Chapter Ten
River eyed the pretty blonde’s face. Well, hell. Seems Ms. Spiere thinks I have a screw loose. He couldn’t blame her. They’d just met minutes ago. He showed her his badge, and the panic flaring in her gray eyes dissipated.
“You’re a cop.” Laughing, Ms. Carlson swung her dark-brown gaze toward him, eyeing him. Her intense scrutiny made it clear she didn’t trust him. She arched an eyebrow. “I should’ve guessed from the way you swaggered over to our table and made yourself at home that you were a cop.”
“I’m a detective.”
Reattaching his shield to his belt, he returned her stare. Her wavy black hair and olive complexion completed the exotic package, earning his conclusion she was one of those artsy types. Probably into macramé or papier-mâché. She was easy enough on the eyes but did little for his libido.
When she looked away, he leaned back in his chair, giving them all a little more breathing space. He, for one, needed the room after the bombshell Blondie just dropped on him. He shifted his attention to Ms. Spiere. How had she known about the pointed D from the Valentine Killer’s crime scenes? The Austin Police Department had been careful not to let the piece of information get to the media, making it easier to discredit false claimants and copycats. “I’m working on a case, and you just said something the general public doesn’t know.”
“Detective.”
He watched her lips form the word, her voice as soothing as warm summer rain. All that soft blonde hair, each strand a different shade of pale gold, haloing her face. Those flashing gray eyes, never quite meeting his. Finding himself leaning toward her again, he pulled back then busied himself with snapping the lids onto the cups. Did he add enough sugar to Dauscher’s? He dumped one more in for good measure then attached the top.
He lifted his gaze to her face. Yeah, she was the type that got his blood going. “You just listed a lot of details about a crime scene the public isn’t aware of yet.” He rose to his feet. “A murder took place two blocks from here.”
“Someone was killed two blocks from here?” The dark-haired female peered out the window. “I don’t see any flashing lights.”
“It’s behind the theater.” He angled to Ms. Spiere. “You need to come with me. Tell me what else you see.”
Ms. Carlson turned from the window. “Her gift doesn’t work like that.”
“It’s okay.” Ms. Spiere’s words came out soft, almost a sigh. Dropping money on the table for her breakfast, she glanced up at him as she slid out of the booth. “Let’s go.”
The blonde’s demeanor had changed. At first, she’d been open, smiling. When he’d mentioned the crime scene, she’d agreed to go with him willingly enough, but her body language told a different story. She’d become reserved, and her shoulders slumped as though he’d just sentenced her to execution.
He studied her angelic face while she leaned to retrieve her purse. Either she’d been in an abusive relationship at some point, or she was hiding something.
Exiting the booth, Ms. Carlson glared at River. “If you’re hauling Vicki off to look at a crime scene, I’m going, too. I want to be there when you start grilling her.” She snatched the money her friend had left and marched to the counter.
River frowned. “I’m not going to—”
“Don’t forget your coffee.” The blonde gestured toward the table then gave him a soulful smile. “Forgive her for being oversensitive. Her fiancé all but dumped her at the altar. She’s normally quite rational.”
“Sure.” He retrieved the cups, unable to keep from checking out how her jeans outlined the curve of her bottom. Damn. To get ahold of something so sweet? His gaze drifted lower. Not to mention her thighs. Hell, she could probably wrap those legs around me twice.
He straightened, gritting his teeth to conceal the guilt and lust warring within him. She was gorgeous, no doubt, but he’d requested her presence at a crime scene. He still needed to interview her, learn how she’d gained confidential information—’cause there sure as hell was no such thing as psychics. Which meant either she was a few cards shy of a full deck or she knew something.
He turned toward the door just as her dark-haired friend joined them. The artsy girl’s panties remained in a wad, although she said nothing. River appreciated the silence while the trio traversed the two blocks of damp sidewalk to the alley behind the theater.
Dauscher met them at the police tape, which he lifted after they’d snaked their way through the crowd.
“Pretty good, Chastain.” His partner smirked. “Send you out for coffee, and you come back with two hotties.”
River shoved one of the cups into the man’s hands. “They’re potential witnesses.”
“Right.”
Dauscher grabbed a couple sets of booties from the attending officer and handed them to the girls. River took a pair of gloves, stuffed them into his pocked then offloaded his coffee on his partner in order to put on a fresh set of booties. The officer took down Ms. Spiere’s and Ms. Carlson’s names and personal info, and, after the girls had donned their shoe covers, River ushered them toward the dumpster.
Dauscher, matching his pace, returned River’s cup of joe to him. “I’ve got the area set for canvassing. The owner of the theater was nice enough to lend us the facilities to interview witnesses, so the gawkers have been rounded up and are waiting inside.”
River nodded. Theodore Dauscher was nothing if not organized.
With a smile, the big guy pivoted on his heel. “So, what were you two lovely ladies doing out so early this morning?”
