She moistened her lips. From the back pocket of her jeans she took the carbon-fiber Sebenza 25 knife that she carried everywhere. Sharpest blade she’d ever met. She opened the knife, leaned over, and sliced through the hard plastic ties binding his wrists. He continued to hold her gaze as he lowered his hands. The skin on his wrists had been rubbed raw.
“Give me your number?” he said. “For next time.”
Again, she felt that whisper of unease—a faint sixth sense of warning that maybe this time she’d bitten off a bit more than she could chew, or control. Because she wanted to do him again. He was like the first taste of a potent, addictive drug. And she didn’t like the feeling—she didn’t want toneedhim. She’d made that mistake once before.
Do it. Do it again. He’s like medicine. He took all your cares away ...
Angie hesitated, her brain racing through the options. One more time couldn’t hurt—could it? She moved quickly to the small table next to the bed and scrawled her private cell number onto the hotel pad. It was for a burner phone. She could get rid of it anytime she wanted. She shrugged into her jacket as she made for the door.
He called after her. “You got a name there, warrior princess?”
She paused, hand on doorknob, and the devil on her shoulder whispered,Yes,you can control this. You can stop anytime you want to ...Besides, she was only human. She could have a life. It wasn’t as though it was forbidden to have a relationship. As long as she held the reins, all the control.
“Angie,” she said.
Silence.
“You?” she asked.
He smiled slowly, one side of his mouth curving slightly higher than the other. “I’ve got your number.” He paused. “Angie.”
CHAPTER 4
Wherever he steps, whatever he touches, whatever he leaves, even unconsciously, will bear silent witness against him.
—Locard’s exchange principle
SUNDAY, DECEMBER10
Snow came down in big fat flakes now, swirling between the city buildings and settling on the night streets. It was 3:00 a.m. Sunday when Angie turned off Douglas, her wipers carving arcs on her windshield. An unarticulated anxiety filled her as she peered at the shining storefronts filled with Christmas fare. Twinkling lights had been strung over the streets in the older, touristy parts of town. Across the black waters of the Inner Harbor, the legislature buildings shimmered like a Disneyland palace outlined with fairy lights. An old Bing Crosby rendition of “Silver Bells” came on the radio ...city sidewalks ... dressed in holiday style ...
Irritably, Angie jabbed the button, switching the station to a news channel.New mayor-elect Jack Killion and his council will be sworn in on Tuesday ...
She hit theOFFbutton.
VOTEKILLIONsigns from the civic election two weeks ago still lingered on the occasional lawn. Killion had managed to oust mayoral incumbent Patty Markham by a mere eighty-nine votes. Apparently that was all it was going to take to usher in a new tough-on-crime-clean-sweep-the-police-board policy. Long live democracy. And if Killion was true to his election mongering, he’d start the ball rolling for change from the second he and his slate of councilors were sworn in on Tuesday.
Make this city great again.
Whatever that meant. What it did mean for Angie and her colleagues in the Victoria Metro Police Department was an irascible chief constable growing ever more testy over Killion’s threats of radical change. It had created an internal climate of festering unease and finger-pointing over crime stats, budgets, overtime allowances, staff costs, and case closure rates. And then there was the speculation that Chief Gunnar’s own head would eventually roll and that he’d be replaced by one of Killion’s lackeys.
Angie found a parking space outside Saint Auburn’s Cathedral, which rose dark and gothic beside the similarly designed buildings of the adjacent Catholic-run hospital. She removed her service weapon from the lockbox, holstered it under her leather jacket, pulled on her black woolen skullcap, and exited her vehicle. As she hurried through the snow toward the red-lit emergency entrance, gargoyles peered down at her with stone eyes.
Holgersen was slouched in an orange plastic chair near the nurses’ reception area, looking more like a recovering street addict in need of medical attention himself than a major crimes detective. As he saw Angie approach, he pushed himself up to his lanky six-foot-two height.
“So what kept you, Pallorino?”
“Where is she?”
He eyed her for a moment, then made a sign with his finger under his eyes. “Your mascara is running.”
“Where is she, Holgersen? What have we got? Any ID on her yet?”
“She was still in surgery when I arrived. They’re moving her into ICU now. The uniform upstairs will brief us—she and her patrol partner were the first responding officers. They arrived on scene at Ross Bay Cemetery just after two paramedics had started working on her.”
“She regain consciousness at all?”
“Nah.” He started for the elevator, saluting the admitting nurses with two fingers as he went. Angie kept pace with him. The antiseptic smell of hospitals always made her oddly edgy—even more so tonight.
