Chapter Seventeen
“Wait here.” He told Vicki.
“But I—”
He held up his hand. “I can’t have you contaminating the crime scene.” He urged her farther back until her heels tapped the retaining wall. He didn’t expect to find any evidence relating her to the murder, but he’d been duped before. Best to go by the book. “I’ll go check this out and let you know if it’s the woman from the pub.”
She stared at him with wide eyes and nodded.
“Okay.” Releasing her, he turned and strode across the uneven stone street toward the body. Digging into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a pair of gloves and booties and tugged them on. His heart thundered while a knot twisted in his gut. His ex-partner, Kent, was dead, and a sick, psycho copycat had taken up the mantle, committing another heinous murder.
“Chastain,” the coroner called on his approach.
“Curt.”
“Thought you’d want to know the torso incisions are remarkably similar to the last vic’s. I’ll have to complete the autopsy first, but the heart’s missing like the other vic, so my guess is everything’ll match up.” He swiped a hand across his forehead. “The singular apparent difference is the COD.”
“The cause of death?”
“Yes.” Pushing his glasses up his hawkish nose, Curt referred to his clipboard “Those lines on the first vic’s neck?”
“Yeah,” River said. “Dauscher and I thought the guy might’ve used a belt.”
“Leather. And you were close. Crime Division determined she’d been strangled with the reins from her carriage. Found skin cells on the reins and particles of leather embedded in her skin and beneath her nails.” The coroner gestured toward the body on the ground. “This woman wasn’t strangled. Her throat was slashed. She bled out.”
River thought he’d steeled himself for the information, but an image of Mindy Carter, lying on the table with her throat ripped out, floated up from the depths of his memory. His stomach lurched. “Any other differences?”
The coroner shook his head. “Nothing obvious. We won’t know more until we get her to the morgue, do a full workup.”
“Finish up then I’ll need a moment.”
“Of course.” Curt pushed his glasses up his nose. “I got a stiff over in the residential area. It should take me forty-five minutes, an hour tops. That work for you?”
“Perfect.” He waited while the guy strode off, ducking beneath the police tape. Turning, he knelt next to the body. In his mind, he pictured the woman he’d seen at the pub. She’d been smiling, talking to her friends, the breeze ruffling her dark hair. Steeling himself, he grasped the edge of the sheet and lifted.
Blood. Dark red dots speckled her chin and cheeks. Her eyes had glazed with death, staring up at nothing. It was the woman from the pub all right. But how had Vicki known, unless…? His focus moved lower. Her neck had been savaged. Torn flesh and muscles revealed a deep gash in her throat. Damn, the bastard almost sliced straight through. He ground his molars. Her shirt had been removed, and the torso sliced open—the same X pattern with a dot above it. Same guy. Fucking copycat.
He reached for her hand, but stopped to peer at Vicki. She stood next to the wall, her focus honed on him, nerves radiating off her in waves. Lowering the sheet, he stood. Touching the vic could wait.
River walked to Vicki. She’d ditched the coffee carrier but clutched the remaining cup in her hand. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I need to see her.” She stared at the sheet-covered corpse and grimaced.
River understood. If she truly had seen the woman’s fate, good chance she needed some kind of closure. “If you’re sure. It’s not pretty.”
She swallowed. “I’m sure.”
He dug into his pocket, pulling out another set of gloves and booties. “Put these on.”
She took them, slid the gloves over her slim hands. “I’m not going to touch….”
“I know.” When she’d put the shoe coverings on, he led her to the body, kneeling beside it again. “Ready?”
She bit her lower lip and nodded.
Easing the sheet back, he stopped just below the woman’s chin so Vicki wouldn’t have to endure the butchery below.
With a gasp, she turned away. Dropping the cloth, River rose. Reaching toward her shoulder to offer comfort.
“I know it’s—”
A stream of searing electricity ripped through his hand and up his arm. The side of his neck and head burned as though on fire. What the—? An image invaded his mind, bright and clear—stacked river stones.
“Oh, sh—” He jerked back, shaking his hand to ward off the fiery tingle. What the hell just happened?
“River?” Dauscher’s voice came from behind. “You okay?”
He spun around and conjured a quick lie. “Yeah. Coffee burned my hand.”
Vicki stared at him, concern clear on her face.
“Get rid of this for me, will you?” He shoved his cup toward Vicki and tucked his hand beneath his armpit. The burning had minimized to an uncomfortable sting, but the incident jangled him. Did he just experience a piece of Vicki’s vision?
He rounded toward the stone wall behind him, and the hairs on his neck prickled. Damn if it didn’t match the image in his mind. How the hell can that be? He shook his head. Has to be some subconscious thing. She said stones, and since they’re everywhere, I’m making a match. He turned away. But how did she know there would be stones at the crime scene? And what the hell was that shock I got?
“Sorry about the call.” Lenny approached them. “So, what do we have, another psychic murder?”
“What is he doing here?” River asked Dauscher, and then he glanced at the reporter’s feet. “And without shoe overs. He’s going to contaminate the whole damn scene.”
“He claimed he was a friend of yours.” The detective’s brow drew down, and he swung around on Lenny. “Did you lie to me? And think carefully, because I’ll slap a pair of cuffs on you, charge you with impeding an investigation.”
