“She doesn’t look like a lady who’d be in this alley,” Wolfe mused, shoving his hands in the pockets of hisleather jacket.
That’s because she probably wasn’t. She’d been brought here on purpose to send a message. He’d met enough killers in his life to realize that sad fact. What he didn’t understand was the woman’s connection to him. A metallic taste filled Jethro’s mouth and he swallowed it down.
MPD Homicide Detective Tate Bianchi finished speaking with a couple of uniformed officers near the mouth of the alley and turned, heading their way. “Dr. Hanson.”
“Detective,” Jethro said quietly. They’d worked a serial killer job together during the summer, and Tate had seemed like a decent guy. A little cranky to be working with the ragtag HDD, a DHS offshoot group that Jethro consulted for, but he’d gotten the job done. “You called Wolfe for this?”
“No. I called Angus Force for this, considering he’s one of the best profilers in the country. Apparently he’s out of town until tomorrow and Wolfe is covering things,” Tate said easily, snow covering his black wool jacket. The homicide detective stood about six four and was built like a vegetarian linebacker—all smooth muscle and no fat. His eyes were a dark brown, his skin a smooth black, and his stance dangerous. He looked down at the victim, her platinum-blond hair smashed into slushy, dirty snow. “Do yourecognize her?”
“No,” Jethro said shortly. “I don’t know this woman. Who was she?”
Tate flipped open his small notebook. “We’ve identified her as sixty-year-old Liping Julian. She’s the owner of the Julian Art Gallery in downtown DC. Does that ring abell with you?”
Jethro flipped back through his memories, already knowing he’d never met her. “No. I don’t believe I’ve ever been to her gallery.” He moved aside as a crime scene photographer edged in to continue taking pictures. “Maybe she taught a class or two for the university?” Art wasn’t his thing, no matter how badly his mother had wanted him to study the subject.
“I’ll find out,” Tate said, motioning toward a tech scouring the area by the closest building, which seemed to be a series of apartments on the second floor and small businesses at street level. All windows in the area were protected by solid iron bars. Sirens trilled in the distance, heading, no doubt, to another crime scene. “Her residence is listed as being in the Great Falls area.”
Wolfe nodded. “She looks like she has money. Are those pearls real?”
“Yes,” Jethro said. “Wolfe mentioned that I’m involved somehow. Care to expand on that?” None of this was making alick of sense.
“You tell me,” Tate said quietly, studying him.
Wolfe looked from Tate to Jethro. “Stopplaying games.”
Yes, and Tate wasn’t going to show his hand until Jethro gave something up. The homicide cop was smart. Jethro shrugged his shoulders. “Couldn’t tell you.” Or rather, he wasn’t going to say a word until he knew more, even if he had an idea what this was about, which he did not.
Tate partially turned to face him more squarely. “You know, Professor, I don’t think we’ve ever really chatted. All I know is that you’re some expert in philosophy and you consulted with Wolfe’s team about a serial killer who left philosophical notes on his victims. Yet here we are, with another victim in a crappy alley, and she has a connection toyou.Is it just me or is this a surprising coincidence?”
“I find it to be neither surprising nor a coincidence,” Jethro admitted, having learned neither truly existed. “Please define‘connection.’”
Tate handed over his phone and brought up a picture. “The woman had a note addressed to you pinned to her body.”
Jethro accepted the phone to read the letter.
“What does it say?” Wolfe asked, angling his body closer.
Jethro dug deep into his training to remain calm as hebegan to read.
Dear Jethro,
I’ve had years to consider your betrayal. How about you? Have you thought of me? Of us? Of what we could’ve been? It’s odd to leave a silly little note for you, but I’ve followed your so-called career since you abandoned your duty. Your country. Your family. I take it you like chasing killers who leave notes, so here you go. This is to keep you comfortable. It’s just the start, as no doubt you know. Consider her a present…a substitute, if you will. I did. As such, I enjoyed her last scream more than I’d hoped. Was it as much as you enjoyed Isla’s last breaths? Did she, like this one, try to force out tears from those eyes that had experienced the touch of a scalpel? Apparently plastic surgery can harm tear ducts. Who knew? Unlike your Lassiter case, unlike that crazy bastard, I do not consider this a game. Oh no, Professor. You want to know about good and evil? You want to ignore the evil inside you? I won’t let you. This is justthe beginning.
Philosophical and cool professor, knuckle bump right to you.
Fletcher
Jethro handed the phone back to Tate, the sound of the blood rushing through his head nearly drowning outambient noise.
Tate accepted it, his face rock hard. “Who’s Fletcher?”
Jethro steeled his shoulders, the cold of the night no match for the ice gathering inside him. “Ihave no idea.”
“You’re lying,” Tate snapped.
“Prove it,” Jethro said, turning and striding into the darkness of the alley, Wolfe at his side.
Wolfe waited until they were long out of earshot before speaking. “Who’s Fletcher?”
