by Mary Burton
Bowman hung up. Sharp opened his front door and readied to haul in the first box when his phone dinged with a text from Riley. Five minutes away.
He texted back. Thanks.
He loosened his tie and shrugged off his jacket, which he draped on the back of a chair by the door. He rolled up his sleeves and waited only a few minutes before a Virginia State Police K-9 SUV pulled up in front of the town house.
Riley got out of her vehicle, her black Lab watching from his window. She glanced from side to side before moving forward. State troopers worked alone on the road most of the time and quickly became accustomed to checking their surroundings, a habit most carried to the grave. As she moved away from the car, the dog’s focus never left Riley.
“I hear you have some boxes for me,” she said.
“I do.”
“Let’s load them in the front seat.”
“Great.”
She picked up a container and walked back toward the vehicle with even, steady strides. “Bowman’s putting Andrews on your case.”
“He told me. I haven’t met him.” Sharp picked up the three remaining boxes and followed.
She placed the first box on the floor. “Computer geek. Very smart. He’s a good man to have.”
Sharp stacked his boxes on the front seat.
Riley slammed the door closed. Her leather duty belt creaked as she shifted her weight. “I’ve volunteered to help with your cold case on my days off.”
Gratitude warmed his voice. “You don’t have to do that.”
“But I will.” After his nod of thanks, she added, “If anyone can find new evidence, it’ll be Andrews.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I should be the one investigating this case.”
Riley shook her head. “You’re the last guy who should be doing this work.”
Sharp felt like he was failing Kara again.
As if she’d read his thoughts, her voice softened as she said, “You’re going to be the guy who gets to the bottom of what happened.”
Like Henry Jones, he feared promises of closure. At best, they were hopeful but misguided. “Thanks, Tatum.”
She jokingly jostled him in the shoulder. “You’ve got friends willing to help.”
He watched as she slid behind the wheel of her SUV and drove off. Her words echoed what Tessa had said a thousand times before. “Easier said, Tatum. Easier said.”
It was two in the morning, and the barest sliver of moon hung in the sky as the Dollmaker cut his headlights and parked in the lot butting against the county park. The lights from the condo complex were dark, and the woods around it, silent. Out of the van, he crossed to the side door, opened it, and lifted his doll in his arms. He cradled her close before making his way along the path he’d traveled dozens of times before. He had learned where every root, rut, and twist in the path was located as he’d scouted this location over the last few weeks.
With Destiny in his arms, he made his way toward the playground, relishing these final moments together. A cool breeze coaxed a rusty swing back and forth. Its hinges squeaked. A cold snap had sent temperatures dipping. It was peaceful.
He hated giving up his creation, but he reminded himself that he’d known all along their time together would be fleeting. She was never intended to remain in her physical state forever. Their journey together would continue in the videos and photographs he’d taken. She was now a work of art, deserving to be seen and admired.
He’d grown accustomed to having her strapped in his chair. Refashioning her face. Touching her. Lying beside her in bed. Kissing her. Being inside her and savoring the utter stillness wrapped around them both.
The Dollmaker had chosen this resting place for her carefully. Destiny was a doll. And it made perfect sense he would leave his doll where children played. And where the cops were certain to find her.
He lowered her to sit at the base of a tall oak tree and rested her head against the rough bark. He took his time, positioning her curls around her shoulders, straightening her head so she faced outward, fluffing her skirt, and then carefully crossing her feet at her ankles. As he stood back, he studied her face with an artist’s critical eye. She was perfect, except for one small detail. The eyes. They were closed. They needed to be open. She needed to see him.
Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a needle and thread, then crouched beside her. Carefully, he raised one lid and with practiced ease, stitched it open. The skin had grown brittle, making it easy for the needle to puncture. He tacked up the second lid.
In the distance, a dog barked and leaves crunched. He needed to move quickly. The last complication he wanted was a random person stumbling on this scene before he was finished. But as he stared into her clouded, dull eyes, he knew he must do one more thing.
