Padding into her bedroom, she turned down the covers. It was almost eleven. She was bone-tired but knew she probably wouldn’t sleep. If her dreams weren’t plagued by her usual white-faced monsters, she’d bet the farm either Lucy Green or Rob would be there. She wasn’t sure which would be worse.
Chapter Four
Parking in the public lot, Rob walked across the sand, past the swing set, to the edge of the mowed grass. The FBI forensic team moved around the crime scene, bagging garbage and whatever else they could find, keeping the morbid curiosity-seekers away from the corpse. So far, the bastard had dumped the bodies without leaving a trace of evidence, and with the rain, if he’d left anything this time, it would be compromised. Rob shivered and cursed the fact that he’d left his overcoat at home. His damp wool suit, now chilling him in the ongoing mist, would have to go to the cleaners in the morning. He had to remember to leave an umbrella in the car.
In any murder investigation, the first forty-eight hours were critical. Rob’s eight-hour shift had become a twelve-hour one, and it wasn’t likely to end soon. He’d put in twenty-four-hour days before—he’d do so again. With two new cases to solve, he doubted he’d have five minutes to himself in the near future.
He sought out Garett Pierce, the FBI agent attached to the case. As usual, the man, in his mid-thirties, reminded him of a tall, skinny Peter Falk in his role as Columbo, the fumbling detective who always seemed wrinkled but inevitably solved the crime. He looked like he’d just crawled out of bed after sleeping in his clothes, but Rob was convinced appearances were deceiving. Tom distrusted the guy, but that was probably just posturing. Due to retire soon and therefore a little territorial, Tom didn’t want to share the glory of solving this case with an outsider. Pierce’s unkempt look had a habit of relaxing people, and when people relaxed, they often gave up more information than they would otherwise. Rob didn’t understand it, but apparently it worked.
Tonight, the man was even more disheveled than usual. How did a guy like this become one of the Bureau’s top men? J. Edgar Hoover must be rolling over in his grave.
“Hey, Pierce,” Rob said, approaching the agent. “Lousy night. That yours?” He pointed to the tarp over the lump on the grass.
“Yeah. I threw it over her—I know, I contaminated the scene, but hey—look at them.” He indicated the people milling around. “It’ll be harder to contain the information this time, but everyone’s still too stunned to take pictures—too stunned or too stoned. It doesn’t really matter as long as it doesn’t hit the web. Maybe, given the dim light, no one noticed her color either.”
Rob nodded. “Good move. A fourth body’s going to stir up the press as it is. No sense making it worse. She pink?”
Pierce nodded and opened the small notebook he carried. “Like cotton candy. She’s only been here a few hours. The maintenance man over there cut the grass late this afternoon. There are fresh clippings on the blanket.” He pointed to a group of people huddled in the gazebo that served as a band shell. “Those kids came into the park around seven thirty. They were busy drinking and smoking up and didn’t see anything. Two of them were heading into the trees for a make-out session when they found the body. Their parents are over there waiting to take them home. Do you want to talk to them here, or shall I have them taken back to Boston? It’s late, and a couple of the girls have been sick.”
Rob glanced over at the half-dozen teenagers wrapped in blankets. From the scowls on the faces of the adults with them, it looked like six kids might just be grounded for the rest of their lives.
“Let’s get their names and have their parents bring them into the city in the morning. Are the local cops going to charge them with anything?”
“They should, but stupidity isn’t a crime in Massachusetts. The kids had a couple of joints and a bottle of tequila. If finding a body doesn’t scare them straight, nothing will.”
“Agreed. I need to talk to the coroner and then get back to Boston. I’ve got another murder on my plate—a home invasion where the woman had her throat slit. I’ll see you at the precinct around eleven. Does that work?”
Pulling out his pencil, Pierce smiled. “Yup. I’ll get the names and head home myself. Any idea who cut your victim?”
“No, not yet. They’ve found a few fingerprints, but I doubt they belong to the perp. My former fiancée found the body. Just makes everything more difficult.”