“Becca’s an artist,” Ms. Spiere offered, and River fought not to nod with the confirmation of his earlier assessment. “I was helping her deliver some artwork at the gallery.”
Dauscher nodded and made a note.
She stared at the bloodstain on the ground, and her blonde hair fell forward, obscuring her face. River wanted to reach out to pull the silky curtain back but resisted. A professed psychic was too unconventional for his concrete world. He needed to focus on the job and learn how she knew about the pointed D.
“So, this is where she…?”
“Yes.” From his peripheral, he noticed Ms. Carlson move back a few steps.
Dauscher met his gaze for a beat then herded the dark-haired artist toward the theater’s rear entrance. Notepad in hand, he remained ready to transcribe her answers to his questions.
“So, tell me what you saw.” River kept his voice low, his cadence even while he spoke to the blonde. He wanted her calm and trusting. “Your friend mentioned bricks?”
“Yes.” Her attention shifted from the dark stain on the ground to the wall. “These look like what I saw.”
“And an X with a dot above it?” He knew exactly where to find those things. The knot in his gut tightened, seeming to warn him again the murder was too similar to the Valentine Killer case. Too similar to what his partner in Austin had done to eight women. Except Kent was dead. He’d seen the body himself.
“I….” Her brows drew together, and she rubbed her arms. “It’s not here. It’s with her. What he did…to her.”
River’s jaw clenched. How did she know that? “What about the green rectangle?”
She pointed toward the battered dumpster.
Well, hell. There it is. A click echoed in his mind, a block falling into place, leading him to his next question. “Were you anywhere near this alley earlier this morning? Maybe you and your friend found the body first.”
“Absolutely not.” Fire leaped into her smoky-gray eyes. “Becca and I were at the gallery. You can check.”
He turned toward the wall, so he wouldn’t stare at her. The knot in his gut twisted while a flood of heated desire pulsed through his body. The opposing sensations produced a core-deep chill. River shivered. “We will check.”
“I’m sure.” Her quiet, clipped words possessed both anger and disgust. “I’m psychic, Detective Chastain. Whether I want to be or not. I’d get rid of it this very second if I could. But the fact remains I had a vision about that carriage driver, and I have no idea how the brief snips I happened to see can help you with any of this.” Vicki stared at where the body had laid on the ground. “She’s dead. I’d change it if I could. But I can’t.”
“I’m not asking you to change anything.” He stepped toward her, wanted to touch her arm but resisted. “Just tell me everything you know and how you know it.”
“I’ve told you how I know.” Her mouth drew into a thin line. “I’m a freaking psychic. I had a vision.”
“I need the truth,” he said, frustration creeping into his words.
“I am telling you the truth. Have you found the last symbol I saw, that pointed D?”
He grimaced. “No.”
She jabbed a finger toward the closest dumpster. “Then move that.”
He looked where she pointed. CID had emptied the containers, searching for evidence. They would have flashed a light beneath it, behind it. But the thing was heavy. Had they moved it?
“Dauscher,” River called down the alley and waved him over. The big guy trotted toward them, the artist just steps behind. “They already dusted this bin for prints, right?
“Yep.”
Even though CID had already processed the trash bin, River didn’t want to contaminate any evidence that might be on the side facing the building. After setting his coffee well out of the way, he snapped on a pair of gloves. “Help me move this thing, then.”
He shoved his weight into it, his partner grunting with effort behind him, but they just scraped the massive container over the ground a couple of inches. With the aid of two officers also covered in protective gear, they moved the metal bin. Flashlights converged on the wall.
Oh, fuck me. The pointed D. In the center of a pentagram with a circle around it. Drawn in blood. The exact symbol the Valentine Killer had used.
The ground beneath his feet tilted. He fought to breathe, the knot in his gut snaking up, twisting around his lungs.
This can’t be happening. The Valentine Killer was dead. He’d seen his lifeless body lying on the floor inside the cave.
“Well, damn,” Dauscher drawled. He moved closer to the wall. “Won’t know till after forensics checks it, but it looks like blood.”
“Penny’s,” River mumbled. His head spun. This just wasn’t possible. It had to be a copycat. Had to be. But how had the bastard gotten the details so accurate?
“Definitely satanic.” Dauscher scribbled a note on his pad. “Probably a cult.”
Ms. Carlson hugged herself, her bracelets jangling. “Why do you say that?”
“One guy couldn’t have done this.” He gestured at the dumpster. “It took four of us to move it. He would’ve needed help.”
“That’s the symbol I saw.” Ms. Spiere rubbed her arms and glanced at her friend. Her drawn face accentuated the haunted expression in her eyes.
River didn’t know whether he wanted to shake her until she told him the truth about what she knew or gather her into his arms, promising he would keep her safe. The intense conflict of emotions roiling inside him made his stomach queasy and his head throb. How could any of this be real?
“We need to document everything.” Dauscher stepped away from the wall. “Take photos.”
“I’ll get the camera,” River said in a rush. Without waiting for a response, he strode down the alley toward the car. He needed some distance to clear his head.