“Easy.” Holding up his hands, the reporter gave River a furtive, apologetic glance. Seemed he wanted help fending off the bulldog detective. “I said he knows me. And he does know me. He has my card.”
Dauscher glared at him, reaching for his cuffs, just as Vicki returned from disposing of River’s coffee.
“Oh, Jeez Louise!” Lenny stumbled back. “She’s still here?”
Stiffening, she glared at the reporter.
The guy jerked his arms up, forming a cross with his two index fingers.
“I’m not a vampire, you idiot.” Shifting her weight, Vicki moved closer to River. She narrowed her eyes and let out an irritated huff. “You took my picture. If I were a real vampire, I wouldn’t have shown up on film.”
Dauscher snorted.
Lenny lowered his hands. “Can’t be too careful.”
Vicki leaned toward River. “Bet you ten bucks he’s got a bottle of holy water in his pocket,” she said in an exaggerated whisper.
Dauscher chuckled.
“So what is she still doing here?” Lenny demanded, puffing up.
River knelt next to the body, covered the girl’s face. He didn’t need this shit. It was one thing having a professed psychic present. But having a reporter on the scene was just begging for trouble.
He peered up at Vicki. She nodded, answering his silent question as to whether the corpse was the girl from her vision or not. River knew it was. He’d watched her walk out of the pub two days ago. And because she hadn’t used a credit card so I could track her down, the woman’s fate had been sealed. He shook his head. Hell, I’m starting to sound like I believe in all this psychic crap. There must be a rational explanation.
And yet….
River glanced over his shoulder at the wall. After touching Vicki, he’d seen it in his own mind. Those stones. Exactly.
“You two will have to wait,” Dauscher grumbled. “Ms. Spiere, please go up to the line near the cars. Lenny, walk down there and stand by the wall.”
The two complied without hesitation. When Dauscher growled, people moved.
“What’s going on?” The big guy glowered at him, but River wasn’t intimidated.
“I’ll admit it’s a bit unconventional.” He looked down at the body. He still needed to touch her hand. Would his hands tingle like they had with Penny Newhouse?
“Unconventional? River, you’ve got people tromping all over the scene.” He moved closer. “Hey, I know this whole case has thrown you for a loop. It’s way too similar to the Valentine case. You thought you were done, that you’d buried it. But the whole damned thing is rising from the dead. Got you off your game. I get it. I’m with you. But that reporter told me you’d brought him across the line already. Is that true?”
“Yes.” He pushed his fingers through his hair. “I thought maybe he’d gotten a picture of the guy I’m liking as a suspect.”
“If I’d known the truth, been in the loop, I wouldn’t have brought him back over again.” Dauscher put his hands on his hips. “I need to tell you something, and you need to listen. Get something straight between us.”
A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed hard. “Okay.”
“I’m not him, River.”
“Who?”
“I’m not Kent Rowton. I’m not some psycho serial killer, running around murdering innocent women. I’m your partner.” The big guy gave him a hard stare, ensuring River met his eyes. “I’m not going to betray you like your dead partner did.”
He shifted his focus over Dauscher’s shoulder, staring at the wall of stone behind him. “I know.”
Damn, did Dauscher believe he didn’t trust him? Yeah, they’d been working together just a few days. Trust took time to build—time they didn’t have. To have a case this huge fall into their laps complicated things. Damn. Everything is so damn similar to what happened in Texas. It’s no wonder he thinks I’ve stepped back into the past.
A gust of wind rolled over the cobblestone street, bringing with it the heavy copper scent of blood. He met his partner’s gaze again. He’s right. If we’re going to catch the copycat, we’ve got to trust one another.
Dauscher lifted his chin in Vicki’s direction. “Now, the blonde? Okay, she has info. She can stay.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “But the reporter takes a hike.”
“Agreed.” River looked down the hill. Lenny appeared nervous, crossing his arms, uncrossing, then putting his hands on his hips. How many pictures of Vicki had he taken? “See if you can get his camera.”
His partner grinned. “Hey, he might’ve gotten a picture of our suspect and not even know it.” With a glint in his eyes, he shoved his hands in his pockets and headed down the hill toward the reporter.
River checked on Vicki. She stood near the police tape, arms folded across her chest. The officer speaking with her nodded and leaned closer to her.
Kneeling down, River took the moment alone to deal with the murdered woman. He folded the sheet back from her face. Brown hair, wide brown eyes, a pointed chin.
He leaned closer. Beneath her lay some type of tightly woven, white linen, not unlike a tablecloth. Did it hold significance? He frowned. The killer had placed his latest victim on it. It meant something.
Wait, didn’t Vicki say something about white fabric being a sign or something? He was pretty sure she had.
He raised the edge of the sheet, his gaze following the edge of the linen peeking out beneath her shoulder and arm. Her hand lay cupped at her side. He grasped it, her skin cool even through his gloves, and an immediate electric tingle shot through his fingers, up his arm. He jerked, releasing his grip.
“Damn it.” He’d hoped it wouldn’t happen again. First Penny Newhouse, then Vicki and that weird picture in his head, and now this vic. It wasn’t just coincidence. Three unexplained tingling shocks meant everything he knew, everything he believed, just shifted into a whole other realm.