Chapter One
Anchorage, Alaska • Present Day
“I won’t be sure until I perform an autopsy, but at a glance? He was exsanguinated like the rest.” The coroner had done a preliminary examination of the body and her initial findings weren’t as much of a comfort as one might think.
Maggie Boone swallowed, trying to keep all expression off her face even as the team of officers were trying to ignore the gruesome crime scene. She faced it head on, taking it all in methodically as she listened to the incoming comments from the CSI team.
The priest was dead, his body on display in the middle of the sanctuary where he had presumably been slain. So far there was no evidence to suggest he’d been killed and moved. Someone had held him in place on the altar and then posed his body into a crucifix position postmortem.
This was the seventh victim in the last three months, all staged this way, all exsanguinated. Whoever this bastard was, he hadn’t left behind anything to identify himself. There was a mountain of evidence and yet nothing pointing to a suspect. He wasn’t even sticking to one denomination or one area of the city. He’d killed all over Anchorage and wasn’t showing any signs of slowing down any time soon.
A tech was taking pictures of the victim, his features tight and somber. Nearby, an officer was questioning the woman who had come for midnight mass and stumbled on the scene. There were others scattered around the ornate room, searching for or cataloguing evidence. Then there was Maggie, standing in the aisle between the pews, absorbing everything around her with cold indifference.
Maggie had been on a miserable date when she got the call and as such, she was still wearing her little black dress. She’d replaced her red high heels with a more sensible pair of women’s loafers she kept in the trunk of her car. They didn’t quite go with the dolled-up ensemble. Her scarlet lipstick and curled, blond hair was out of place next to the tragedy of a clergyman having been killed, but nobody dared comment on her unprofessional appearance.
By now, most of them knew Detective Boone by reputation if not personally and knew that she was not the sort of person to take well to brevity in the middle of a crime scene. She was serious, strict, and cold at least as far as her job was concerned. None of them had ever seen her outside of work and she aimed to keep it like that. Her personal life was nobody’s business.
“When will you have an approximate time of death?” Maggie asked abruptly, breaking the tense silence in the sanctuary.
The coroner, who was now overseeing as they began to move the body, half-turned to the detective. “I’ll put you at the top of my list, Detective, but you know the drill. Expect my report in a few days at best.”
Maggie frowned, not liking that response one bit. “Not good enough. I’ve got a serial killer on the loose. The longer?—”
“It takes as long as it takes. You know that,” the coroner shot back.
Before Maggie could object further, a deep voice with a thick Russian accent broke into the conversation, causing her to jump and spin to face the newcomer.
“What is this? Why is there politsiya?” he asked, a frown furrowing his dark, heavy brow. He wore the black attire and white collar of a priest, but he was still encroaching on Maggie’s crime scene and she didn’t appreciate that in the slightest.
“Whoa, hold up, Father.” Maggie moved to intercept him, her hand raised to prevent him from going any further.
The second her palm came into contact with his torso, a jolt of electricity rushed through her and the priest’s gray eyes dropped to her brown ones as though he’d felt it too. Then they shifted further to the floor, where the victim was still being fitted into a black body bag.
The priest’s face fell and a string of Russian tumbled from his lips. “Father Abram,” he breathed, sorrow darkening his bearded features. He crossed himself, his fingers brushing Maggie’s as he did so. It was then she realized her palm was still on his broad chest.
Tugging her hand back as if from a hot stove, the detective hardened her resolve and motioned toward the sanctuary doors. “I’m sorry, Father, but you can’t be here. This is a crime scene now.”
Those gray eyes found her face again, soft, but imploring. He nodded slowly, obviously still in shock, and allowed her to guide him to the foyer of the church.
“What’s your name?” she asked, starting him off with an easy question.
“I am Father Anatoly,” he answered swiftly, his expression shifting from surprise to confusion. “I do not understand. I was at hospital for only a few hours…”
Maggie turned a page in her notebook and marked down this detail. She found it was easier to focus on the paper than to watch someone coming to grips with a sudden death. She’d seen it plenty of times and it never got any simpler.
“Can anyone corroborate that?” It was said casually enough, but she still felt him bristle beside her.
“Many people, Detective,” Anatoly’s tone was chiding. “I have been priest in this area for many years. I am well known at hospital and in neighborhood.”
Continuing to make notes, Maggie didn’t look up, not until he asked, “Do you know yet cause of death?”
Her eyes flicked up to his face, narrowing as she considered how to answer, if she even should in the first place. It was the desperation in his gaze, the immense, sincere sorrow that radiated from him, that squirmed its way through a crack in her icy armor. “Preliminary findings suggest blood loss.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.
Anger, hot but brief, flashed across his visage and a trickle of inexplicable fear squirmed in Maggie’s belly. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought the priest knew something she didn’t. Perhaps that’s what made her ask, “Do you know anyone who would want to harm Father Abram?”
“Only a monster, detective.” There was no hesitation in his response, but neither was there warmth. “Father Abram ran soup kitchen. He was good man, God-fearing man.” He blew out a breath and shook his head. “Izvinite, I am not myself.”
Maggie returned to her notes, giving him a second to compose himself before she presented any further questions. It wasn’t like her to offer false hope by making proclamations that she’d catch the bastard. As far as she was concerned, there were no possible words she could utter to bring this man comfort, but for some reason, she felt compelled to try. “At least he’s with God, yes?”
