Now she laughed. “You want my badge? You’ll have to get in line.”
“Keep laughing, Inspector.” He turned to leave but stopped to give her a long look over his shoulder. “I gave my card to your partner. Anything you have to say to my client goes through me first.”
She waited until he’d disappeared down the hall before she looked at her watch. It was almost three o’clock. Pulling out her phone, she dialed a number from memory.
“Central Station, Officer Anderson speaking.”
“This is Vaughn. Your shift is almost over, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yeah, my replacement just got here.”
“Perfect. In about thirty seconds, Liam Henry is going to step off the elevator. I’d like you to follow him.”
“You got it,” Anderson said without hesitation.
“I also need the number for Officer Trujillo,” she said, remembering the uniform from the Edwards crime scene and how eager he’d been to do some real police work.
“It’s Tru’s day off, Inspector,” Anderson said.
She smiled. “Then it’s my lucky day.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
The Fates had altered their plan for him, both as punishment and salvation for his impetuous behavior. He had been impulsive and petty, invoking the goddess Hekate, using her in ways she was not meant to be used. It shamed and saddened him, his behavior driven by jealousy and greed. He knew now what he must do, understood that there was no other way. This time the sacrifice to be made must be his own.
He watched her move from room to room, attending to her daily tasks, unaware that she was being watched. That she’d been chosen.
His Melpomene.
She was different from the others, possessing a wisdom and sadness far beyond her years, aged by the tragic circumstances of her life. This sacrifice would be a welcomed one. She would rejoice in her release from this existence and move gladly into the next.
He lowered the field glasses and set them on the seat beside him to retrieve the roses he’d picked. They were her favorite color, one she’d worn on several occasions. Knowing how pleased she’d be with his offering had him smiling as he stepped out of the car, carrying the roses in front of him to shield his face from view.
Mounting the steps, he knocked on the door before tucking his hand into the pocket of his jacket, touching for just a moment the small pressurized can he’d placed there. Inside, the music was turned down moments before he detected movement behind the foyer window.
He forced himself to remain still, feigning bored disinterest at being scrutinized. A few seconds more passed while she contemplated opening the door to a stranger before she did just that. Flowers had that effect on people.
“Hello,” she said, craning her neck to see his face past the blooms.
He moved the arrangement to the side. “Special delivery,” he said giving her a distracted smile as he fumbled with his clipboard under his arm.
She smiled. “Here, let me take them,” she said, holding out her arms, her smile softening as he pushed the bouquet into them. “These are lovely. I had no idea roses came in this color.” She leaned her face into the blooms to breathe in their scent.
“I created them especially for you, Melpomene. I know this particular shade of purple is your favorite,” he said, his smile holding as her eyes came up to fix him with a stare that had suddenly gone wary.
“What did you just call me?”
It happened as if they coordinated the exchange. A dance between two strangers, led by fate, executed by destiny. She lifted her head from the flowers just as he drew the can from his pocket. Finger on the nozzle, he sprayed a fine aerosol mist directly into her nose and mouth. The effects of the compound were immediate. She staggered backward, the vase in her arms suddenly too heavy to hold onto. It slipped from her arms, the cut crystal shattering on the floor of the foyer.
He followed her in and shut the door, careful to lock it from the inside. He watched as Melpomene crumpled to the floor, her eyes wide, mouth gasping for air. He fought the momentary alarm that seeing her like that created. It would fade in a moment into absolute compliance. Under the influence of what was in the can, he could ask her to shoot the next person to walk through the door and she’d have done it without question or hesitation.
He stood over her, admiring the picture she and the roses made—his muse surrounded by his most glorious creations. “Are we alone?” he asked, and she nodded, the panic already faded into something much more pleasant. He placed the can back into his pocket and pulled out his scalpel. “That’s good, Melpomene, that’s good … it’s best that we be alone for what comes next.”
SIXTY-EIGHT
Sabrina combed Liam Henry’s arrest file, looking for some clue as to who his partner had been while she listened to Strickland and Trujillo organize a patrol canvass. Tru would lead units to college campuses with orders to beat the bushes and show some muscle while Strickland gathered names and numbers of female drama students between the ages of twenty and twenty-five. It was a daunting task, but he attacked it with Henley’s help, determined to call every young woman on the list.
There was nothing here for her to do. She couldn’t just hang around, waiting for something to happen. She had to do something. Dropping the exhausted file onto her desk, she stood, shrugging into her jacket. Strickland caught her movement from the corner of his eye and mumbled something into the phone at his ear before he dropped it to his shoulder, pressing the hold button on his desk phone. “Where you going?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t just—” Her desk phone rang, drawing Strickland’s attention. She picked it up before it could issue a second ring. “This is Vaughn.”
“Hey, Sabrina, it’s Mandy.”
“Hey, Mandy,” she said, feeling an odd mix of relief and disappointment. “Please tell me you found something.”
