“Sure.” She pulled up the information the banker had sent them, and said, “Turns out he lives just a few blocks over.”

Trent nodded but didn’t put the car into drive.

“What are you waiting for?” She pointed out the windshield in much the same fashion Captain Picard did on Star Trek: The Next Generation, one of Kevin’s favorite television shows. Only Picard would say, “Engage.” She found herself smiling.

“The address would be helpful.” He was laughing.

“Oh, that?”

* * *

Over the next few hours, Amanda and Trent ruled out the bank’s inspector, the real estate agent, and the contractor. None of them looked good for Doe’s murder, but visiting all of them had eaten up time. It was going on eight at night, and they were headed back to Central with full stomachs. They’d stopped for something to eat at a chicken place in Woodbridge.

Otherwise, they were in need of some leads. Even her email inbox wasn’t providing anything useful. Rideout hadn’t come through with Doe’s picture, and there was zero news about the girl’s dental records scoring a hit in Missing Persons. Was it too much to hope that they could give the young woman a name after being objectified most of her life?

She looked over at Trent. “What if we’re making too much out of the killer knowing the property was empty? And really, how could we even narrow that down? Anyone passing by could have noticed.”

“Quite a chance for the killer to take, though, if he didn’t know it was going to be left alone for a certain time period.”

“Maybe not. The windows were boarded up. That sort of screams it’s uninhabited and probably will be for a while. Our killer was likely quite confident no one would be showing up in the early hours of the morning either. But I definitely think he wanted to make a statement by killing her there, or transporting her there…”

“What are you thinking? Something about the history of the home?”

“Not sure.”

“It’s interesting he returned about twenty-four hours later,” he said, “to the same street, no less. He could be drawn there geographically.”

She looked over at him. Impressed with him again.

He continued. “I picked that up when I worked with the FBI. Some serial killers can select an area for a reason, such as personal attachment. He could have lived there when he was younger.” He pulled into the lot for Central. “Then again, maybe the location doesn’t mean anything.”

“Don’t know, but I’m quite sure our killer has brass balls and an ego the size of a Mack truck.”

“Wouldn’t doubt that.”

Just what they needed—a killer with an inflated sense of self. If so, she’d happily give him a reality check.

Twenty-Three

Amanda and Trent spent a couple of hours slogging away at their desks, reading police interviews from both crime scenes, and studying photos of the crowd. Nothing was standing out. By ten thirty, her vision was starting to blur, but it probably didn’t help that she’d hardly slept last night. Still, she felt by going home she was giving up on both Doe and Fox. But sometimes calling it a day and getting a fresh start was the most productive thing to do.

“I’m heading out,” she told Trent as she stood. “You can, too, if you want. We can get an early start.”

“Works for me. I’m beat.” He hadn’t needed to say it; his cheeks were red, as they often got when he was tired.

He left ahead of her, and she got in her car to go home. She could really handle popping a sleeping pill, climbing into bed, and shutting out the world. She honestly needed a break from everything—the investigations and the matter with her mother, and how it made her feel so damn responsible.

She thrummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she drove, trying to shove the murders from her mind but having a difficult time doing so. It was always frustrating when leads seemed to dry up. It also left her feeling like she was missing something that was right there, but just out of reach.

She was approaching Becky’s house, and it was lit all up. Amanda could use some mindless chitchat with her best friend and to maybe veg out on the couch in front of the TV. As she got closer, Amanda noticed there were two cars in her driveway. Only one was Becky’s, so she had company. Amanda should probably just keep going, but she found herself pulling in.

She turned off the ignition and looked at her friend’s bungalow, which was much like her own. She was just about to restart the car when the front light flicked on.

The door opened, and Becky stepped out. “Amanda? That you?”

Amanda got out of her vehicle. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Another figure stood behind Becky, but it wasn’t much more than a shadow until the person stepped into the light. Brandon Fisher, Becky’s FBI boyfriend. Amanda groaned a little internally. It wasn’t that Amanda didn’t like him—okay, maybe it was. He could have treated Becky a lot better, and even though they seemed to be in a good place right now, they’d had their rough patches. Becky had shared it all with her, including that Brandon had been romantically involved with a member on his team and the two still worked together.

Tags: Carolyn Arnold Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net