Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it.”
She arched a brow. “You deal with death too, Detective.”
“You’re knee-deep in it each day. I’ll bet you got the smell on you every night when you go home.”
She shrugged. “I don’t notice it anymore.”
Garrison rested his ankle on his knee. “Have you had a chance to look at Danvers?”
“He’s next on the list. We’ve been slammed the last few days. Something about spring, I guess.”
“Spring?” Malcolm said.
“Warm weather. People seem to get out more. Doesn’t matter if you exercise and eat right. If you fall off a ladder or get hit by a car, it’s over.” She dug through her papers. “And the suicides go up this time of year.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t have anything on Danvers yet but I do have preliminary toxicology results from victim Lisa Black.” Often it took months to get drug analysis results. Clearly, she’d pushed hard to get the answers back quickly.
“What did you find?” Garrison said. He’d seen the bodies while they’d still been at the scene. The first victim showed all the signs of addiction.
“Cocaine. She was a user. Recreational, not toxic levels in her system.”
“How can you tell that?”
“She had an enlarged heart.” She glanced down at her notes. “She also had Rohypnol in her system.”
“Rohypnol? A date rape drug.”
“It’s cheap, fairly easy to get and can render a victim immobile.”
“Makes her easy to handle.” Garrison’s cell rang. He flipped it open. “Garrison.”
The uniform officer identified himself, and then said he was on the WD&O trail. Forensics had arrived. They had another branded murder victim. “I’ll be right there.”
Malcolm raised a brow. “What?”
“Another body from our killer.”
“Shit,” Malcolm said. “Two bodies in one week. What the hell is driving this guy?”
Dr. Henson rose. “I’ll get on that Danvers autopsy right now.”
“The sooner the better. Whoever the hell this is, he’s moving fast.”
Eva parked in the lot at LTF Processing just after ten. Luke had given her a call asking her to deliver three subpoenas. After her encounter with Radford the other night, she was cautious about another job. Luke had promised a bonus. So she’d agreed.
She moved into the industrial building. Pulling off her sunglasses, she let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. She spotted Luke in the far corner sitting at his metal desk, leaning back in his chair and talking on the phone.
Luke was a tall, slim man who had to have been in his late forties but looked a good decade younger. He was fit and neatly dressed but his tanned skin came from a salon, and for some reason he always looked a bit plastic.
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.”