“I ran an analysis on those cards you gave me. All of them tested positive for blood. The anti-coagulant he used is just your basic citric acid. Nothing special about it. Blood types within the samples were a match for all three of you—you, Jemma Barrows, and Bethany Edwards—but I won’t have anything conclusive until later in the day.” Mandy said, sounding defeated, “I’m sorry, Sabrina, I wish I had something that actually helped you catch this guy.”
“You’re playing lab rat on a Saturday with evidence I’ve either withheld or stolen outright; you aren’t the one who should be apologizing,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll check back with you in a few hours.”
“Okay … I just—I mean, looking at all these cards, I can’t help but wonder where in the hell he’s getting all of it,” Mandy said in a rush. “The blood, I mean. Nine different samples—that’s an awful lot of blood.”
That’s a lot of blood …
She looked down at the crook of her arm, could almost see the needle, feel the pinch of it in her vein as Bradley slipped it under her skin.
I don’t write the orders, Inspector—I just fill ’em.
“I have to go. If you find anything else, give Strickland a call,” she managed before she all but threw the receiver back into its cradle.
Strickland stood, ending his own call quickly. “What was all that about?” Strickland said. “What did she find?”
“Nothing we didn’t already know,” she said, taking a quick look around the room. Aside from Tru and Henley, she and her partner were the only people in the bullpen. Crossing the room, she headed for Mathews’s office. The hanging file box outside his door was empty. He’d taken her paperwork from the lab, she could still see it crumpled in his fist …
She tried the door, but it was locked. Looking over her shoulder she caught sight of the three men watching her. Henley looked apprehensive while Tru looked confused. Strickland just looked resigned. Like he already knew what she was going to do.
“You guys might want
to go get some coffee,” she said, taking a step back. Henley stood, latching onto the shoulder of Tru’s shirt to haul him out of his seat. Strickland didn’t budge an inch.
“Don’t have to tell me twice. Let’s go, kid. I could use a cup and so could you,” Henley said, pulling the rookie down the hall. As soon as they disappeared into the break room, Strickland spoke.
“I know that look. It usually precedes a call to my union rep and a cozy chat with IA,” he said, ever the voice of reason. “Think it though before you do something you can’t take back.”
“Too late.”
Dropping back on her injured leg, she brought the other up, tucking her knee into her chest before driving it forward, planting her size nine into the seam where the door met the jam. The flimsy lock exploded in a spray of cheap brass, splinters of wood, and jangling metal pinging off the linoleum floor. She was through the doorway before he could say another word.
“Jesus Christ,” Strickland muttered, coming around the side of his desk to watch her as she made a beeline for the trash can. “You kicked in Mathews’s door so you could take out his trash? This whole clean freak routine has reached a whole new level with you.”
She reached into the trash can, rifling through the empty Styrofoam cups and crumpled papers until she found what she was looking for. Pulling out the wad of paper, she dropped the can and turned toward the desk, using its flat surface to smooth the paper out. She found was she was looking for, the collection boxes, each of them checked—hair, blood, and urine.
Lifting the paper, she examined it closely. Strickland’s footprints crisscrossed across the top of it, smudging the ink beneath it, but those two check marks, the ones for hair and blood … they were made on top of the footprints.
She exited the office, not even bothering to close the door behind her. “Where is he getting all this blood, Strickland? Mine? Bethany Edwards? Jemma Barrows … the rest of them we haven’t identified yet? That’s a lot of blood, from a lot of women. Women he hasn’t killed yet.”
He shrugged. “Maybe he’s dosing them like he did in college, only instead of a sponge bath, he’s taking their blood,” Strickland said, but even as he said it she could tell he wasn’t buying it. “We should check the hospital were Liam works, see if there’s been any thefts or misplaced samples.”
“Don’t bother. I think there’s a much simpler answer,” she said, holding up the wad of paper she fished out of Mathews’s trash. “I think we gave it to him.”
SIXTY-NINE
Sabrina got out of her car, making sure to lock it before heading into the clinic.
“Saturday is a half-day. We’re getting ready to close so you’ll have to—oh, hey Sabrina.” Bradley was behind the counter, already in his street clothes. She could see him mentally going through his roster, trying to remember if she had been on his department draw schedule. “Is everything okay?”
“I need a full blood panel,” she said, watching him closely. “I got caught on a pretty nasty murder scene last night without gloves.”
He frowned at her. “Do you have any open cuts or sores that need to be cataloged?”
“No. It’s just a precaution. You know how department procedure goes.” She tried to smile but couldn’t quite make herself.
“Alright, come on back,” he said, taking off his jacket.
“Thanks,” she said, waiting for him to buzz her in. As soon as his back was turned, she thumbed the safety strap off her SIG.
He led her into a room and switched on the light. “Go ahead and get settled while I set up.”
He turned toward the counter and began to gather supplies while she shed her jacket. “I’m sorry to screw up your Saturday,” she said, lifting her SIG off her hip and holding it at her side.
