The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [163]
Sinclair shook his head. “Let’s not go off half-cocked here—”
“Half-cocked. Hancock.”
Everyone turned to Bledsoe. He had said it softly, but the word caught their attention.
“Hancock,” Del Monaco said. “Yeah, it’s possible. Let’s bring him in for another chat.”
“Wish we could, but we pulled the tail off him a couple days ago once we had Farwell. I tried reaching him about Linwood, just to ride him a bit, but couldn’t find him.”
“And now this.”
Robby squinted at something that caught his attention. “What the hell is that?” Something white, illuminated by one of the halogen lights. He moved toward the body and peered between the legs of Laura Mackey. “Tweezers?”
“Chuck, pair of tweezers,” Bledsoe called to the head technician.
Chuck walked into the bedroom and handed them to Robby, who deftly held them near the victim’s vagina and extracted a tightly rolled piece of paper.
“How the hell did you see that?” Manette asked.
“Caught the light.” Robby unrolled it, then unfolded it into a full size sheet of paper. “Holy shit.” He turned to Bledsoe. “What the hell does this mean?”
Bledsoe came up alongside him and looked at the document. He turned to Robby, his jaw clenched. “Oh, man. This is bad.”
Robby pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number. “Come on, Karen, answer the damn phone.”
“What’s the deal?” Sinclair asked. He crossed the room with Manette and Del Monaco to look at the paper.
“She’s not answering,” Robby said, his voice rough and tentative.
“Let’s go,” Bledsoe said, then started to run out. “Call all available units,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Have them report immediately to Karen’s house. Hurry!”
eighty
Vail watched the minutes tick by. Angry at her body for betraying her when she needed it, frustrated that she had to remain behind. Concerned they may have made a grave mistake.
As her cold pasta sat in the pot in front of her, she stared at the clock in a daze, running all the Dead Eyes facts through her mind. It all fit. It all made sense. So why was she filled with this sense of unease?
It was a copycat killing, it had to be. All they had was a beat cop’s first-on-the-scene impressions. He wasn’t a homicide detective and he wasn’t a profiler. The finer points of behavior strewn out across the victim’s bedroom would be lost on him, just as they would be on the new agents she taught each month.
But the unease ate away at her. And Robby had not called. She was tempted to phone him, but her better sense told her not to. She needed to let them evaluate the scene without interference. He said he would call . . . he’ll call, she just had to be patient.
But being patient was not part of Karen Vail’s makeup. Acknowledging she needed to divert her attention, she limped over to the stove and began placing the food into containers. She sniffed the sauce and caught a whiff of the fresh pasta and garlic. It would have made a special meal. But with Robby gone, she had lost her appetite.
She slipped the food into the fridge, then pulled the stool in front of the sink. She turned on the hot water and began washing the dirty dishes and pots. It was more difficult to do from a sitting position, but at least it kept her mind off the crime scene, Robby, and her knee pain.
As she placed a dish into the drainboard, she heard a noise somewhere behind her. She stopped the water and listened. Her eyes bounced around the room, noticed the fireplace had completely burned out and was now a smoldering layer of embers. Perhaps a piece of wood had fallen from the rack.
She turned around and returned to the dishes, moving on to the pots. As she maneuvered one into the sink, she heard a clunk! and quickly brought a hand up to the faucet, shutting the water again. She swiveled on the stool and squinted into the family room.
Nothing.
She thought of where she had left her Glock. In its holster, in her bedroom. She slid off the stool and lowered herself to the floor, then hobbled down the hallway, moving slowly, eyes wide and her body ready to react. Question was,