Phoenix Feather (3 page)

“I talked to her employer,” Bryan said. “She was at work Sunday morning, and didn’t have another shift until Friday night. If she had been missing that long, why didn’t anyone else report it?”

“The family said she had a tight school schedule and only saw them on weekends.”

“But she probably didn’t show up for class.”

Jess shrugged. “It’s not a teacher’s job to report a college student on attendance. As I understand it, graduate classes only meet once a week anyway.”

Bryan flipped open the autopsy report and skimmed the highlights. “No signs of sexual assault?” That surprised him.

Jess shook her head. “None. The guy’s a sadist though. Casey found several different types of burn patterns. Looks like he used a cigarette lighter, a blow torch, and, get this, a firebrand. He tortured this girl as if it were personal.”

Bryan leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know. It’s brutal, but almost methodical. And with no rape…”

“I don’t want to jump that far ahead,” Jess said.

“Neither do I.” He read the official cause of death: asphyxiation caused by strangulation. “What’d the killer use to strangle her?”

“Rope. Casey found fibers consistent with rope you can buy at any hardware store.”

Bryan sighed and leaned forward again. “So far, we know the last time she was seen was leaving work Sunday afternoon. We need to narrow it down.”

“Unfortunately, this girl doesn’t seem to be the type to have used a day planner,” Jess said. “Or if she did, CSU didn’t find it at the scene and we didn’t find one at her apartment.”

“Could be in her missing car,” Bryan said.

“No hits on the APB yet?”

Bryan had only sent out the all-points bulletin an hour ago. “None. If we find it, we may find out where she was grabbed.”

Jess nodded to the stack of papers on his desk. “Cell phone calls?”

“Yeah.” He picked up the sheet he had been looking at. “She received two calls Sunday night by an Aidan Quinn. I ran the name; she’s a student at the same school as our vic.”

“Maybe she can help us with the timeline.”

Bryan picked up the phone to call the campus and get a location for Miss Quinn. “I’ll go interview her.”

“I’ll track down some of Jenny Rosland’s classmates, see if anyone knew what her plans for Sunday and the week were.”

Neither of them wanted to say it, but Bryan had one of those sinking feelings in his gut. If this case didn’t end up being a clear-cut instance of an acquaintance, like an ex-boyfriend, taking out some pent-up rage, he feared they would be looking at more victims.

***

The clock hand twitched and slid into 10:20. The professor had not stopped lecturing, but his voice was drowned out by the shuffling of papers and ripping of zippers on bags. He gave one last shout about an upcoming paper before giving in to the intractable mob of students pushing to escape the classroom.

Aidan shook her head as she gathered up the reflection journals and put them in her bag to grade later.
Ingrates.
Young people didn’t have any respect for their teachers anymore, and college courses were something to pass and check off a to-do list, rather than a place to sit and soak in knowledge and wisdom. Aidan had been Mr. Kuntz’s T.A. for the past two semesters. It wasn’t the poor man’s fault that he had a monotone, hypnotic voice. Aidan had heard students complain about the boring class on the Picts and the Romans. She agreed, but for different reasons. She had witnessed this segment of history firsthand, and while the clash of unstoppable Roman legions with the spirited inhabitants whose bravery could not be quashed was fascinating, Mr. Kuntz just did not have the oral flair of a bard. When her turn to teach one of the lessons as part of her practicum came up, she would do her best to engage these unimaginative young minds, making history come alive for them. That was her idealistic dream anyway. She did have more practical expectations.

A man in a suit maneuvered his way through the exiting horde and into the classroom. He had sandy blond hair in a traditional cut, and did not carry a briefcase like a professor. He spoke quietly to Mr. Kuntz, who looked up and called for Aidan.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way to the front of the classroom. Mr. Kuntz left, however, once she had approached.

“Aidan Quinn?” the man in the suit asked.

“Yes.” She eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

He reached for something in his jacket pocket. “Detective McCain. I need to ask you a few questions.”

Aidan took in the features of his badge, yet remained silent.

“Do you know a Jenny Rosland?”

“Yes.”

Detective McCain flipped open a notepad and clicked a pen. He held the ballpoint just above the paper, poised to take anything down. “When did you last see her?”

“Over a week ago.”

“Are you close?”

“Not really. We’re part of the same book club, but she wasn’t there last Sunday.” The pen began scribbling and Aidan’s adrenaline stirred. “What’s happened to her?”

The detective looked up. “She was found murdered this morning.” He had a look of sympathy, but also one looking for a reaction. “Phone records show you called her—around the time she might have disappeared. So you didn’t see her Sunday?”

Aidan’s muscles froze.
Murdered.
It wasn’t a new word, but it was the first in this life, and more unexpected now than it had been in the past. Jenny was an English student; she loved books and always provided lattes and mochas when it was her turn to host the club. Aidan remembered a bubbling, sometimes hyperactive, young woman, certainly not the type of person Aidan would imagine being murdered.

“She missed book club,” Aidan said in a quiet voice. “I thought maybe she had a paper or something like that, even though she was usually good about telling us.”

Detective McCain loosened his shoulders and softened his tone. “I’m sorry for your loss. Do you know if she had any enemies? Maybe ex-boyfriends?”

Aidan shook her head. “I don’t know that much about her. I’m studying history; she’s studying English. All we ever talked about were books. It was a way to step outside the stress of life.” She frowned. “She was murdered Sunday and no one noticed?”

“Not exactly,” the detective hedged. “Do you know if she was having trouble of some kind?”

“The last time I saw her she was tired, but still herself: cheerful. You think she was kidnapped first?”