Replacing the needle and thread, he tugged a contact lens case from his pocket. He removed the first oversize lens and carefully laid it over her eyeball. The lens created a wide-eyed doll look so perfect he wondered why he hadn’t put it on her while she was alive. He positioned the second lens and leaned back, smiling at his baby doll. So, so perfect.
“Beautiful.” He kissed her on the lips, lingering several beats, before he drew back. “I will miss you so much.”
Quickly, he snapped several dozen pictures using only the moonlight. He studied each image carefully and took a couple more. He’d always been diligent about taking pictures of his girls. He never wanted to forget any of them.
With a stab of regret, he kissed her gently one last time on the cheek, hovering close as he inhaled the perfume he’d sprayed on her earlier. He rubbed his knuckles against the sharp cut of her cheekbones. Traced her lips. With another pang of regret, he stepped back.
After a long last look, he turned toward the parking lot and walked to his van. As much as he wanted to stay, it wasn’t safe. He’d taken precautions, but there was no telling who might see him. He started his engine, the headlights catching his baby doll’s sightless eyes. So pretty. When she was found, all would marvel at his work.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wednesday, October 5, 6:30 a.m.
In Sharp’s mind, every aspect of the autopsy suite was unnatural. The air was heavy, and it smelled of antiseptic and death. Fluorescent light robbed the living of color, and the hollow sound of the basement hallway reminded him of a horror movie.
His mother and Roger had traveled to a morgue like this to see Kara. His mother had told Sharp how she’d wept as she stared at her daughter on the metal table. The doctor’s kind words had not chased the chill from her. So cold. His mother had been convinced Death followed her from that day forth.
He rolled his head to the side, waiting for the small pop in his neck to relieve some of the persistent stiffness from an IED explosion that had sent him flying fifteen feet across a street in Iraq. It had been eleven years since that explosion, but the smell of fire on flesh, screams, and pain still stalked him. This damn place always jarred those memories free of their cage.
“Shit,” he whispered.
The past was gunning for him. First Roger. Kara’s files. Iraq. Tessa.
Tessa.
Why the hell had she kissed him? She’d said she couldn’t forget him. She wasn’t willing to file papers. He wasn’t sure where she’d dreamed up the idea of embracing second chances. If he had to bet, he’d put his money on guilt and pent-up sexual tension.
He shouldn’t have allowed the kiss. He should have stepped back. Refused contact. But the kiss had been Eden’s forbidden fruit.
Touching her hadn’t silenced any of his demons. In fact, the kiss had antagonized the monsters within and had rewarded him with a night of tossing, turning, and enduring a shitload of his own sexual tension.
A reunion with Tessa was seductive but impossible. She might be naive enough to believe a second try would work, but he wasn’t so foolish.
He pushed through the suite doors and found Tessa standing at the instrument table. A frown furrowed her brow as she studied t
he instruments. She’d tied her black hair back into a neat bun and tucked it under a surgical cap. She wore green scrubs and paper booties over her tennis shoes.
She looked up at him. A smile flickered, then scurried away. “Dr. Kincaid is on her way, and the lab technician is bringing up Mr. Dillon.”
“Thanks.”
He turned and moved toward a small set of lockers, where he shrugged off his jacket, carefully unfastened the cuffs of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves. He knew damn well the extra care he took was buying time until Dr. Kincaid arrived. The last thing he wanted was conversation. Grabbing a surgical gown, he slipped it on as a lab technician rolled in the gurney carrying the sheet-clad body of Terrance Dillon.
The tech positioned the body under a lamp hanging from above, and Tessa pushed the instruments closer to the exam table.
The tech was in his early twenties with muscled arms. He grinned at Tessa and winked. “That’s my job.”
Smiling, Tessa flexed gloved fingers. “I know, Jerry. Just trying to get the lay of the land.” She held up her hands in surrender. “I leave it all to you.”
“I’m not fussing at you,” Jerry said. “Just know, you’ll have your hands full soon enough.”
