Kiss Me, Kill Me

by Allison Brennan

  Sean said something but Lucy couldn’t hear over her rushing blood, as every muscle in her body tightened simultaneously, then released in a flood of ecstasy that surprised her so much she exclaimed Sean’s name in a voice that sounded nothing like her.

  Sean thrust in a final time and held her tightly against him, their bodies hot and thoroughly pleasured. He didn’t let go when he was done, his hands moving from her butt to her back to her hair. He grabbed it in his fists and pulled her face to his and kissed her again, just as passionate and heated as before.

  “Lucy,” he murmured into her mouth.

  Lucy felt languid and so relaxed she didn’t think she could move. Sean sensed the shift inside her, and adjusted their position so she returned to the crook of his arm, but her head tilted so he could kiss her. She sighed contentedly, feeling like a lazy cat must when stretched out under a sunbeam.

  “You’re smiling,” Sean said.

  “I am.” And like a lazy cat, she was satiated and tired. She sank into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The rain that had fallen in buckets half the night was now a light but steady trickle at seven o’clock Sunday morning. Suzanne had worn thick socks and rain boots, but her feet were the only part of her body that was dry.

  The fifth victim of the Cinderella Strangler had been found outside an abandoned storage facility in Red Hook, where once again an underground party had been raging through the night. Jessica Bell had died practically a stone’s throw away in Sunset Park just one week ago.

  Because her primary suspect was locked up on Rikers Island, Suzanne wanted to believe Sierra Hinkle had been killed by a copycat. But she’d stayed up half the night reading the report Lucy Kincaid had prepared for Hans Vigo, and she now believed she’d been wrong.

  Suzanne had half expected the name, address, and phone number of the killer at the end of Lucy’s detailed analysis, but of course it wasn’t there. And while Lucy had stopped short of providing a psychological profile of the killer, Suzanne read between the lines. Lucy damn well had a psych analysis in mind, but she hadn’t included it, whether out of deference to the assistant director or because she didn’t want to go out on a limb.

  Lucy had provided statistics regarding similar serial murders that gave information, but no conclusions. She’d taken Suzanne’s methodical time line and added in the victims’ Party Girl information, which Suzanne hadn’t had before Friday, plus she’d incorporated the missing girl Kirsten Benton as a potential witness.

  Lucy had seen one thing in the autopsy reports that Suzanne hadn’t, and the discrepancy had kept Suzanne from sleeping more than an hour. Because all she could think about was that if she’d caught the difference when she first got the case, she might have understood the significance in time to save the lives of Jessica Bell and Sierra Hinkle.

  The lungs of victim #1 had traces of an ultrafine black powder that was sent to the NYPD lab. No lab report is attached to the autopsy report, or filed with other documentation. The other three victims had no black substance in their lungs. Per coroner, substance had been recently introduced to victim’s lungs and was possibly remnants of something that had been carried in the plastic bag used to asphyxiate the victim. The other three victims were likely suffocated with a plastic bag that had never been used—brought specifically for the purpose. Which suggests that killing the first victim had been spontaneous, using a bag that the killer had on him or her or found at the scene, but the other killings were premeditated.

  Suzanne remembered reading the note about the black powder, but had assumed that the lab couldn’t identify it, or was backed up, or something. Because she’d completely missed the subtle difference in the autopsy reports, she hadn’t followed up on the lab report or had Quantico take over the testing.

  She’d noted the various crimes’ similarities: isolated location, victim’s age, intoxication level, and recent sexual activity. She hadn’t noticed that the first victim was most likely killed spontaneously, and the others systematically stalked and murdered.

  Why?

  Which was why Suzanne had called Sean Rogan and asked him to bring Lucy to the latest crime scene. Lucy may have held back her psychological profile in the report to Hans Vigo, but Suzanne would damn well get her to share her theory. Because if they couldn’t find the killer in the next six days, Suzanne feared that come next Sunday morning she’d be standing over another dead girl in the middle of another deserted lot next to one more abandoned building. And there were so many in the five boroughs of New York City, there was no freakin’ way the NYPD and the FBI could stake out every single one.

