Naples. Feb. 1984.
She needed sleep. Nothing was making sense. She left the album and photos on the coffee table, finished her drink, started clicking off lights. But as she reached for her Smith and Wesson to lock it away, she saw that her burner phone lying beside it was blinking with a message. She frowned and played the message.
“Angie,” said a male voice, deep, resonant. Velvet on gravel.
Him.
“About our unfinished business ... I’d like to finish it.” A pause. “Can’t stop thinking about you. Call me.” He left a number.
Her mouth went dry. She pressed her hand to her brow. Then, quickly, she checked the time of the message. He’d called at 8:35 this morning. Mere hours since she’d left him and his erection at the Foxy Motel. He’d wanted to see her again, to be with her again ... to complete their sexual act.
Until they’d met at the morgue.
CHAPTER 20
MONDAY, DECEMBER11
Angie entered the incident room hefting her case files and still wearing her coat. She was drenched and late. She’d been stuck in traffic, and her head was thumping from too much vodka and too little sleep.
“Thank you for joining us, Pallorino,” Buziak called out as she kicked the door closed behind her. He stood at the far end of the room in front of a whiteboard that ran the length of the wall, looking like a small Al Pacino, which made Maddocks, who was standing beside him, appear even taller than his six feet four inches.
A group of about twelve detectives were seated in chairs facing Buziak, Maddocks, and the whiteboard. Heads turned to look at her as a quiet befell the room. All male, she noted, and older, some with paunches, tired-looking shirts, badges hanging by lanyards around their necks. The only other female Angie could see was Bettina, a ViCLAS coordinator. It was Bettina’s job to run info through the Violent Crime Linkage Analysis System in an effort to link sex and violent homicides across the country together. She was in her late fifties. Also present was a project assistant and a young analyst.
Angie gave a brief nod to Holgersen, who was leaning against a pillar near the door beside Leo. The white-haired cop gave her a long and brazen look, then mumbled something quietly to Holgersen. She ignored him and offloaded her files onto a vacant table near the back. Finding a chair, she shrugged out of her wet coat, draped it over the back, and took a seat.
The tension in the room was palpable. Thirteen days to Christmas, a new mayoral regime taking the oath of office tomorrow, and the pressure was coming down from the top. Even Inspector Frank Fitzsimmons, head of major crimes, was present, seated up front and just off to the side. Angie hoped he was simply observing, because brass sticking fingers directly into an investigation always spelled trouble. Fitz caught her eye, but his features remained expressionless. Fitz had personally grilled her over the loss of Hash’s life, and over Tiffy Bennett’s and her parents’ deaths. While she’d been cleared of any breach of department protocol, Angie believed that Fitz wasn’t buying it—he was personally holding her responsible for the death of one of the MVPD’s finest and longest-serving detectives. And he wasn’t alone. He was probably thinking about the leaks now, the media fiasco with her face being splashed all over the front page again. A chill of foreboding slid down her throat. She broke the eye contact and turned to focus on Buziak.
He was busy sticking photos of the two recent homicide victims onto the whiteboard. He also added headshots of Fernyhough and Ritter. Then, with a black Sharpie, he scrawledLIMPETacross the top of the board, and he underlined the word with a swift stroke of his hand.
“Operation Limpet,” he said, turning to face the group. “That’s what we’re calling this investigation. It’s a word totally devoid of particular relevance to this case, and one that stays out of the media. I’ll be functioning as your team commander. Detective Maddocks is lead investigator. Salinger will serve as file coordinator. Given the media hysteria already developing, plus the fact that the two recent homicide victims were found within such a narrow timeframe, we need to hit this hard and fast, before our subject kills again.”
He paused, meeting the eyes of each member of his task force. “I don’t want to believe there is a leak in our institution, but given the level of confidential detail that has found its way into the press, nothing, and I meannothing, goes beyond that incident room door that is not authorized for release directly by me. And no one talks to media for any reason at all. Refer all press queries to our media liaison officer. The MVPD will be holding a press conference this morning in an attempt to allay fears and to try to mitigate the damage already done out there. Do I make myself clear?”
Murmurs and nods.
“We follow a strict chain of command. Everything comes back to me, and I will relay information and make assignments as required. A seven a.m. daily briefing will be held in this room where possible. And again, where possible, a debrief and handover to the night shift will be held at the end of day. My directive is to keep overtime to a minimum without losing an eye on the ball. Which means coordinated around-the-clock rotation starting with who we’ve got in here. More hands will be enlisted if and when the need arises. The clock has started ticking, people, and time is not our friend.”
Right,thought Angie.Cut back, but deliver fast.Gunnar’s stamp was all over this speech—their chief was clearly buckling under pressure from Killion’s election promises to cut costs while still increasing closure rates.
“Okay, we’ve got two DBs. Female.” Buziak pointed to the first photo on the board. “Gracie Marie Drummond, sixteen, Caucasian, five feet six inches, shoulder-length brown hair.” He ran through the details of her case so far. “Tentative COD for Drummond is that she was immersed in freshwater and succumbed to drowning in hospital. A postmortem is being performed as we speak.” He tapped the back of his Sharpie on the second image. “Faith Hocking, nineteen, Caucasian, five feet seven inches, slight build. Also long brown hair.”
What the—? The floater had been ID’d?
Angie shot a glance at Holgersen, Leo, then Maddocks. But all attention was focused on Buziak. Tension started to crackle inside her, and her unease deepened.
Buziak selected another photo from the table in front of him and stuck it on the board. “Hocking was identified late last night by this tattoo.” The photo showed the Medusa ink with its hydra head of serpents.
“Shit,” said someone.
“Wouldn’t want to stick my dick in there,” whispered another seated near Angie. She turned and shot him a hot glare. He crooked a brow back at her.
“Hocking is in the system, was picked up on a meth-related charge three years ago, when she was sixteen. According to the report made at the time, she was a runaway and had been a street kid since the age of twelve. Crystal meth user, and a small-time prostitute to fund her habit. As of now, last whereabouts or place of domicile unknown. But at the time of her arrest she was known to occasionally bunk down at a shelter for homeless kids and young addicts called Harbor House on Songhee Street. It’s run by a volunteer known as Pastor Markus—Markus Gilani. COD for Hocking, tentatively, is asphyxiation due to strangulation with ligature. Official autopsy reports and lab results are pending, but so far several key common denominators have emerged in both homicides—evidence of violent rape and sodomy, followed by precise genital mutilation—the clitoral hood, clitoral glans, and labia minora were excised in the same manner in both cases.” He paused. “Female circumcision.”
Murmurs came from the almost all-male group.
“Also, a mark in the shape of a crucifix was carved with a sharp blade into the foreheads of both victims, and from each, a lock of hair was cut from their hairlines at the center of their brows.” He tapped his Sharpie against his palm. “A keepsake, a trophy.” Another pause. “We believe we’re looking at an active serial.”
More murmurs.