“It’s an ongoing investigation,” McCain answered. “If you think of anything, give me a call.” He dug in his wallet for a business card and handed it to her. “If I have more questions, I’ll contact you.” He closed his notepad and left.

Aidan held the small piece of cardstock between her fingers. She couldn’t stop the images of war and death from swirling around in her mind. All those memories of lives extinguished when she, immortal, always came back. She found herself standing alone in an empty lecture hall, a place that had seen thousands of people pass through in the last century. But the updated whitewashed walls and seats bolted to the linoleum floor did not miss any of them.

Aidan knocked twice and not very forcefully, but she heard footsteps on the other side before the door opened.

“Hey, Aidan. What’s up?” A guy with mousy and unkempt brown hair stood in the doorway. He wore a t-shirt and shorts and didn’t look as though he planned to go out anytime soon.

Aidan didn’t say anything as she came inside and dropped her bag on the floor. Phoebe came out from the back room.

“Hey! Aren’t you usually at the museum at this time?”

Aidan sat on the couch. Phoebe and Chris Anders were twins and one of those examples of the strange phenomenon that can occur between siblings separated by minutes. They shared an apartment, a university, and friends. They were so close that someone could not be a good friend with one and not the other. Aidan trusted no two people more.

“Aidan, what’s wrong?” Chris asked, and took a seat on the sofa across from her.

She took a deep breath and told them what she had learned about Jenny. It was awkward and unpleasant, and it amazed Aidan how easily people objectified historical deaths just because they had no personal connection to them.

“I can’t believe it,” Phoebe said, sinking down next to Chris. He put his arms around her.

“What do the police think?” he asked. He knew Jenny from the English department, though they hadn’t been close. Detective McCain might call to ask Chris questions as well.

“I don’t know,” Aidan replied. “He didn’t seem to want to tell me anything.”

“Are you a suspect?” Phoebe gasped.

“No.” The detective had been cautious at first, as was his job, but he didn’t interrogate her. “He wanted to know about ex-boyfriends, but I couldn’t help him. All I really knew about her was her favorite books and quotes.”

Phoebe shook her head. “She was on her way to meet us…”

Aidan stared at the floor. It was like with Ivar. One day they were together, happy, and the next he was gone, killed in an accident. There was no goodbye, no seeing him off to whatever the next world had in store for him—something Aidan would never know. Then there was a sense of regret. She wished she had gotten to know Jenny better. A thousand years from now, Aidan would be the only one left who would remember, but all she had was trivial snippets of a deeper life.

“Oh,” Phoebe groaned. “Those jokes we made. They weren’t mean, but—but we were laughing at her when she was possibly dying.” Tears swam in the corners of her eyes.

Chris stood up. “Okay, guys, I think you need to get off this couch and do something. How about we go out and remember Jenny the way she was?”

Aidan couldn’t help but smile. It was as the ancient warriors used to do: celebrate the life and death of a fallen comrade. “I’ll call the other girls from the book club.”

“Coffee,” Phoebe spoke up. “We should go for fancy coffee.”

Aidan nodded. “Jenny would like that.”

Chapter Three

Jenny was in the paper the following week, a nameless column on page five: “Police Still Have No Leads in Recent Murder.” Detective McCain had called Aidan again to see if she had thought of anything new. He seemed desperate for something to go on. Aidan had nothing to give him, no clues as to why. No, Aidan was ready to accept that it was a random act of human nature, a statistic to be added to the millions that had come before.

She wiped down the bar in the predawn hour before the morning rush. The doors opened and the sound of voices disturbed the vacant silence. Aidan turned to greet them.

“Good morning,” one of them said, and flashed her a bright smile.

“Good morning,” she replied, surprised to see the fireman again. He was with two other firemen this morning, and she could see an engine truck outside taking up three parking spaces. “To-go?”

Trent chuckled. “Table.”

She led them to a booth and handed out menus. They ordered coffee, and she grabbed a fresh pot from the machine and filled their cups.

“I thought firemen made their own meals at the firehouse.” She cast a covert glance Trent’s way.

“Yes, but we were headed out this way anyway to do inspections,” he replied.

“Though it could have waited another hour,” one of his companions muttered. Brown hair stuck out at odd ends and a five o’clock shadow made the guy look like a rather scrappy firefighter. “Keep the coffee coming.”

“I wanted to beat the morning rush.” Trent glanced at Aidan, and she tried to read the innocent look on his face.

“I see,” the older man said with a grin. He had a little bit of gray streaking his dark hair like permanent ash. “We may have more gourmet, restaurant-cooked meals for breakfast in our future.”

“So your plan didn’t go so well last time,” Aidan said to Trent.

“Maybe not exactly. But something came out of it.” He held her gaze for a moment, as though he was considering saying something else.

“I’m ready to order,” the second man interrupted. He had already downed his first cup of coffee, which helped improve his posture.

Trent started, and this time he didn’t comment on Aidan’s lack of pen and paper. She placed their orders with the kitchen and came back with more coffee for the grouchy one, Sam. Frank, the oldest of the three, automatically placed the sugar dispenser next to him.

“He needs four more cups of coffee,” Trent told Aidan. “Don’t take it personally.”

She smiled and decided to leave the pot on the table.

The bell at the counter rang five minutes later, and she went to grab their food.

 
“So, Aidan,” Frank said after she had put their plates in front of them. “You still waiting for Mr. Right, or have you already found him?”

She stiffened. Frank smiled nonchalantly; he hadn’t asked on behalf of himself. She took a moment to casually smooth down her apron, sparing a glance at Trent’s dismayed face.

“Mr. Right hasn’t found me.”