Senseless (15 page)

He hung up and grinned at her. “Eva! Doll, how’s it going?”

His grin turned her insides to ice. “You have a few deliveries for me?”

“I do. And they should be a piece of cake.” He dug the papers out of his desk drawer.

She took the subpoenas. “That’s what you said about the last one. And I nearly got the crap beat out of me.”

He had the good sense to look embarrassed. “I didn’t know the guy would go postal. His ex’s attorney said he wanted the divorce. That he’d be glad to be served.”

“I’ve got a couple of dents in my truck that say otherwise.”

“Sorry about that.” He handed her an envelope with cash.

She counted it and tucked it in her backpack. “Sorry enough to do a little PI work for me?” She kept her tone even, knowing if Luke got a whiff of how much she wanted this he’d find a way to use it.

“What’s that mean?”

“I want you to find a few people for me.” She handed him the printout of Lisa, Sara and Kristen.

Blue eyes narrowed. “Why these chicks?”

She shrugged. “Time we had a chat.”

“Sure, why not? But PI time is expensive.”

“How expensive?”

“Like you owe me a couple of deliveries gratis. And maybe a dinner.”

“No dinner. And what kind of deliveries?”

“The legal kind. And yes to dinner.”

She ignored the dinner reference. “Where do the deliveries go?”

“A small firm in Old Town. Wellington and James.”

Angie’s firm. “Really. Which attorney?”

“Carlson. And please get those done as fast as you can. She’ll ride my ass if you don’t. Hell of a stickler for details.”

Some things never changed. “Sure. No sweat.” Sooner or later it made sense she’d deliver for Wellington and James. Alexandria was a small community. And if you were to ask a shrink he’d probably say she’d accepted the job knowing it would shove her in her sister’s path eventually.

Luke flicked the edge of the photo with his finger, grinning. “These chicks got names?”

“Just worry about the two on the right. Kristen Hall is the redhead and the blonde is Sara Miller.”

“Why not the first gal?”

“She’s dead.”

As Donovan studied the old pictures of the ten-year-old crime, he remembered the thrill of covering his first real murder case. Rich boy and poor girl. Rape. Drugs. It had all the makings of a great story and it had panned out just as he’d hoped. By the end of the trial he’d had a byline.

Where the hell was Eva Rayburn hiding? And when the hell was his private detective calling in with a report?

“Units on the scene of the WD&O trail.”
The voice squawked from the police scanner on his desk, which always remained on.
“Garrison is en route.”

Garrison.

Donovan straightened. Garrison had to be knee-deep in the shelter fire and murder. Why call Garrison and not another like Sinclair or Rokov? Unless this murder was connected to the shelter murder.

His nerves popped like firecrackers as he jumped out of his chair, jammed bare feet into worn loafers and grabbed his keys and coat. This had to be worth seeing.

Within twenty minutes Donovan had headed through Old Town and south on Route 1. Within a mile, he spotted the police cruisers parked along the side of the river bike path.

With too many cops on the scene for him to park close, he found a spot a half mile down the road andhiked back toward the scene, arriving just as Garrison and Kier arrived.

Garrison got out of his car, his face an angry mask. Sunglasses shielded his eyes but when he looked in Donovan’s direction, instinct demanded Donovan step back. Garrison wasn’t a man to have as an enemy.

Donovan tossed him a small salute and edged toward the edge of the crime scene. He moved toward a crowd of onlookers and started to nose his way into a conversation.

“So what happened?”

An old man sporting a straw hat and holding a Yorkie’s leash turned. Excitement glittered in his gray eyes even as he tried to look solemn. “They’ve found a murdered woman.”

People by and large loved to pass on bad news. They took an unholy glee in sharing the bits of information they’d collected. It took so little prompting to get information out of this man. “Murdered?”

The man leaned closer. “I hear she was stabbed.”

“Damn.” Donovan slid his hands into his pocket. “Who found the body?”

“That woman over by the EMT’s truck. She’s a jogger.”

Donovan’s gaze followed the line of the old man’s outstretched hand and saw the heavyset woman huddled under the blanket. She sat in the open bay, chubby hands cradling a cup close to her lips. Her skin looked as pale as flour. “Poor lady.” Already he wondered how he could get over to talk to her.

