“I read about that. It’s very generous of you.”
He waved his hand. “You read the morning paper.” Cross stood at the head of the conference table. He wore a dark, handmade suit that fit his lean body perfectly. Cuff links glinted from the cuffs of his hand-tailored shirt. A red silk tie completed the look of the successful man.
“I won’t deny that the article is disturbing.”
“Disturbing? Ms. Carlson, Donovan suggests that there is a serial killer murdering your clients.”
Even as anger radiated from her gut she kept her smile relaxed and intact. “You may not be aware of this, but Mr. Donovan and I have a personal history.”
He frowned. “Really?”
“It goes back to last year.” She hated drawing her personal life into her professional world. “Long story short, we broke up and now he is doing his best to take a few scattered facts and turn them into a story.”
“You have had two clients murdered.”
“True. But I don’t believe I’m the common factor that links these women.”
“What is the common factor?”
“I don’t know. But I can assure you that the police are working hard to figure that out.”
“Have they made any progress?”
“I know they are working around the clock.”
“That’s a no?”
“Give them a bit more time, and they will solve this.” She smiled. “Mr. Cross, you are in no danger.”
He arched a brow. “Are you sure about that?”
She hesitated and then sighed. “I’m not totally sure of anything in life. But I can see that you do not fit this killer’s profile.”
“And what is that profile?” His interest sharpened.
“Young, vulnerable women. Attractive. Blond. Looking to make changes in their lives. Maybe they took shortcuts that they shouldn’t have.” She held out her hands, palms open. “Mr. Cross, you are safe. And Wellington and James is the right firm to represent you.”
He nodded.
She’d avoided all mention of Darius but knew their association needed to be addressed. “Our families have had a complicated past. I know you aren’t responsible for what happened.”
A wry smile lifted the edge of his lips. “It’s the elephant in the room for us, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But I want you to know I do not believe the child should be saddled with the sins of the father or mother.”
“Mother. Yes, that’s right, you went to see Mother. Did she agree to see you?”
“Yes. She spoke of your father’s affair with a woman that worked for my father. But she gave just enough information to leave more unanswered questions than answered questions.”
“That’s my mother. A game player to the end.” Absently, he twisted an onyx pinky ring on his right hand. “The police asked me about the connection between our fathers. Like you, I was a toddler when our fathers conducted their business. Did Mother give you anything else?”
“No.”
He nodded. “The past has nothing to do with us, Ms. Carlson. It’s only the present that I worry about now.”
“I can assure you that what is happening now will not affect you.”
He studied her a long moment, then nodded. “I’m trusting you with my life that it won’t.”
Malcolm and Garrison stood by the chrome table in the medical examiner’s autopsy room, staring at the charred remains pulled from the restaurant-warehouse fire. The intense blaze had all but melted the bodies. Little more than charred bones and flesh remained.
“Can you make an identification?” Malcolm asked Dr. Henson.
The doctor’s blue eyes stared at him through the clear plastic facemask she wore during autopsies. “It’s going to take some time. I’ve got bits and pieces here.”
“Can you tell us anything about the bodies?” Garrison asked.
“It would be conjecture at this point.”
“We’ll take what you have,” Malcolm said.
“Based on what I’ve seen of the skull, I’d say that the first victim was male. The growth lines on the top of the skull suggest our victim was older than forty. By that age the lines are completely fused.”
“Could he be older than that?”
“Sure. But I can’t say for certain at this point. I have requested dental records for Dixon so we shall see if the bones are his.”
“Do you have enough teeth?”
“A few, and one molar has a very distinct crack. If that crack shows then we can assume the remains are likely his. And there is some DNA evidence that I can extract. But DNA will take weeks.”
“Do you know how he died?”
“I might know that.” She moved to the head of the table. “This is his spinal cord. See this slice in the vertebrae?”
Both leaned in and saw the faint slice in the bone. “Yeah?”
She lifted her gaze. “It appears his throat was cut.”
“Really?”
“Death usually leaves a mark on the bones in some way. In this case it’s a knife mark. He was also tortured before he died.”
“What?”
“His right foot was cut off.”
Malcolm stared at the bones. “Was the foot found?”
Dr. Henson shook her head. “Not yet.”
“What about the second body?”
“There’s more of that to examine. It’s charred but more intact. Whoever he was, he was six feet tall, had broad shoulders, and was in his late thirties.”
“Like Donovan?”
“Again, waiting on dental records.”
Garrison rested his hand on his hip. “Are
the markings on victim number one similar to the prostitute whose throat was cut?”
She nodded. “I’ve not had a great deal of time to examine her body yet, but the knife wounds are in similar locations.”
Two killers made sense. Could it be as simple as Donovan killing Dixon and then getting trapped in the fire he set? It could.
But for reasons Malcolm could not explain, he felt as if someone had handed him a nice wrapped gift filled with shit.
Malcolm’s day was spent talking to anyone who might have known Dixon. His secretary, his neighbors, even a couple of patients. As they had learned two years ago, he possessed a Jekyll-and-Hyde persona. To neighbors and friends, he was the model citizen. Charming. Witty. Funny. To the people that worked for him— people he considered beneath him—he could be dark, moody, and very controlling. No one had ever seen him with Donovan … ever.
Donovan had few friends. He’d become isolated and withdrawn in the last year. At the paper he still worked with one other reporter named Robert Farmer.
Malcolm found Farmer at his desk just after lunch. He sat in the middle of a busy newsroom at his desk eating a sandwich. The room buzzed with conversation, phones, and faxes.
“Robert Farmer?” Malcolm said.
Farmer was a tall guy with broad shoulders and short hair. He dressed in khakis and a sport shirt. “Yeah?”
Malcolm held up his badge. “Detective Malcolm Kier.”
Farmer wiped his hands on a napkin. “Yeah.”
“I’m looking for Connor Donovan.”
“I haven’t seen him in a day or two.”
“Know where he might be?”
“Nope.”
“You know anything about the articles he’s been writing?”
Robert leaned back in his chair. “I was working with him on them.”
He thought about the crap they’d spun about Angie. “Really?”
“We were looking for a connection between Carlson and the killer.”
Malcolm was tempted to kick the guy’s chair and watch him pitch over on his back. “You find anything?”
“Not really, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.”