Born to Die - Lisa Jackson [118]
“A friend. It’s mostly public record.”
He examined the pages a second time. “If you’re right ... and I don’t think you are . . . but this is pretty sick. It could all still be coincidence. These deaths . . .” He held up a stack of death certificates. “They were all ruled accidents.”
“A lot of ’em. A librarian in Detroit, a ski instructor in Vail, a single mother and stay-at-home mom in San Francisco. Two others in Seattle and three . . . in Boise.”
“All women.”
“That we know of. But ... I think we’ve just tapped the surface.”
“We don’t know anything yet. Some of these people died over ten years ago.” He shook his head, denying the evidence, even while his eyes kept coming back to the pages. “Let me get this straight. You think one person is behind these deaths and is just incredibly patient. Taking time, over a long period of years. And now a rash of murders?”
“He’s escalating,” she said. “It happens.”
“You don’t know that.”
“We don’t know a lot, like you said, but something’s really off here, and now the deaths, the ‘accidents,’ are happening closer together.”
When he didn’t seem convinced, she reminded him, “You came over here. You recognized that the women you were involved with are a type. I’m just taking it one step further. I think we might all be genetically linked. In fact, I’m running some DNA tests to prove it, but unfortunately, that takes time.”
“Seriously?” He appeared skeptical.
“Yes. Elle Alexander was a patient of mine.” She pointed to the picture of the woman. “I’m having tests run comparing her DNA to mine. I know already that we both have B-negative blood, and that’s not common, so it’s a start. Not real proof, but a start.”
His eyes searched hers. “And if you find out something concrete?”
“Then I, or we, go to the police. Right now it’s too early. They would blow me off as a nutcase. Kinda like you want to do.”
“I’m keeping an open mind here,” he said, though he didn’t seem convinced as he finished his beer while going over again every scrap of information that Kacey, with Riza’s help, had amassed.
As he did, he turned on the news, and they both learned that another car might have been involved in Elle Alexander’s accident. The sheriff’s department had issued a statement, then had asked for the public’s help in letting the department know if anyone had witnessed the minivan going into the river.
“They think it’s a hit-and-run,” Kacey said as the news segued into the weather.
“It still could be an accident.”
“Could be,” she allowed.
“I’m just saying that her car could have been hit, her tires spun out on the ice, and the driver of the other vehicle freaked and left the scene.”
“That makes him a criminal.”
“But not necessarily tied to the other deaths.”
“So you believe this is all coincidence?”
“Just playing devil’s advocate here.”
“Don’t you think I’ve done the same thing?” she demanded. “Tried to talk myself out of this ... bizarre situation. I wish I were wrong, I really do, but I don’t think I am.”
They turned off the news; then Trace, declining another beer, went to work setting up a security code for her computer and Wi-Fi. “The least I can do,” he told her when she protested that she was taking up too much of his time. “For everything you’ve done for Eli.”
She didn’t argue, and if she admitted it to herself, she was grateful for his help. During school Riza and some other techie-type friends had helped her, and during her marriage JC, who considered himself brilliant in all aspects of his life, had set up all their computer equipment. But since moving to Grizzly Falls and dealing with a house that was ill equipped with outlets, much less anything remotely electronic, she’d had to do the work herself or once in a while hire it out, which was what she’d done with the broken furnace, plumbing leak she’d had in the bathroom upstairs, and the new exterior lights she’d had installed on the garage.
As Trace pulled out the desk and