  She was missing something, but damn if she could figure out what it was.

  Vic Panetta looked as tired as she felt. “The group who found the body is sitting it out inside the building,” he said when he approached her.

  “Where was the body found?” she asked.

  He gestured to a temporary bright-orange shelter. “Though she was found quickly—we’re guessing less than an hour after she was killed—the storm saturated the area. There is an apparent head injury, like she hit her head on the bulldozer over by where she died, or a rock on the ground. Responding officers quickly put up a tarp and the crime scene team set up a larger tent.

  “We also have several potential witnesses. Because of the weather, there were only about half as many people at this rave as at the last crime scene, and many were still here when officers arrived. We have thirty names, prints, and phone numbers to follow up on, but we let them leave.”

  “Prints?”

  “We had everyone sign a roster and assigned a different pen for each person, bagged and tagged them.”

  “Smart—the pen isn’t too small to get a viable print?”

  Panetta held up an example. It was a large, smooth plastic pen, like one that might be found in a souvenir shop. These were dark blue, with New York Police Department in white.

  Suzanne smiled. “And who found the body?”

  “They’re inside. Three of them. The girl is the roommate of the victim, identified her as Sierra Hinkle, nineteen. Name is Becca Johansen. She and Sierra both work as waitresses in Brooklyn, three subway stops away. One guy said he was with Becca for most of the night; the other guy stayed, he says, because he’d met the victim earlier in the evening. My guess? They had sex and he’s worried his DNA will be all over her and doesn’t want us to think he killed her.”

  “He said that?”

  “Just the hinky way he was acting.”

  “Vic,” Suzanne said, keeping her voice low so none of the other cops could overhear, “I asked Lucy Kincaid to come out and walk through the scene. I’m going to walk through with her.”

  “Fine by me. Any reason why?”

  She handed him a copy of Lucy’s report. “She put together information for an FBI profile that I read last night and sent off to headquarters first thing this morning.”

  “It’s pretty obvious that Wade Barnett isn’t our killer,” said Panetta, “unless she identified the likelihood of a partner. Which I’m not ruling out.”

  “No partner. Lucy didn’t make any conclusions, but I did. The most important thing is that she kept referring to the killer as ‘he or she.’ ”

  “A female killer?”

  “It’s not out of the realm of possibility. She quoted statistics of suffocation in murder cases, and far more women choose that method than men.”

  “Yeah, maybe—in mercy killings and child murders, maybe. But this is violent.” He gestured toward the orange tent.

  “It’s something we should keep in mind as a possibility.”

  “I’d look first at Barnett’s younger brother.”

  Suzanne was surprised. “Why?”

  “You said yourself that Dennis drove Barnett to the parties. He stayed in the car. He would have seen if someone wandered off. Took the opportunity to kill them, get back in the car, and wait for his brother.”

  “Why?”

 
“Don’t know. Maybe that’s a question for your profiler, or Ms. Kincaid.”

  Suzanne thought about Dennis Barnett as a murderer. She didn’t see it. Truth was, she’d let her emotions get involved during her interview with him. She liked him, thought he was genuine. She’d had a mentally retarded next-door neighbor in Eunice—if you could call three acres over “next door.” Bobby was her age and had been teased and bullied because he was slow; other kids called him Forrest Gump. So Suzanne had bought a video of the movie, using every dime she had, and watched it with Bobby. Told him that Forrest Gump was a hero, that he met two presidents of the United States, and was a championship runner.

  Bobby never got out of the small town, and worked as a busboy in a diner. Probably still teased and bullied, but Suzanne hadn’t gone back.

  Dennis reminded her of Bobby. She didn’t want him to be guilty, but she couldn’t discount the possibility.

  She saw Sean Rogan drive up in his black GT. “That’s them,” she told Panetta. “Can you tell your guys to let them through?”