“I heard her scream,” the old man said. “She’d just jogged past me.”

“Did you see the body?”

“No. Didn’t have any need to look upon the dead. But I called 911.”

Like most, he was too afraid to stare at death, but still willing to talk about it.

“Damn. That must have been upsetting.”

The man shook his head as he scratched his Yorkie between the ears “I didn’t see the body but I could smell it. God-awful.”

“I’ll bet.” If the old man hadn’t seen the body, then talking to him was pointless. He needed to talk to the jogger.

“My Harry smelled it too and started barking like a madman. Harry’s a smart dog. The best.”

Reminded Donovan of a drowned rat. “I can see he’s a smart dog.” Without making an excuse, he moved toward the yellow tape and the EMT truck. A couple of minutes—hell, even a minute—with the witness and he could confirm a connection to the last victim.

But a couple of uniforms stood by the ambulance, no doubt assigned to keep people like him away. He shifted his gaze over toward the yellow tape and spotted Garrison. He kept a tight hold on this case, just like the other.

“What did you know that you’re not sharing, you son of a bitch?” he muttered. Donovan couldn’t see the detective’s features, but he could tell by the detective’s rigid posture that whatever he saw was rough.

Donovan needed to talk to that witness. If he could confirm a connection to the last killing he had one hell of a story, and if he could connect it to the story ten years ago then he could name his price.

Hovering close to the crowd, Donovan wanted to blend into the group of onlookers even as he watched the jogger speak to the EMT. She looked anxious and ready to leave.

“I just need to pee and have a cigarette,” she said.

“Can’t help you with the smoke, but the Porta-Johns are over there. I’ll walk with you.”

She held up her hand. “I’ve been peeing by myself since I was two and a half. I can handle this.”

The uniform hooked his thumbs in his gun belt, frowning his worry. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

Rising, her jaw tensed. “You want me to keep the door open so you can watch?”

The uniform shifted his stance, glancing down so that she didn’t see him blush. “That won’t be necessary. The detectives are gonna want to talk to you so hurry back. ”

She brushed a strand of dark hair from her forehead. “I’ve told my story a dozen times.”

“Might have to do it a dozen more.”

“Damn it.” She headed toward the Porta-Johns sandwiched between the river and the path.

Donovan waited an extra beat and then hurried toward her, positioning himself near the john. He pulled the pack of smokes he always kept close and lit one up. His window to talk to her would be very brief.

She vanished into the john, locking the door behind. She reemerged less than a minute later, rubbing her hands on her pant legs.

He took a deep puff on his cigarette and blew it out toward her.

The scent of his smoke reached her and had her turning. “I don’t suppose you have an extra?”

He grinned, reaching in his breast pocket for the pack. “Sure.”

The woman closed the distance between them, her expression a mixture of joy and relief. “God bless you.”

He jiggled the pack so that a couple of cigarettes peeked out of the opening enough for her to grab one. She took the filtered tip in her fingers and accepted the lighter he offered. She lit the tip, inhaling slowly as she savored the kick of nicotine. “I keep swearing I’m going to quit.”

“Me too.” He grinned as he took another pull. He exhaled. “But the butts always beckon. Especially when I’m stressed.”

She exhaled a lungful of smoke. “I’ve had a day for the record books.”

“What happened?”

“Found a body.”

“Damn.” He inhaled and handed her the pack. “You deserve the whole pack.”

She tossed him a half grin as she accepted the package. “I don’t suppose you have a bottle of Scotch in your pocket?”

“Sorry, the canteen is empty.” He glanced toward the crime scene tape. “I’m Connor.”

“I’m Kelly.”

“Kelly. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“So who died?”

“I don’t know. I never saw her before. A woman. Stabbed. And burned.”

A soft breeze blew from the Potomac, and he did his best not to look rushed or impatient. If he rushed this, she just might shut down. “Shit. How you holding up?”

“Ready to get the hell out of here. I’ve had it with the questions. Cops just won’t let me go, like I committed a crime or something.”

“They can be a pain in the ass.”

“I just want to go home.”

“I bet it will be soon.” He pointed toward the scene. “You know they found that other woman who’d been stabbed.”

