by Mary Burton
He picked up a delicately carved white pawn. He’d used a femur for this piece. The woman had been tall and lean; she’d had a high slash of cheekbones reminiscent of her Nordic ancestors. She’d worn far too much makeup, and her hair had been dyed a brilliant red that looked cheap. Tattoos had marred her skin, and she’d had a belly ring. She’d done tacky, horrible things to the flesh God had given her.
But the damage she’d done had only been skin deep. Surface. Cosmetic.
When she’d lain on his table and he’d been ready to slice her neck, she’d shouted obscenities at him and called him terrible names.
But under the anger, he’d seen the glint of fear. When he cut her throat, he’d savored the way it had grown and overtaken her body as blood and life seeped from her.
And when he’d lowered her lifeless form into the vat, anticipation had made his skin tingle. Soon, the damage would be stripped away, and soon, he would see the bones that he suspected were perfect.
In death, with the damage of life stripped from her frame, he had found perfection so pure that he’d been humbled. She’d been a diamond in the rough, and he’d been the one to reveal her real beauty.
His mind turned to Sierra. So perfect on the outside. Such a lovely graceful face. And hands that had been long and expressive. She had a dark soul, but he didn’t care about the soul. He only thought about bones. Perfection. And his chess set.
Sierra was a perfect addition to his collection.
But taking Sierra had been a bold move. She wasn’t like the others. She would be missed. But then what was the fun in playing if there was no risk?
He stroked his pawn. So cool and smooth in his hands.
It made good sense to wait. Let Sierra’s case turn cold. But his body had hummed since her killing.
The added danger had given him a thrilling boost that enhanced the killing experience. And he did not want to lose it.
“You should wait,” he whispered. “You should wait.”
But as he smoothed his hand over the display case he knew he’d not wait.
In fact, he had already selected his next victim.
Chapter 9
Wednesday, October 5, 7 P.M.
Voiceson the police scanner crackled in the background as Connor Donovan sipped his scotch and stared at the blank computer screen. The scanner was the constant companion of a crime reporter. And at his best Donovan could write on deadline while listening simultaneously to the crackle of police chatter.
However, nothing of great interest had crossed the scanner in days, weeks, and months. Not to say there was no crime, but it held no real interest to him since he’d covered the Sorority House Murders.
Out of boredom he typed his name into the Internet search engine. The cursor blinked as he waited for the search to finish. A year ago, he’d have been able to search his name and see dozens of references associated with his true crime book, The Sorority House Murders. However, in the last few months his name had appeared less and less.
The Sorority House Murders had dragged up the details of a story he’d covered over a decade ago. Four young coeds, sorority sisters, had been celebrating the end of the school year. It had been their last night in the house before summer break. Three of the girls had made a run to the grocery store for more wine. The youngest, Eva Rayburn had been at the house alone. By night’s end, Eva had been raped and brutalized and her attacker Josiah Cross was dead. Eva spent the next ten years in jail for a murder she did not commit.
What no one had realized was that a killer, bent on revenge, had been awakened when Eva was released from prison. Three of the sorority sisters had been cruelly murdered and Eva had nearly died.
Connor himself had almost died at the hands of this killer, who had seared and mutilated his gut with four-star brands. Even to this day, he could conjure the stench of his own flesh burning. The pain had been crippling. He’d been humiliated when he’d cried and begged for his life.
The killer had spared Connor so that he could tell the story to the world. The Sorority House Murders had been the pinnacle of his career. It had given him all that he’d dreamed of and more. Fame. Fortune.
The book and experience had also stripped him of something deep inside him. It was the something that made him a writer. Since he’d penned that book he’d not been able to write a word.
His fifteen minutes of fame had officially ended. He flopped back in his chair and winched at the sudden movement.
Even after a year and a half the scars on his chest remained sensitive. The doctors had told him time would fade the pain, but it remained a constant during his days. And at night, sleep brought some relief, but then the nightmares came. Often in the darkest hours he awoke in a sweat, shaking and expecting to see the killer standing over him.
Nearly dying had changed him. He’d been stripped of boldness and left with impudence.
“Fuck.” He turned up the scanner.
Over a month ago, he’d put out feelers with his old contacts. He’d visited morgues, police stations, and back alleys, spreading money and letting it be known that if you tipped Connor Donovan with a great story there would be good money in it for you.
So far, the calls he’d received had been disappointing. The murders had been mundane, mostly drug related or domestic. Arson reports had been run of the mill, profit motivated, or petty revenge. Nothing that had crossed his desk would ever be a headline grabber.
And frankly, he’d been relieved. No story meant he didn’t have to stick his neck out.
His phone beeped, signaling a text. When he picked it up, he was just drunk enough not to worry if he had the stones to write a really good story. He glanced at the message.
Bones found. Call.
Bones found. Connor set the phone down and finished off the dregs of his scotch. He poured another glass and swallowed it before he set the tumbler down hard on his desk.
“Now or never, sport,” he muttered. He punched the reply button and waited as the phone rang once. Twice. His texter picked up on the third ring.