“And awkward. I heard about your breakup.” Pierce chuckled. “Gossip is alive and well in Bean Town. How is the lovely lady?”
Something about Pierce tonight irritated Rob, but he knew his bad mood wasn’t really the man’s fault.
“As stubborn as ever. She may have caught a glimpse of the killer or some delivery boy who has nothing to do with anything. I’m bringing her in tomorrow to work with the sketch artist.”
“Really? Well, I look forward to meeting her. I’ve heard a lot about her Irish temper from the boys in vice.” He held up his notebook. “I’d better get to work. The coroner got here a little while ago. She promised to start on the body as soon as she gets it to the morgue. If we’re lucky, by ten tomorrow, we’ll know the victim’s name.” He waved at Rob and headed toward the gazebo.
Scowling, Rob moved closer to the coroner as she bent over the body and pulled back the tarp. Like the other victims, this one had been dumped in an area associated with children, a place where it would be found quickly. Normally, Boston PD wouldn’t be involved in a murder case in Beverly, but the first body had been found a year ago within the city limits, and that made it their case. The second had been found three months later near Salem, and Salem PD had gladly turned it over to them, certain once the information about the ritualistic aspects of the crime got out, tales of witchcraft would be rampant. The last thing anyone wanted was witch-hunters on the loose. The third body, found on state land six months ago near Chebacco Lake, had brought in the feds, but they had no more information now than after the first body had turned up, and they had four corpses to deal with.
“What can you tell me?” he asked, coming up behind the woman who was giving orders to her staff.
“I know that sexy voice.” She stood and turned, a huge grin splitting her familiar face. “Rob Halliday. As I live and breathe. What’s Boston’s finest doing here? I thought this was an FBI case. Have you left the department?” She threw her arms around him and gave him a fierce hug. “You haven’t changed a bit. Firm muscles, just the way I like my men. So, why are you here?”
“Mira, it’s great to see you,” he said and smiled, returning the hug. “I’d heard you’d set up practice in the boonies, but I thought you’d given up this particular aspect of the medical profession. This case is a joint investigation, and I’m running point tonight.” Mira Kane had been the assistant medical examiner in Boston. They’d dated briefly until he’d met Faye. It had been a mutual breakup without hard feelings. She’d gotten married a couple of years ago.
“Some things you just can’t escape. All the doctors in the area take turns. This is my month for coroner duty. How’s Faye? The last time I saw you, I thought you were ready to pop the question.”
Rob clenched his jaw. “It didn’t pan out. How’s the new family?”
“Sorry to hear that.” The sympathy on her face was real. “I thought you and Faye were made for each other. The baby’s great. She’ll be one in August. Working with my husband has its ups and downs, but I like it.”
“I’m glad. So, what am I looking at?” he asked, nodding toward the corpse behind her.
“I can’t be precise until I get her back to the morgue, but from what your FBI buddy over there told me, I’d say you’re looking at the Harvester’s fourth victim. She’s been dead about forty-eight hours; rigor’s almost gone. She appears to be in good condition, but there are ligature marks on her ankle where she was shackled. She’s young—early twenties. His other victims were pushing thirty, weren’t they?”
“Yeah. Cause of death?”
“Ca
n’t be sure. May have bled out, there’s a lot of fresh blood on her pad, but the pink tinge to the skin and the red lips suggest either carbon monoxide or cyanide poisoning.”
“If she’s his, you’ll find it’s cyanide.”
“I hope you’re wrong. How much of this has been leaked to the press?”
“Very little. The FBI has managed to keep the lid on most of the details, so a copycat is unlikely.”
She shook her head. “Have you found any of the babies?”
“No, we haven’t. The FBI is working with Interpol, but so far they’ve got zip.”
“Selling babies like slaves. It’s barbaric. I can’t imagine a tiny child in the hands of a creature who’d do this. My people are discreet, but I’ll remind them to keep their mouths shut. I’ll do the preliminary while she’s fresh and send the results, along with the body, to the city morgue tomorrow. It looks like her nails have been cleaned and clipped. There won’t be anything there.”