He set his coffee on the car roof then opened the passenger-side door. Placing one arm on top of the car and gripping the top of the doorframe with his other hand, River let his head bob forward. He stood in the center of a damned nightmare. What the hell was happening?
He shook his head. He must remain calm and focused if he ever hoped to figure out who the sick bastard was playing games with him. He breathed deeply, drawing in the cool morning air.
The scene needed to be photographed. Every scrap of evidence required documentation, so he could review it later. This time, he would stop the murders in less than eighteen months.
With the dome light illuminating the interior of the car, River slid into the passenger seat. He popped open the glove compartment to retrieve the high-resolution digital camera. But as he leaned forward, something caught his attention.
A piece of folded white paper lay in the driver’s seat. Had it fallen out of his pocket when he’d left the car earlier? He searched his memory, trying to place the scrap. A receipt from the gas station he’d stopped at on the way home the night before?
He snagged the paper, intent on shoving it into his pocket. But the moment his fingers grazed the smooth surface, he jerked. The damned thing felt alive. Tingles flowed over and through his hand as though daring River to open it.
He stared, not wanting to know what might be inside. But it might be a clue to who had murdered Penny Newhouse. He had no choice.
Trace wouldn’t find any fingerprints—this guy was too slick for an amateur mistake like that—but he wanted to go by the book. He would open the note, read it then bag it for the Crime Investigation Division.
The paper crinkled beneath his fingers, whispering taunts with each fold he exposed. He held it beneath the dome light to illuminate whatever was written.
“Oh, sh—” His breath caught in his throat, choking off his words. Stunned, he flung the paper back into the driver’s seat and pressed his back against the passenger doorframe. The paper fluttered onto the leather seat, landing face-up, displaying its contents.
River gaped. The neatly drawn circle in thin black marker. The star. The pointed D in the center.
But there was something else beneath the circle. Something he couldn’t quite see because the bottom of the paper had refolded.
Treating it as though it were a ravenous beast about to rip out his soul, he reached for the paper. His hand shook as he grasped the top corner, lifting it. The bottom fold opened, revealing its last secret.
“No.” Disbelief and utter shock rattled his mind.
The letters K. L. R. were scrawled beneath the circle. Kent Lee Rowton. The Valentine Killer. River’s dead ex-partner.
“Impossible.” He stared at the paper, praying it was a sick prank played on the new guy. But Dauscher would never do such a thing. It was too sick.
So, that meant the killer had left it—a special message just for River. It meant the killer knew River, had learned he’d recently moved to the Savannah-Chatham Police Department, and he’d been assigned to this case. It meant the killer had access to all the details of the Valentine Killer.
It also meant the killer had been inside the car.
Dropping the paper, he leaped from the passenger seat. He slammed the car door, extinguishing the dome light. The killer might be watching him this very second.
“What’s taking you so long?”
River spun around.
“Easy.” Dauscher lifted his hands in defense.
River’s shoulder’s drooped. “Sorry.”
“A little jumpy?”
“Yeah.” River opened the car door, retrieved the evidence. “Our killer left a note.”
The big guy squinted at the paper. “Damn,” he drawled, his eyes widening as he recognized the symbol. “But the real Valentine Killer is dead.”
“Yes.” He wanted to shout the word. The fucking Valentine Killer was dead. Kent Lee Rowton was dead.
“Gotta be a copycat.” Dauscher ran a hand through his hair. “I tell you, the freaks come out around here with all the ghost and goblins stuff. Better bag it for CID.”
Reaching inside the car, River grabbed a clear plastic bag from the glove compartment.
“I took down your girls’ information and sent them home,” Dauscher said. “They seemed pretty weirded out by it all, which makes me think they’re telling the truth.”
River slid the paper inside the bag then zipped it closed. Talk about weirded out. “You think the blonde is a psychic?”
The big guy’s shoulder lifted then fell. “Don’t know.”
Not wanting to take a chance of the note getting misplaced, he tucked it into his pocket. “So, we still have interviews in the theater?”
“Yep.” His partner glanced at his watch then toward the theater. “Doesn’t look like I’ll be eating pancakes after all.”
“And I’ve got to wait for CID to process my car.” He’d be surprised if they came up with anything, but maybe they’d get lucky. “Tell you what. Do an hour of interviews, go eat your pancakes, take a nap, and I’ll meet you at the station after lunch.”
“Deal,” Dauscher said without hesitation.
River didn’t expect to get much out of the early morning gawkers, but it needed to be done. Besides, he wasn’t going to sleep a wink after finding the note in his car. His gut was in a knot, and there was something about the blonde. She knew more than she’d told them. Maybe it was the way she’d continually glanced at Ms. Carlson. Had it been for support? Or maybe she was worried her artist friend would crack and spill their involvement in the murder.
River trudged up the steps to the theater’s rear entrance. “How many did you round up for interviews?”
“Twenty-three.”
Well, hell.