Kelly nodded, staring at the glowing tip of her cigarette. “I heard about it on the radio but I don’t watch much television so I missed whatever else they said. Did she have crosses burned on her stomach too?”

His heart kicked but he kept his voice even. “Cops didn’t say. I’ll bet it’s been a bear of a case for the cops.”

The woman nodded. “I shouldn’t have looked at her body, but it was kinda like a car wreck. You look. “ She took a long pull on the cigarette. “And she was covered in these funky star-shaped marks. They looked so red and awful.”

Excitement burned to the tips of his fingers, which ached to type out this story. “Damn. I’m sorry you had to see that, Kelly.”

“I don’t know who would do that to a woman.”

“Some sick bastard.” Donovan glanced up and his gaze caught Garrison’s. Busted. The cop’s dark angry glare even caught Donovan short. No doubt the cop had murder in his heart now.

Donovan tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his shoe. “See you around, Kelly.”

She glanced up, a bit of disappointment in her eyes. “Hey, you don’t have to go. In fact, if you’re free …”

“Sorry, doll, I got to go.”

Garrison startled the two uniforms by the EMT truck with a blast of angry words. They both glanced in his direction and he knew if he didn’t get moving he’d find himself arrested for interfering with a crime scene.

He turned to leave when he spotted Detective Kier headed his way. The guy moved toward him like a slow-moving freight train. Malcolm didn’t look rushed, but when the impact came it would knock him off his feet.

Malcolm grinned. “Going somewhere, Donovan?”

Donovan grinned. “Just leaving, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh, no, stay and chat awhile. I know Garrison will want to have a word.”

Kelly looked between the two of them, her mouth slightly open like a dumb twit. “Hey, what’s the matter, Officer? The guy just gave me a smoke.”

Malcolm didn’t remove his gaze from Donovan. “He’s a reporter, ma’am.”

“A what?”

“Meet Connor Donovan. A man who will say or do anything for a story. ”

Donovan shrugged. “I just gave the lady a smoke.”

Kelly tossed him back his pack of cigarettes. “Asshole.” She passed Garrison as she stomped back to the EMT’s truck.

Garrison pulled off his glasses. “So what did you find out?”

Donovan winked. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Garrison didn’t even attempt to flash his trademark grin. “Back away from this, Donovan. I don’t want you turning this into a circus. ”

“Serial killers are hot stories, Detective. Readers need to know they aren’t safe.”

Garrison tightened his jaw. “You’ve no proof of a serial killer.”

“Witnesses at both scenes reported the victims had been branded with a star.”

He pulled in a long slow breath and let it out slowly. “Don’t print that.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“No, I can’t. But if you print that detail, I’ll end up with another nutcase who will try and recreate what you’ve written.”

Donovan shrugged. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Do not print that detail.”

“Maybe you should do a better job of overseeing your crime scene and controlling your witnesses, pal. I’ve got a story to write.”

Garrison’s blood boiled as he stared down at the murder victim. Shoving that bastard Donovan from his mind proved to be a challenge. Visions of punching the guy danced in his head.

Malcolm moved beside him. “He’s gone.”

“Great. Much like closing the barn door after the horse is gone.”

“Yeah.” Kier didn’t bother to offer any platitudes. “He’ll print whatever sells papers.”

“I’ve called the department’s public relations officer. She’s going to try to get hold of the story.”

A gust of wind blew off the river, sending a chill through him. “How long can she hold off the papers? ”

“Depends on what kind of mood the editor is in, I suppose. But he knows how the game is played. He helps me now, I might be able to help him later.”

Malcolm shoved his hand in his pocket. “You certainly sound reasonable.”

Garrison grinned, not feeling the least bit jovial. “Good.” He shoved aside his anger and focused on the body. The four gruesome stars had been etched into her flesh in a circular pattern just like the last victim. “Whoever is doing this is no longer tentative. The stars are pronounced and clear.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“She’s young like the last victim. Maybe thirty and attractive when she’d been alive.”

“Yeah.”

Garrison nodded. “The medical examiner hit the nail on the head. The killer’s confidence is growing.”

“And now he’s a cocky son of a bitch who doesn’t need to set a fire to get our attention.” Malcolm rubbed the back of his neck. “Why her?”