A technician walked over and spoke quietly to her, and Mira excused herself and followed the woman back to the coroner’s van.
Rob bent down to look at the body before they bagged it. Knowing the Harvester had struck again made him regret the two ounces of whiskey now burning in his gut. He knew better than to drink on an empty stomach. Like the other three victims, she lay on her back, her hands folded one over the other on her abdomen. Her wet nightgown hid nothing from prying eyes. Her dark hair—dyed or natural, he wouldn’t know until the ME finished—was held off her face with a pale blue headband that matched the blanket in which she’d been wrapped. He never got used to this, to what one person’s greed, envy, hatred, or insanity could do to another. He’d get this bastard. He’d make it his life mission if he had to.
This woman was the youngest so far. She couldn’t be any more than twenty-five. Pretty, not drop-dead gorgeous but with something about her that invited a second look, she touched a chord in him. Suddenly, his stomach heaved, and he couldn’t blame it on the cheap whiskey. This was what had been nagging at him all these months. He’d known the Harvester had a preferred type, and while the women all looked alike, what he’d missed stood out vividly now. The victims looked like Faye.
He’d worked so hard to forget her, he’d failed to notice the resemblance. He stepped back quickly, almost knocking Mira to the ground.
“What do you want me to do with the tarp? It isn’t really part of the evidence, is it?” she asked, coming back to the body.
“No, Pierce covered her to keep the gawkers in check. I can take it.” He reached for the blue plastic sheet.
“Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” he said, unwilling to share his discovery with her. He had to think about this. “Just tired. It’s been a long day. I’ll see Pierce gets this back. It’s the third time it’s come in handy. Pray to God he won’t have to use it again.”
“Catch this bastard, and he won’t.”
Rob nodded and tucked the folded tarp under his arm. “In spite of the circumstances, it was nice seeing you again.”
“Come by and meet the princess some time,” she said, handing him a business card. “My home number’s on the back. We’re not too far away. We can have a barbecue. If you see Faye, tell her I said hi. It’s a damn shame you guys didn’t work out.” After hugging him once more, she turned and walked back to her vehicle.
His stomach in knots and feeling as if he might disgrace himself at any moment, Rob retraced his steps to his car. With his hands shaking, he pulled out his cell phone and called his partner.
“Adams.”
“Tom, it’s me. I’m on my way back.”
“Is it him?”
“Yeah, same clothes, hair held back with a headband, wrapped in a blue blanket. Pierce managed to cover her with a tarp before anyone snapped a picture.”
“Will the FBI bring the BAU in full-time now?”
“Probably. Pierce didn’t say, but his techs are crawling all over the scene. This makes four—we need some help here. The papers are going to have a field day.”
Rob ended the call and checked the time. It was almost eleven. Faye was probably asleep, and he didn’t want to wake her, but God, after realizing what he’d been missing these last few months, he needed to know she was okay. He’d meant to call Cambridge PD and ask for increased patrols in her area because of the Green case, but now … He shuddered. Tonight’s victim was a dead ringer for Faye. Mary resembled her, too. They’d joked about it last year in New York. Mary pregnant and missing, her mother murdered, and now a fourth victim? Coincidence?
He didn’t believe in coincidence.
Against his better judgment, knowing how pissed she’d be if he woke her, Rob dialed Faye’s home number and cursed when the automated voice said the number was no longer in service. Knowing Faye, she hadn’t listened to him when he’d told her to turn off her cell phone, so he dialed the number. No answer.
• • •
Tom tossed the last of the take-out containers into the garbage can and sighed.
“Thanks for the grub. I guess we’d better get back to work. The techs finished with the Green apartment, but I doubt they’ll find anything useful. They’ve bagged and tagged it all, and it was priority for tomorrow, but now with a new Harvester victim, it’ll get put on the back burner.” He stood. “Oh, I almost forgot. The O’Halloran’s hoodie is a bust; no way to track it unless Faye can identify the guy. The restaurant’s closed. Has been for two weeks. They’re redoing the place. Whoever Faye saw, it wasn’t a delivery guy, and God knows where the take-out bag came from. The lab techs found the bag stuffed with paper towels, the kind you get at a gas station. I hope this guy left a print or DNA or something—otherwise we’ll have a bitch of a time solving it. No one saw anyone.”