“Great,” she said. “I can’t wait.”
Sharp didn’t mind the way Tessa smiled at Jerry. He recognized it as her polite smile, the one saved for strangers. There was no charge lingering behind her gaze when she looked at Jerry. No undercurrent. Just simple. The exact opposite of what they shared.
He envied her ability to shrug off anxiety and at least look calm and happy. If one of them had a chance at getting out of this marriage whole and healthy, it was Tessa. And he’d see to it she got that chance.
Run while you can, Tessa.
The doors opened to Dr. Kincaid, whose gaze swept to him and briefly to Tessa. “Agent Sharp. How are you this fine day?”
“Can’t complain.” The doctor’s body language revealed what he suspected. Tessa had been up front about their relationship. She was like that. Straightforward. What you saw was what you got. I haven’t been able to forget you.
Dr. Kincaid pulled the microphone toward her lips. She moved closer to the table. Her gaze dropped to the body, and all traces of lightness vanished. “Shall we get started?”
“Let’s do this,” Sharp said.
Jerry pulled back the sheet, folding it, leaving it just below the feet. He clicked on the overhead light, and Dr. Kincaid flipped on the microphone. “This is Dr. Addison Kincaid, and with me today are Dr. Tessa McGowan, lab technician Jerry Taylor, and Agent Dakota Sharp with the Virginia State Police.”
Terrance Dillon’s body had been stripped and cleaned. The dried blood and mud were gone, and his ebony hair was brushed back from his face. His body was lean and fit.
The kid had it all going for him. And yet here he lay, perfect except for the neat knife wound puncturing his midsection. Because cool weather had preserved his body, he looked as if his eyes would open and he could hop off the table.
Dr. Kincaid began with the external exam, detailing a tattoo of a football flanked by wings on his chest as well as an old scar on his knee. She took a reading of his liver temperature and estimated his time of death was between midnight and 2:00 a.m. of Monday morning. The medical examiner’s tone grew heavier as she talked about the knife wound. “This wound is efficient. Either the killer was lucky, or he knew exactly where to jab the knife. I’ll get a better look at the damage when I open him up.”
A review of the X-rays revealed the kid had cracked a rib and his right index finger. Both breaks had long healed, and according to Terrance’s medical records, they had been sustained in a football game. After studying the body’s exterior one last time, she reached for the scalpel and pressed it to the top right of his chest under the collarbone. With practiced ease, she made a Y incision into his chest. Bone cutters snapped the edges of the rib cage, enabling her to remove the breastplate.
The body cavity was mostly void of blood, and after the doctor suctioned what little was left, she was able to point to where the knife’s jab had shredded the kid’s liver, one of the body’s most vascular organs.
“The blade hit its mark,” Dr. Kincaid said. “The victim bled out very quickly.”
“The killer would have had to get close to inflict a wound like that,” Sharp said. Did the kid know his killer, or was he just too damn trusting?
Tessa’s gaze dropped to the boy’s hand. She picked it up and studied it closely. “There’s foreign matter under his fingernail.” Jerry handed her tweezers, and she gently plucked what looked like a small hair strand from under the nail bed.
“Good eye,” Dr. Kincaid said.
Jerry bagged the hair strand, labeling it for the lab. “Can’t believe I missed it.”
The rest of the exam revealed healthy organs. No sign of any other trauma. Dr. Kincaid looked at Tessa. “Dr. McGowan, go ahead and close.”
Tessa nodded.
As Tessa moved around the table and closer to Dakota, he caught the whiff of a soft jasmine soap, but no frilly perfume. That was Tessa.
She positioned the breastplate back in place and closed the large flaps of skin. Threading a large needle with practiced ease, she sewed up the body.
As he watched her work, he realized she was wearing her wedding band on her ring finger under her gloves. She’d not been wearing it yesterday.
