooks to Ole Blue Eyes.” Tony's eyes crinkled with his smile. “If anyone's lacking in the romance department, it's you.”
“I get laid.”
“That's not what I'm talking about. You need something more than a one-night stand.”
“And I suppose you have just the woman.” The minute he said it, he knew he'd walked into a trap.
Tony's smile was slow, almost victorious. “How about Sara Martin?”
All thoughts of the case fled in the wake of images of blue eyes and blonde hair. For a moment, he even thought he could smell her perfume.
He shook his head, trying to clear his mind.
Sara Martin was the last thing he needed. Which had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that he wanted her.
Bad.
“I can't find anything wrong.” Jack Weston ran a hand through his hair, leaving a trail of grease across his forehead.
“You're sure?” Sara felt silly, pushing things. Jack was a great mechanic. And in the last two years he'd been over her car from bumper to bumper more times than she cared to admit.
“Positive.” He smiled, the grin making him seem almost rakish. She and Jack went way back. To foster care days. A friendship forged from necessity, but maintained with pleasure. Especially over the last couple of years. “There is nothing wrong with it.”
“But I know I felt a shimmy.”
“Sara,” he reached out for her hands. “Your car is fine.”
“I know that—intellectually. But…” She pulled her hands away, turning her back to him.
He turned her back to face him. “But you can't let go of the image of their car in that ravine.”
She looked up to meet his gaze. “No. I can't.”
“And every time you remember, you think something is wrong with your car.”
She smiled, knowing the gesture lacked strength. “It's only a small idiosyncrasy.”
“An understandable one, but your car is fine.” He moved away, the distance between them comfortable. “I talked to Bess Haskins today.”
Sara frowned, surprised. “I didn't know the two of you were friends.”
“We're not, really. More acquaintances by default. Through you.” He picked up a rag and began cleaning off his hands. “Anyway, she wanted to invite me to a barbecue. Want to go together?”
Sara shook her head. “I'm not ready for parties, Jack, but you and Bess get points for effort.”
He smiled. “I told her it wouldn't work, but I figured it was worth a try.”
“You should still go, though. The Haskinses are good people.”
“I might give it a try, but it won't be the same without you.”
Sara's smile was genuine this time. “You certainly know how to flatter a girl, but the answer is still no.”
Jack held up his hands. “All right. I can take a hint. But if you change your mind …”
“I won't.”
Although she was tempted. After all, Eric D'Angelo would probably be there. And seeing him again was almost enough to get her to change her mind.
Almost.
Chapter 6
He'd lost his fucking mind.
Eric turned onto Speedway, wondering what in hell he'd been thinking. Obviously, he hadn't. At least not with his head. But that didn't stop him from still wanting to see her. It had been easy enough to find her address. A lot harder to come up with an excuse.
He glanced at the plastic bag on the seat next to him and wondered again what had come over him. Hormones, certainly, but he knew there was more to it than that. He just wasn't certain what.
And so, like a crazed adolescent, he was manufacturing excuses to see her. Which in and of itself was insane. Although it had seemed a good idea in the squad room.
He turned onto her street and started looking for house numbers. The quiet neighborhood was a hodgepodge of eras. Restored Victorians mixed in with cottages from the twenties and bungalows from the forties, along with the occasional ugly apartment building. “Eclectic” at its best.
He slowed as he neared the house, wanting to prolong the moment. Hell, wanting to turn the car around and head for home. But that wasn't his style. And he knew that if he went home, he'd only be back. Besides, there was every possibility that seeing her again would prove him wrong. Maybe there hadn't been a connection.
Maybe he was inventing a fantasy where there was nothing.
The only way to be certain was to see her again. And now seemed as good a time as any.
He pulled up in front of the house. The porch light illuminated the gingerbread trim, giving the place a warm and inviting feel. Just like the woman.
There was a car in the driveway. An old Volkswagen Beetle, the relic at odds with the graceful lines of the house. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he was certain the car didn't belong to Sara. Which meant she wasn't alone.
He hesitated for a moment, not certain he wanted to face her when she had company, suddenly afraid that it might be another man. Then he shook his head at his train of thought. He hadn't even confirmed that there was something to explore, and he was already jealous.
He was acting like a fool. Grabbing the plastic bag, he opened the car door, and before he could change his mind, headed up the sidewalk toward the front door.
The wraparound porch proved to be every bit as inviting as it had looked from the street, wicker furniture and red geraniums making it feel like an extension of the house. Cheerful and welcoming. Despite the November chill, spring lived here, as if time had been peeled away, abandoning the twenty-first century for something cleaner, simpler. Revitalizing.
Laughing at his thoughts, he rang the doorbell and waited for what seemed like an eternity before the painted door swung open.
The woman at the door was not Sara. Embarrassment mixed with disappointment. She did have company.
“I'm sorry,” he said, feeling like a complete idiot. “I'm looking for Sara Martin.”
The redhead gave him a once-over worthy of someone on the job, and then met his gaze, her eyes slightly narrowed. “And you would be?”
Automatically he reached for his badge. The woman stepped back, the door starting to close. “Detective D'Angelo.” He shoved the badge at the remaining crack of open door. “Eric D'Angelo. I talked to Ms. Martin this morning.”
And hadn't been able to stop thinking of her since. But that wasn't exactly a great opening remark.
The door swung back open, the redhead's scowl changing to a smile, and she stepped back, gesturing him in. “I'm Molly Parker.”
She said it as if that would clear things up for him, but, of course, it didn't. Still there was no sense in letting her know that. “Nice to meet you, Molly, but don't you thi
nk you ought to look at the badge before inviting me in?” Using his best cop's voice, he tried to cover his confusion.
The woman gave him another once-over, her examination this time more Mae West than Lennie Briscoe. “I suppose I could do that, but you've got to admit it looks pretty damn official.” She shrugged. “Besides, Sara told me all about you.”
That seemed like a positive development. At least he had the right house. “Is she home?”
“In the kitchen.” She tilted her head in the general direction of a swinging door propped open with a chair. Her smile was mischievous, but her eyes were friendly, and he accepted the odd nature of her banter as part of her charm.
“I, uh, didn't mean to barge in like this …” He trailed off, trying not to look toward the kitchen door.
“You're not barging into anything, believe me. In fact, I was just leaving.”
He was positive she hadn't been leaving at all, but true to her word, she reached for a sweater hanging from a hook on the hall tree.
“Sara? I'm off, and you've got a gentleman caller.” With another impish smile, she dashed out the front door, pulling it shut behind her.
Eric swallowed, and still clutching the plastic sack, walked farther into the room. The house was as welcoming inside as out. An old camelback sofa sat comfortably in front of a leaded glass window, flanked on each side by mahogany tables. An oversize wingback was paired with an ornate gilt-framed mirror, the frame's intricate carving echoing the elegant lines of the chair.
And everywhere there were photographs. On the tables, on the walls. Framed, unframed. Everything from landscapes to portraits. Each artfully arranged so that nothing competed. Fine art at its best.
He picked a simple wooden frame off the table. A boy of about four smiled, gap-toothed, for the camera, his dark hair tousled, his blue eyes the same color as his mother's.
“That's Charlie.”
There was a wistful quality to her voice. A hint of sadness that was at once heartbreaking and compelling. He turned to look at her, his breath catching in his throat.
He hadn't been wrong. She was incredible. Even in jeans and a T-shirt, with a dish towel in her hands, she looked alluring. And vulnerable. Or maybe it was the vulnerability that made her so appealing. He couldn't say for sure. Couldn't even think straight. Which should have sent him running for the hills, but it didn't.