“No one sees the Harvester, either. Hell of a thing when the invisible man’s on a murder rampage,” Rob said snidely.
Tom chuckled. “Hey, don’t be bitter. There’s nothing we can do about it. I’ll just finish up some of the preliminary paperwork. I’ve asked New York to check out Mary Green’s place. Someone was supposed to have a look tonight. I’ll probably head home in about an hour. You should, too. We’ve been here since eight this morning, or rather yesterday morning. I’m so tired I can’t see straight, and after that little heart problem last year, my wife will have my head if I don’t get at least six hours of shut-eye.”
Rob nodded. “I’ll finish up here and take off. I have to pick up Faye at nine. I should at least smell clean when I do.”
“How did it go? I didn’t want to ask earlier.”
“About as well as I expected, maybe even a little worse. We didn’t part on good terms, and it seems like the lady may still be holding a grudge.” He rubbed the scar on his chin.
Tom’s desk phone rang, preventing any additional questions. “I hope that’s NYPD.
“So do I. Let me look at the Green file, and then I’ll sign off on it.”
“Good idea.” Tom reached for the file on his desk and handed it to Rob, then picked up the receiver. “Homicide, Adams speaking.”
Rob turned away, opened the file folder, and spread the Green murder scene photos on his desk. He’d been in and out of there pretty quickly, thanks to Faye, but it looked more or less the way he remembered. The forensic photographer had been thorough. Faye’s purse lay in the puddle of blood. That peacock-blue bag had cost her a week’s salary and was on sale at that exorbitant price. He’d thought she was nuts the day she bought it, but she’d loved that bag almost as much as she’d loved the Camaro. Now, they were both gone. No doubt she wouldn’t want it or anything that had fallen out of the bag. It was a good thing she tended to carry her cell phone and keys on her.
He stared at a bloodied carnation in the picture and scowled. Where the hell had that come from? He hadn’t noticed it when he’d been in the apartment. He checked the other pictures but didn’t see any more of them. Faye loved carnations. Could she have brought
it with her? Maybe the killer had brought it as a way into the apartment. He shook his head. Most likely, the damn flower had been on the table and had been knocked to the floor in the ensuing search. It probably didn’t mean a thing, but he’d ask Faye about it in the morning ... leave no stone unturned and all that crap.
He pulled out the yellow folder, the one marked Mary Green, and set it on his desk. Tom had placed it inside the Green murder folder, but there was no proof her mother’s murder was connected to her disappearance. Right now, Mary Green’s missing person’s case was the responsibility of NYPD and he hoped it would stay that way, but somehow he doubted it. He was pretty damn sure he’d soon inherit that folder, too.
Children did murder their parents, but he couldn’t see Mary slitting her mother’s throat like that. He wasn’t a coroner, but he’d seen more than enough of these pictures. The person who’d cut her had been taller than Mrs. Green; the angle of the cut proved it. At five-foot-two, weighing a buck fifty, Mary wouldn’t have been able to slice down that way. No, this had been a brutal act of violence, and the amount of strength it took to slice someone like that was a hell of a lot more than Mary had.
Frustrated, he initialed the report and shut the Green murder folder, leaving Mary’s file separate and moving on to the thick Harvester file containing the information on the first three victims. There wasn’t anything but his sketchy report on the fourth. Once they identified her, they’d add more information to the pile they had. Hell of a thing when you had four bodies and not one damn lead.
After they’d found the second of the Harvester’s victims, a BAU analyst had speculated on the ritual aspects of the crimes, and the theories ranged from simply a thorough way to ensure no evidence was left behind to human sacrifice. Satanism, cults, you name it, they’d discussed it, but without more evidence … They still didn’t have a clue, but victims number three and now four appeared to have been treated the same way.
The White Carnation Page 5