“Melanie Wright.” She worked in the medical examiner’s office. A low-level clerk, she’d only been at the facility a few months, but she still saw what came and went through the doors.
“Connor Donovan.”
“Word is you are willing to pay for a story?” Her voice dropped to the hushed whisper of a conspirator.
Connor glanced at the piles of papers and periodicals on his desk. He’d been a stickler for neatness a couple of years ago, but he’d not worried so much about tidiness since the attack. A lot had changed in him since that night. “Depends. What’s the deal with the bones?”
“How much?”
“Details. Then money.”
A heavy pause hung between them, and then Wright sighed into the receiver. “Cops brought in a bag of bones today. Word is they belonged to a woman.”
“That’s the kind of headline that comes and goes in forty-eight hours.” He reached for the half-full bottle of scotch on his desk and refilled his glass.
Again another pause followed. “The cops think she was killed only a week or two ago. That the killer found a way to strip the flesh from her bones.”
“Really?” His heart kicked up a notch. “What’s the jurisdiction?”
“Alexandria.”
“Garrison and Kier or Rokov and Sinclair?”
“Garrison and Kier.”
The cops had saved his life on that dark day a year ago when they’d burst into the killer’s home and found him bleeding and burned in a side room. He remembered hearing gunshots and deep voices calling for EMTs. But after that he’d had minimal contact with the cops. They’d come to interview him in the hospital, but he’d been very careful only to speak to them when his attorney was present. There’d been some talk of hauling Connor up on obstruction-of-justice charges, but his attorney had gotten that thrown out in exchange for his testimony against the killer.
When he’d tried to interview Eva Rayburn for his book i
t had been Garrison, her new lover/boyfriend, who’d blocked him at every turn. But he kept writing and had brokered a sweet deal for it. He’d worked around the clock to get the book done quickly so it could capitalize on the still-fresh headlines.
He’d thought his troubles were over.
And then Angie Carlson had filed a few injunctions that had delayed his book. Legal fees had chewed up his advance, and he’d been on the brink during those months.
Bitch. She’d clearly been bitter when he’d broken off their relationship. She was only interested in hurting him.
His anger for Angie energized him.
He found himself growing stronger by the second. He quickly brokered a deal with Wright, and the two agreed to meet in one hour.
Connor would supply the cash, and Wright would give him a few more key details.
King’s pub was crowded when Angie pushed through the front door just after eight. She was starving, and since her cupboards were bare it made sense to eat at King’s. The food was good, and it gave her time to visit with Eva. In fact, Angie now ate here several times a week. She and Eva didn’t always have a lot to say to each other, but it was nice just knowing she was near. Made Angie feel a little less alone.
Angie settled at the corner barstool. It had quickly become her spot. She’d also stopped reading the menu because she’d soon discovered the salmon cakes were delicious. They’d become her new favorite food. Her creature-of-habit ways made her so predictable.
Eva stood at the other end of the bar. Her black hair skimmed the middle of her back and was tied back with a rubber band. She rarely wore makeup, but she had a clear complexion that even makeup couldn’t improve upon.
She leaned in as an older customer spoke to her, laughed at some joke he must have been telling, and then refilled his beer from the tap.
Eva and Angie shared the same mother but had different fathers. Their mother, Marian, had been married to Angie’s dad, Frank Carlson, when she’d met Eva’s dad, Blue Rayburn. Frank and Blue had both worked together at the same museum—the Talbot Foundation, a small, pristine collection of antiquities and eclectic collections associated with the Talbot family.
But the men were as different as night and day. Frank was the staid intellectual who was more worried about his collections than his wife, and Blue had been the dark gypsy who’d been reckless and dangerous and had charmed his way into a security job at the museum. Their mother, after yet another cancelled lunch appointment with her husband, had stalked out of Frank’s office onto an elevator where Blue stood. It hadn’t taken long for Blue to strike up a conversation. Sparks quickly ignited an affair.
When Marian Carlson, pregnant with Eva, had left Frank, he’d filed for custody of four-year-old Angie. His connections had earned him full custody. Marian had only been allowed to see Angie one weekend a month.
Angie remembered the visits to the small house that her mother shared with Blue. She always looked forward to the visits. As the days and hours grew closer for her mother to arrive she’d found it impossible to concentrate. And for a few years, Marian and Blue had shown up with baby Eva without fail.
Then one Friday her mother had called and canceled and had not shown up until late on Saturday. On this visit, Eva had been in her car seat, but Blue had been absent. Angie had never seen Blue again.
The humble house that her mother had shared with her husband and half sister decayed over the next decade. But Angie still looked forward to her visits, savoring the time she spent with her mother and sister.
When her mother had died, Angie had begged her father to allow Eva into his home, but he’d refused.
“She’s better off in foster care, Angelina.”
“Dad, she’s fifteen.”
“She’s not my child.”
“But she is my sister. I’ll fly home and take care of her. I’ll make a home for her.”