  Panetta got on the radio and cleared them.

  Suzanne watched the two approach. Sean had his arm around Lucy’s shoulder. It seemed casual, but protective at the same time. She’d thought something was going on between the two of them, but it was certainly obvious now.

  Lucy was pale and wore no makeup, and her wavy hair was down and tucked behind her ears, making her look younger than she had last night. Sean held a large umbrella over both of them.

  Sean spotted Suzanne and gave her a look that surprised her—he was angry.

  She met them halfway. “Thank you for coming out.”

  “You called at six in the morning.”

  “Right after I got the call. Sorry to wake you up.”

  “I was awake,” Sean said.

  “It’s fine,” Lucy said. “Really, thank you for including us.”

  “I stayed up late to read your report,” Suzanne said. “But you didn’t give a psych profile.”

  “I’m not a profiler. I thought you wanted me to compile the evidence and statements for you to send to Hans.”

  “Yes, but I guess I expected a conclusion. I have the wrong guy in prison. I missed something, and I need to find out what before someone else dies.”

  “Same M.O.?”

  “Appears so,” Suzanne said, leading the way to the tent. “I haven’t seen the body yet; the coroner just arrived. Nineteen, waitress here in Brooklyn, has no affiliation at all with Columbia University, either as an employee or as a student. Neither does her roommate, who found the body.”

  Lucy followed Suzanne, listening to the facts of the case. She already suspected why Sierra Hinkle was murdered, she just didn’t know who killed her. But she’d keep her ideas to herself for now, because she needed facts. All she had was a theory.

  “Who knew you had arrested Wade Barnett?” she asked.

  “Everyone in the world,” Suzanne said sarcastically. “The Post reported that we had a suspect in custody early on, and then the six o’clock news broke the fact that the FBI had arrested Wade Barnett. Our statement that Barnett had not been arrested for murder didn’t mean squat to the press, who’d already found the same photo of Barnett and Alanna Andrews that you found. If they’d had that much interest in the dead girl, maybe we could have put the connection together earlier, but they didn’t care about her when she died. Not until a high-profile, wealthy real-estate investor was arrested.”

  Suzanne was a hothead, Lucy realized. She’d seen a bit of it yesterday, but now it clearly showed. Suzanne reminded Lucy of her brother, Connor, a former cop who had a temper that had gotten him in trouble many times. It had taken marriage to calm him down some.

  Suzanne entered the tent. “What do you have for me?” she asked the coroner.

  Lucy and Sean were about to step inside, but the coroner barked out, “Two at a time only! This place is already too crowded.”

  Sean squeezed her shoulder. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll wait right here.”

  Following Suzanne in, Lucy stood to the side, assessing the immediate area. There was a bulldozer just outside the tent, about eight feet from where the victim had died. The ground was soaked, concrete and mud and weeds. Several beer bottles and a broken whiskey bottle were near the victim, but they appeared to have been there for much longer than the girl’s body.

  The coroner said, “Rigor has just begun, and I have her body temperature. Factoring in the temperature last night and this morning, I can state with a high degree of certainty that she died between one and three in the morning.”

  Detective Panetta was standing outside the tent with Sean. “Her roommate last saw her at approximately one-thirty.”

  “That gives us ninety minutes,” Suzanne said.

  Lucy watched as the coroner finished his visual inspection. She noticed that the girl had a cut on her head. Right next to her head was a jagged rock about five inches across, a fresh scrape on the surface. “Suzanne,” she said, “I think she hit her head on that rock. That scrape looks about the same diameter as the cut on her head.”

  The coroner glared at her. He was older, small and wiry, with gray hair and thick glasses sitting low on his nose. “I saw that. I haven’t let the crime techs in yet. Who are you?”

  Lucy swallowed uneasily. Suzanne responded, “She’s with me.”

  “Trainee?” he grunted.

  “Something like that,” Suzanne said.

