The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [141]
The electronic beep of one of Robby’s wristwatches plucked her from the daydream. Holding Lily brought back many memories of her childhood and only intensified her indecision about what to do with Emma’s house. She would have preferred not to sell it. With the only expenses being property taxes, insurance, and occasional maintenance, it made sense to hold onto it. But Old Westbury, while charming and serene, was five hours away, and not what she considered a vacation destination.
She put Lily aside and dove into the next box. She tried to be as selective as possible in terms of what she would keep, as her house’s space was limited and she despised clutter. She put on her crime scene hat, sifting through the keepsakes and papers as if they belonged to a victim. If she did any more reminiscing, it might open the emotional floodgates—and bring on the guilt she was suppressing for removing her mother from her home and putting her in a facility . . . even though, logically, she knew it was the correct decision.
In the fourth carton, she found a locked metal cash box. She shook it, but it was heavy and she could feel the contents shifting against the interior. Her curiosity piqued, she went to the kitchen, found a pair of scissors, and pried open the cheap latch.
Inside, papers were piled atop each other. She dug in and found old photos of her parents when they were young—group shots, posed photos, and a few from what appeared to be a family trip. She set the pictures aside and saw a small, cloth-wrapped object jammed against the side of the box. She picked it up, spread the wrapping, and uncovered what was inside.
Her mouth dropped open. She sat there staring at it, her mind instantly numb. “Oh, my god” escaped her lips before she realized her cell phone was ringing. Another mystery. What does it mean?
She flashed on all the evidence they had thus far gathered from each of the crime scenes, each piece a part of the puzzle she was attempting to assemble. But there was no guide. No framework. And therefore no reference point by which to fit the pieces.
Until now.
Phone is ringing.
She pulled the handset from her pocket and answered it, her mind still tumbling over the riddle. “Vail.”
“Karen, it’s Thomas Underwood. I hope you don’t mind me sticking my nose into your case, but I think I’ve got something.”
Her brain was still crunching data and she was only half listening. “Not a problem. . . .”
“The message left by the offender. You were right to think it means ‘It’s in the blood.’ The blood’s the key. But it’s not a blood borne disease, it’s—”
“Genes,” she said.
“That’s right,” Underwood said. “You figured it out?”
“Just now.” She sat there, phone in hand, the shock of the surprise beginning to settle in. “And I know something else, too. I think I know who our UNSUB is.”
sixty-four
Vail turned over the metal box and dumped the contents onto a clean, plastic garbage bag. She slipped her hands into a pair of latex gloves Robby had in his desk drawer and began sifting through the items one at a time, hoping to unearth something that would help her find what she was looking for.
She discovered several other dog-eared photos of Emma and Nellie, most of which contained images of people she did not know. But on one of the pictures there was a small object hanging from both Emma’s and Nellie’s necklaces.
Vail picked up the gold locket she had found in the metal box and stared at it, hoping to find an inscription. There was nothing. But with the lab’s color enlargement now sitting beside her, there was no doubt this locket was an identical match for the one found shoved into Linwood’s rectum . . . and possibly for the objects dangling from the necklaces in the old photo, as well.