“You’re barely nineteen. You can’t, and I won’t let you throw your life away.” His tone softened. “She’s better off with a real family. They have good people in foster care. You’ll see.”
To Angie’s great shame, she’d listened to her father.
Eva had gone into foster care, been awarded an early scholarship to college, and then spent the next ten years in prison.
Angie shoved out a breath, trying not to dwell on the loss. She and Eva had found each other. Their family might not be whole and perfect, but it was their family and it was enough.
Lately, lingering questions about Blue had nagged Angie. She wasn’t sure why she cared about Blue’s fate, but she did. He’d blown up so many lives and just walked away. A month ago she’d hired a private detective to find out what she could about the man. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if they found him, but she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
Eva spotted Angie, smiled, and moved toward her. She paused to fill an iced glass with a diet soda and set it in front of her. “You’re running a little late tonight.”
Angie sipped her soda. “Slammed at work.”
Eva punched in Angie’s order for salmon cakes. “So how’d it go with Lulu?”
“Your pal seems to be eager to make good. I heard from my dress shop friend that she stopped by today and picked up a nice outfit.”
Eva nodded. “Good. She might be one of the few who could pull herself out.”
“Let’s hope.”
“Her court date is still tomorrow?”
“Twelve noon. She’s promised to meet me at the courthouse an hour early so we can review the testimony.”
“Great. I knew you’d take care of business.”
Angie set her glass down carefully, tracing a path through the beads of condensation. “Charlotte has taken on another new client today.”
“Really?” Eva studied her sister, clearly sensing a shift in energy.
“Micah Cross. He wants us to handle the legal work associated with his new charitable foundation.”
Eva shrugged. “Why are you worried about it?”
“I’m not.”
Eva grinned. “You are, Angie. You look like you could explode.”
“Your history with the Cross family was fairly dark. I don’t want to dig into old wounds.” And yet she searched for Blue.
Eva arched a brow. “So you’re telling me you’d walk away from a big client like Micah Cross just so you wouldn’t hurt my feelings.”
Angie didn’t have to process all the variables. “Yes. It would mean leaving the firm because Charlotte would have a meltdown, but I’d walk away.”
Eva stared at her a long moment. The softening in her gaze churned emotions in Angie. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
“Are you okay with this?”
Eva picked up a rag and absently wiped the bar. “Look, Micah wasn’t like his family. He was always kind to me, and when the police investigated his family last year he went out of his way to be helpful. He may have been Josiah’s twin, but he was not evil like his brother.”
“So, you’re okay with me working for him?”
She waved her hand as if brushing away a pesky fly. “Represent away.”
“Thanks.”
Eva retrieved Angie’s appetizer, and just as she set it in front of her, the door to the pub opened. Eva glanced toward the door, and immediately her gaze turned super soft. Angie didn’t need to turn to know that Eva’s boyfriend Deacon Garrison had arrived.
Angie didn’t have a beef with Garrison. Though they’d been on opposite sides of the courtroom, they’d always found a way to be professional and polite. And with him in Eva’s life now, they’d even been friendly on occasion.
However, Deacon’s partner, Malcolm Kier, was a different matter. The detective carried an angry chip on his shoulder when it came to anything associated with Angie. Kier had made his thoughts clear when she’d represented Dixon. And even though she’d gone out of her way to help them with their murder investigation last year, Kier’s opinion of her had been unchanged.
Eva came around
the bar and greeted Garrison, hugging him warmly and kissing him on the lips. “You made it,” she said. He stood nearly a foot taller than her, and she looked so small in his embrace.
Garrison traced a strand off her cheek with his thumb. “I can’t stay long. Just a quick bite.”
Eva squeezed Garrison’s arm. “Then have a seat and I’ll punch your orders in.”
Angie’s heart softened when she saw the two. It kind of gave her hope that people could find love, a fact she’d seriously doubted after her relationship with The Worm, a.k.a. Connor Donovan.
A man settled next to her, and the wide breadth of his shoulders coupled with a familiar scent identified him immediately. Her insides tightened.
“Detective Kier.”
He plucked a French fry from her plate. “Counselor. I hear your kind doesn’t eat real food.”
“My kind?”
“Vampires. I thought you just consumed blood.”
Carefully, she laid her napkin in her lap and picked up her fork. “Sometimes it’s just easier to order a sandwich than scramble for a pint.”
“I heard the politically correct term for vampires was ‘children of the night.’That right?”
“Since when have you ever worried about political correctness?”
“Since never.” He watched Eva and Garrison walk away. “I was just trying to be nice for Eva’s sake.”
“Don’t change your ways on my account, Detective. I’d hate to overtax you.”
She spared him a glance this time. Dark stubble now covered his square jaw, giving him a rugged-mountain-man kind of vibe that was not wholly unattractive. He still wore the same clothes he had on this morning when he’d visited her at the gym, which told her he and Garrison had been going nonstop. That was standard procedure in a murder case, which were more likely solved in the first forty-eight hours when leads were the hottest.
She pushed the food around her plate but didn’t take a bite.