  Sierra Hinkle was a brunette, wearing a red sweaterdress so short that when she fell, it had bunched up, exposing one bare buttock and her thong panties. Lucy desperately wanted to cover her, but knew the coroner needed to inspect the body before he could move it. At least the tent gave Sierra privacy from onlookers.

  Lucy looked at the victim’s feet. She wore one silver shoe. It was glittery, but flat. She assessed the victim’s height—she was tall, probably five foot ten. Much taller than the other victims.

  There was another key difference. Her neck was swollen and red. “Suzanne,” Lucy said quietly, not wanting the coroner to overhear her assessment. “Look at her neck.”

  Suzanne did. “You’re right, it’s cut up.” Suzanne wasn’t as discreet as Lucy was trying to be.

  The coroner snapped at Lucy, “You want my job?”

  Lucy changed her tactic with the coroner. She really wanted to see something else on the body.

  “Actually,” she said, “I worked at the D.C. morgue for the last year.” She glanced at Suzanne and mouthed, “Gloves?”

  Suzanne reached into her back pocket and pulled out an extra pair of latex gloves. Lucy put them on and squatted across from the coroner.

  “You have a different opinion on time of death?” he asked.

  “No, I think you’re right.”

  “You haven’t felt the body.”

  He was daring her. Most cops were squeamish about touching the dead. Lucy wasn’t one of them. She pressed her hands into the victim’s stomach. “Organs still soft, pliable.” She moved her hands out from the center.

  The coroner had the best time of death because he’d taken a rectal temperature and extrapolated from that. But the fact that rigor mortis had just begun—a process that starts about three hours after death—gave them a good guess at when she’d died. Still more important at this point was that full lividity—when the blood settled at the lowest point in the body, usually five to six hours after death—hadn’t been achieved. In fact, it appeared to have just begun, Lucy surmised.

  “Are you ready to turn the body?” she asked the coroner, looking him straight in the eye.

  “You want to?”

  “Not particularly, but I will. We need a plastic sheet here.”

  Suzanne handed her a folded tarp. Lucy spread it out next to the body. The coroner hid a smile behind his thick mustache.

  Lucy said, “I’ll pull her, you push.”

  The coroner nodded and together they turned the bo
dy from her side, as she’d been, to her stomach. Lucy discreetly pulled down her skirt so her bottom was covered. “Lividity started, but is certainly not complete,” she said.

  “Which confirms my time of death.”

  “I wasn’t questioning time of death,” she said. “What I wanted to see was her neck. Can you grab the tarp and pull it under the rest of her body? I’ll hold her.”

  The coroner reached and started to pull the folded edge of the tarp under the body, then stopped.

  “Photographer!” he called out.

  A moment later, an NYPD crime scene investigator came in.

  Lucy looked at what the coroner saw. A large dark-green button. There were still threads in the button’s holes, as if it had been ripped out.

  The photographer took several pictures. The coroner picked the button up with tweezers and put it in an evidence bag.

  Lucy asked, “Do you think they can get prints off that?”

  “Probably not, but it’s worth a try,” the coroner said. His attitude had completely changed, and Lucy hid her grin. “It might not be from the killer.”

  The coroner finished pulling the plastic under the body, then they rolled her back to her original position.

  “Why do you want to see her neck?”

  “She’s taller than the other victims. I think her killer was shorter than her.”

  Suzanne asked, “How can you tell?”

  “The autopsy reports on the other victims had the bruising in a fairly straight pattern on the neck. These cuts are angled down, from her chin toward her shoulders, as if the killer were holding the plastic bag over her head and pulling down at an angle. I also think she fought back more than the other victims. There’s a rawness to her wound that I didn’t see in the others.”

  Suzanne said, “Hey, are those nails real or fake?”

  “Fake,” Lucy and the coroner said at the same time. “Four are broken off,” the coroner added.

  “Her index and middle fingers,” Lucy said.

  The coroner bagged her hands. “There are threads and possible fabric in her palm. I don’t want to take them out here. We could lose trace evidence. I’ll bag them at the morgue.”