He picked up a delicately carved white pawn. He’d used a femur for this piece. The woman had been tall and lean; she’d had a high slash of cheekbones reminiscent of her Nordic ancestors. She’d worn far too much makeup, and her hair had been dyed a brilliant red that looked cheap. Tattoos had marred her skin, and she’d had a belly ring. She’d done tacky, horrible things to the flesh God had given her.
But the damage she’d done had only been skin deep. Surface. Cosmetic.
When she’d lain on his table and he’d been ready to slice her neck, she’d shouted obscenities at him and called him terrible names.
But under the anger, he’d seen the glint of fear. When he cut her throat, he’d savored the way it had grown and overtaken her body as blood and life seeped from her.
And when he’d lowered her lifeless form into the vat, anticipation had made his skin tingle. Soon, the damage would be stripped away, and soon, he would see the bones that he suspected were perfect.
In death, with the damage of life stripped from her frame, he had found perfection so pure that he’d been humbled. She’d been a diamond in the rough, and he’d been the one to reveal her real beauty.
His mind turned to Sierra. So perfect on the outside. Such a lovely graceful face. And hands that had been long and expressive. She had a dark soul, but he didn’t care about the soul. He only thought about bones. Perfection. And his chess set.
Sierra was a perfect addition to his collection.
But taking Sierra had been a bold move. She wasn’t like the others. She would be missed. But then what was the fun in playing if there was no risk?
He stroked his pawn. So cool and smooth in his hands.
It made good sense to wait. Let Sierra’s case turn cold. But his body had hummed since her killing.
The added danger had given him a thrilling boost that enhanced the killing experience. And he did not want to lose it.
“You should wait,” he whispered. “You should wait.”
But as he smoothed his hand over the display case he knew he’d not wait.
In fact, he had already selected his next victim.
Chapter 9
Wednesday, October 5, 7 P.M.
Voiceson the police scanner crackled in the background as Connor Donovan sipped his scotch and stared at the blank computer screen. The scanner was the constant companion of a crime reporter. And at his best Donovan could write on deadline while listening simultaneously to the crackle of police chatter.
However, nothing of great interest had crossed the scanner in days, weeks, and months. Not to say there was no crime, but it held no real interest to him since he’d covered the Sorority House Murders.
Out of boredom he typed his name into the Internet search engine. The cursor blinked as he waited for the search to finish. A year ago, he’d have been able to search his name and see dozens of references associated with his true crime book, The Sorority House Murders. However, in the last few months his name had appeared less and less.
The Sorority House Murders had dragged up the details of a story he’d covered over a decade ago. Four young coeds, sorority sisters, had been celebrating the end of the school year. It had been their last night in the house before summer break. Three of the girls had made a run to the grocery store for more wine. The youngest, Eva Rayburn had been at the house alone. By night’s end, Eva had been raped and brutalized and her attacker Josiah Cross was dead. Eva spent the next ten years in jail for a murder she did not commit.
What no one had realized was that a killer, bent on revenge, had been awakened when Eva was released from prison. Three of the sorority sisters had been cruelly murdered and Eva had nearly died.
Connor himself had almost died at the hands of this killer, who had seared and mutilated his gut with four-star brands. Even to this day, he could conjure the stench of his own flesh burning. The pain had been crippling. He’d been humiliated when he’d cried and begged for his life.
The killer had spared Connor so that he could tell the story to the world. The Sorority House Murders had been the pinnacle of his career. It had given him all that he’d dreamed of and more. Fame. Fortune.
The book and experience had also stripped him of something deep inside him. It was the something that made him a writer. Since he’d penned that book he’d not been able to write a word.
His fifteen minutes of fame had officially ended. He flopped back in his chair and winched at the sudden movement.
Even after a year and a half the scars on his chest remained sensitive. The doctors had told him time would fade the pain, but it remained a constant during his days. And at night, sleep brought some relief, but then the nightmares came. Often in the darkest hours he awoke in a sweat, shaking and expecting to see the killer standing over him.
Nearly dying had changed him. He’d been stripped of boldness and left with impudence.
“Fuck.” He turned up the scanner.
