He held up a hand to silence her.
“Decision’s been made for us.That was Winters.There’s a third body.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Saturday 1stMarch
The penthouse smelled of copper and ozone.
Bartholomew Yang’s desk was a slab of polished wood, slick with blood.Yang himself was nailed to it, one hand pinned through the wrist, the other through the palm, his head sagging forward as if in prayer.
At 1.45 in the morning, CSI techs moved quietly around him, murmuring coordinates, camera shutters clicking like insects.The skyline outside the wall of glass was black and infinite.
Marcus stood with his hands in his coat pockets, jaw tight.“Same pattern of cuts as Brennan and Kellerman,” he said.“But no cipher this time.”
Kate watched the blood seeping into the pale grain of the blotter.“He’s evolving.Or improvising.”
“Maybe both.”Marcus pointed to the body.“Look.”
Yang’s t-shirt—pure white cotton, expensive—now bore a single letter drawn in blood.
A capital H.Like a road sign.
And on the blotter in front of him, scrawled in the same finger-painted red: Jephtha.
Marcus frowned.“Old Testament?”
“From Judges,” Kate replied.“A very sad, creepy tale.Guy vows to God that if he wins the battle, he’ll sacrifice the first thing he sees when he gets home.He gets home, and his daughter comes out, wearing her best dress, doing a dance she’s made up.”
“That sounds like a real story,” Marcus said, with a shudder.
“I know, right?I mean – it’s what little girls do.”
Kate thought of other things, but did not say them.Her father, in a moment of self-absorption, not recognising the signs any doctor surely ought to.And losing his first daughter as a result.She sensed things settling in her mind; settling and clarifying.This was more of Cox’s creepy show and tell.See what I know.See how I wrap up fresh tragedy in your history.It wasn’t even subtle.
Marcus glanced at his watch.“Killed on a Friday night.That’s new.”
“The Jewish Sabbath,” Kate said automatically.Then: “But Yang wasn’t Jewish.”
“Maybe Cox is getting impatient.Or just multi-cultural.”
She shook her head.“He knew we’d be expecting another Sunday killing.He probably had it all mapped out in advance, like a chess player.The question is: why didn’t we?”
“Or, Cox worked-out-slash-found-out that Friday had squealed on him and decided to bring his plans forward.”
Kate shrugged.There was just no way of knowing.
A flash went off behind them, bleaching the room white for an instant.Kate blinked it away, studying the sprawl of Yang’s limbs, the perfect geometry of his pose.There was artistry, even in the brutality.Cox’s signature.
She turned.“What do we know about him?”
Marcus flipped open his notebook.“Bartholomew Yang.Forty-three.Hedge-fund analyst.Made his first million day-trading while at college.Which was Beaufort Community College, by the way, no Ivy League start for Bart.Known for sleeping at the office, or more accurately, not sleeping anywhere if there was money to be made.Fired his PA last year because she refused to work Sundays—she sued, lost.Judge said she would’ve understood the terrain when she took the job.Or should’ve.His neighbors here say the lights never go out.”
“A seven-day-weeker,” Kate said softly.“He made the shortlist himself.”
“They also say his car alarm was going off this evening.”
“Classic Cox.It’s either setting off the car alarm or intercepting the delivery driver.”