He shot her an eye roll over his shoulder. “All I had planned was a hot date with my DVR. Trust me, you aren’t screwing anything up.”
He sat on the rollaway stool and gave it a spin in her direction. “Go ahead and have a … ” His voice trailed off the second his gaze landed on her gun.
“Who is he?”
He swallowed hard, looking up at her face. “What?”
“The man you gave my blood samples to.” She used her free hand to fish her discarded lab slip out of her pocket. As soon as he realized what it was, he went pale. “Mathews didn’t request blood or hair samples. You checked those boxes, not him. That means you’re either a murdering psychopath or his accomplice.” She thumbed the hammer back on her SIG and pointed it at his face. “So, which is it?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Then you know who did. Who is he?”
“I don’t know what—”
“Cut the bullshit,” she bellowed. “Someone murdered Bethany Edwards. Cut her heart out while it was still beating. Whoever it was did the same thing to another young woman this morning … you gave him their blood too. So, I’m going to ask you one more time. Who is he?”
He swallowed hard against the nausea that shone plainly on his face. “I can’t.”
She stared at him for a moment, unable to comprehend what he’d said. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I mean, I can’t. I can’t tell you … he’ll kill me,” he said. Bradley ran a hand over the top of his head, the picture of desperate frustration. “You don’t understand—”
“You’re right, I don’t.” She reached into the inside pocket of her coat and produced a pair of handcuffs. “Bradley Tanner, I’m placing you under arrest for the murders of Bethany Edwards, Sheila Woodruff, and Jemma Barrows.”
“No, wait.” He held out his hands in protest. “Just listen to me for a second, okay?”
“You have sixty seconds.”
He blew out a breath. “Okay. I was Liam’s roommate, that’s true, but only because his father hired me to keep an eye on him. After that drug bust at Harvard, the congressman got sick of the political fallout Liam’s bullshit kept stirring up. So he paid my tuition and in return, I kept tabs on his son.”
“Did Liam know?”
“Yeah, he thought it was funny.” He shrugged. “I don’t know … at first, things were good. Liam seemed to straighten up, his grades were good. We got to be friends. Real friends, ya know?” He looked up at her. “But then he met this guy. He was a chem major, but he was taking anatomy classes. Weird stuff. He spent a lot of time in the cadaver room. Always chose the female specimens.”
Chills scattered across the nape of her neck, crawling along her scalp. “He was Liam’s partner.”
Bradley nodded. “Yeah. He told Liam that he knew how to cook, that he’d put together a formula for some kind of herbal upper that was supposed to be safe, flowers and shit, and he wanted Liam’s help getting it into parties and stuff.”
“So let me get this straight—you were hired by Congressman Henry to be a sober companion for his son,” she said. “And when Liam reverts back to old tricks, you just rolled with it?”
“It happened so fast,” he said, frustration creeping again. “One second, they were playing what if and the next they were setting up a lab in the basement of our dorm. If I told Liam’s dad, I’d lose my tuition.”
“So you just sat idly by while the two of them fed drugs to and sexually assaulted young women,” she said in a disgusted tone.
“Liam never assaulted anyone,” he said, shaking his head. “As soon as he figured out what this guy was up to, he tried to pull the plug, but it was too late.”
“Rebekah Collticot.”
Bradley nodded his head miserably. “She’d had a thing for Liam. Always followed him around at parties, tried to get him to notice her … When Liam found out what had happened, he went to his dad and told him everything.”
She wasn’t buying it. “That doesn’t make sense. If Liam turned himself in then why wasn’t this guy arrested?”
&n
bsp; “Because,” he said, splaying his hands wide. “When Congressman Henry found out who this guy’s father was, he got scared. Real scared.”
“Who is he?”
“Until a few months ago, he was the head of the Korean mob.”
Sabrina felt the bottom drop out and she swayed a bit, unsteady on her feet. “What’s his name?” she heard herself say.
“Sabrina, he will kill me,” Bradley said. “Why do you think I gave him that blood?”
“He’s killed three women in two days, Bradley, and he’s got plans for six more. If you don’t tell me his name, it’s the same as holding them down while he cuts into them,” she told him quietly. “His. Name.”
Bradley looked away from her, shame so heavy on his face, she was sure he’d refuse, but he finally spoke.
“His name was Seong Ki-wook, but we called him David. David Song.”
SEVENTY
Michael left Croft’s apartment with more questions than answers.
Digging the phone out of his pocket, he looked at it for a moment, willing it to ring. Croft had told him enough of what had happened between when he’d heard her walk out the door that morning and now to know that no matter what she might fool herself into believing, Sabrina was in way over her head. He dropped the phone on the bucket seat beside him and blew out a frustrated breath. And she wasn’t the only one if he thought she was actually going to call him for help.
He considered driving to the station, even pointed the car in its direction and got halfway there before he changed his mind. Behind her desk was the last place she’d be. She was out looking for a murdering psychopath, and he’d just let her go. Again.
He looked at his phone again. Just after one o’clock.
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