They’d eloped alone to Las Vegas. He’d not had a ring for the ceremony but had insisted they drive to a jewelry store and buy one. She’d wanted a simple band, saying a stone was too fussy for her. Six months into their marriage he had ordered an engagement ring for her as a birthday surprise, but by the time it had been made, she was gone. It remained in a drawer in his bedside table. They’d officially been married sixteen months, but half that time had been spent apart.
His phone buzzed, and he glanced at the text. It was the station. Another body had been found in a park twenty miles north of the city. “All right, Doc. Thanks. Let me know if toxicology comes back with any interesting results. I’ve received a homicide call that I have to deal with now.”
“Never a dull moment,” Dr. Kincaid said.
“I wish to hell it were,” he said.
He stripped off his gown. “Jerry and Dr. McGowan, thank you for your time.”
“Of course, Agent,” Jerry said.
Tessa looked up from her stitching. “Have a nice day, Agent.”
Right. A nice day.
He reached for his jacket and left through the swinging doors without a look back. Outside, he was steps away from the building before he reached for a cigarette. As he lit up and inhaled, he was annoyed with himself on multiple fronts. Whatever promises he’d made about the smoking sure as shit had gone by the wayside, and whatever vows he’d made about staying clear of Tessa McGowan were officially on shaky ground.
His phone rang as he slid behind the wheel of his car. “Sharp.”
“Jacob McLean,” the caller said.
Sharp stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. “I thought you were dead.”
A deep chuckle rumbled through the receiver. “I get that a lot.”
Jacob and Sharp had been buddies in high school and both served together in the marines. Sharp had been a sniper. McLean had been a medic attached to a Special Forces unit. When Kara had died, McLean had been reassigned for specialized training at Quantico and had driven down for her funeral dressed in his marine uniform.
“Where are you?” Sharp asked.
“I returned to Virginia about a week ago. I’m prepping for a job interview with an old college buddy who works with an outfit called Shield Security.”
“I’ve dealt with them. Smart. Dedicated. Cowboys,” Sharp said.
“Sounds like my kind of people.”
Sharp started the engine. “You might be right. Need a place to bunk?”
“Been crashing at my mother’s old place. Getting it ready to sell, but that’s wearing thin.
”
“I’ll text you my address. There’s a key hidden above the front door in a small crack on the left. I’m on my way to a homicide, so no telling when I’ll be home.” It would be nice to have a friend around who might distract him from thinking about Tessa.
“Don’t worry about me.”
Sharp drove to the small suburban park northwest of Richmond, not far from where Terrance Dillon’s body had been found. This was his third visit to the area in as many days. What the hell was it with this place?
When he arrived, a collection of local cop cars blocked the park’s entrance. He paused at the checkpoint, showed his ID, and made his way back along the narrow winding road that butted into a playground complete with swing sets, a carousel, and an elaborate jungle gym. A buzz of activity by a picnic table drew his attention, and he could see a local forensic team was on hand. Again, a ring of yellow tape enclosed the area, blocking any random visitor who might stumble onto the scene.
A thin woman in her early thirties approached him. She was dressed in jeans, a loose T-shirt, leather jacket, and booted heels. Ink-black hair skimmed her shoulders, a delicate cross on a chain hung around her neck, and a detective’s shield was clipped to her belt. Her lips were fixed into a grim line.
He recognized her. She was new to the Richmond division of the Virginia State Police, having transferred in from the Tidewater area where she’d worked undercover.
Sharp pulled his badge from his breast pocket, held it up for her to see, and attached it to his belt. “Agent Dakota Sharp.”
She extended her hand. “Agent Julia Vargas. Thanks for coming so quickly.” Her handshake was firm, her gaze direct.
“What do you have?”
Agent Vargas rubbed the back of her neck as she glanced back toward the body. “I received a call from the local deputy because this scene is so odd. One look and I knew I needed a second set of eyes.”
“Male or female?”
“Body of a young female. I’ve seen a lot of heinous acts, but this one takes the cake.”
“What’s different about her?”
She shook her head. “You’re going to have to see it for yourself.”