Over a month ago, he’d put out feelers with his old contacts. He’d visited morgues, police stations, and back alleys, spreading money and letting it be known that if you tipped Connor Donovan with a great story there would be good money in it for you.
So far, the calls he’d received had been disappointing. The murders had been mundane, mostly drug related or domestic. Arson reports had been run of the mill, profit motivated, or petty revenge. Nothing that had crossed his desk would ever be a headline grabber.
And frankly, he’d been relieved. No story meant he didn’t have to stick his neck out.
His phone beeped, signaling a text. When he picked it up, he was just drunk enough not to worry if he had the stones to write a really good story. He glanced at the message.
Bones found. Call.
Bones found. Connor set the phone down and finished off the dregs of his scotch. He poured another glass and swallowed it before he set the tumbler down hard on his desk.
“Now or never, sport,” he muttered. He punched the reply button and waited as the phone rang once. Twice. His texter picked up on the third ring.
“Melanie Wright.” She worked in the medical examiner’s office. A low-level clerk, she’d only been at the facility a few months, but she still saw what came and went through the doors.
“Connor Donovan.”
“Word is you are willing to pay for a story?” Her voice dropped to the hushed whisper of a conspirator.
Connor glanced at the piles of papers and periodicals on his desk. He’d been a stickler for neatness a couple of years ago, but he’d not worried so much about tidiness since the attack. A lot had changed in him since that night. “Depends. What’s the deal with the bones?”
“How much?”
“Details. Then money.”
A heavy pause hung between them, and then Wright sighed into the receiver. “Cops brought in a bag of bones today. Word is they belonged to a woman.”
“That’s the kind of headline that comes and goes in forty-eight hours.” He reached for the half-full bottle of scotch on his desk and refilled his glass.
Again another pause followed. “The cops think she was killed only a week or two ago. That the killer found a way to strip the flesh from her bones.”
“Really?” His heart kicked up a notch. “What’s the jurisdiction?”
“Alexandria.”
“Garrison and Kier or Rokov and Sinclair?”
“Garrison and Kier.”
The cops had saved his life on that dark day a year ago when they’d burst into the killer’s home and found him bleeding and burned in a side room. He remembered hearing gunshots and deep voices calling for EMTs. But after that he’d had minimal contact with the cops. They’d come to interview him in the hospital, but he’d been very careful only to speak to them when his attorney was present. There’d been some talk of hauling Connor up on obstruction-of-justice charges, but his attorney had gotten that thrown out in exchange for his testimony against the killer.
When he’d tried to interview Eva Rayburn for his book i
t had been Garrison, her new lover/boyfriend, who’d blocked him at every turn. But he kept writing and had brokered a sweet deal for it. He’d worked around the clock to get the book done quickly so it could capitalize on the still-fresh headlines.
He’d thought his troubles were over.
And then Angie Carlson had filed a few injunctions that had delayed his book. Legal fees had chewed up his advance, and he’d been on the brink during those months.
Bitch. She’d clearly been bitter when he’d broken off their relationship. She was only interested in hurting him.
His anger for Angie energized him.
He found himself growing stronger by the second. He quickly brokered a deal with Wright, and the two agreed to meet in one hour.
Connor would supply the cash, and Wright would give him a few more key details.
King’s pub was crowded when Angie pushed through the front door just after eight. She was starving, and since her cupboards were bare it made sense to eat at King’s. The food was good, and it gave her time to visit with Eva. In fact, Angie now ate here several times a week. She and Eva didn’t always have a lot to say to each other, but it was nice just knowing she was near. Made Angie feel a little less alone.
Angie settled at the corner barstool. It had quickly become her spot. She’d also stopped reading the menu because she’d soon discovered the salmon cakes were delicious. They’d become her new favorite food. Her creature-of-habit ways made her so predictable.
Eva stood at the other end of the bar. Her black hair skimmed the middle of her back and was tied back with a rubber band. She rarely wore makeup, but she had a clear complexion that even makeup couldn’t improve upon.
She leaned in as an older customer spoke to her, laughed at some joke he must have been telling, and then refilled his beer from the tap.