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By Root 368 0

’s body lay splayed out on the cracked blue-tiled floor between the toilet and the bathtub. Her arms were over her head, her mutilated hands palm up, as if she were caught in the act of surrendering. A pair of nylons were tied so tightly around her neck, they’d almost disappeared into the flesh. Quincy had already spotted the empty package of Hanes Alive Support hose in the wastebasket. Bundy had bragged that they had superior tensile strength, making them the garrote of choice for ligature. Apparently Beckett had paid attention to that part of the Bundy interview notes.

Postmortem lividity was most pronounced in the head, above the ligature line, and in the arms and lower legs, indicating that she’d been hanged. Around the knotted nylons, ruptured blood vessels had turned her neck black and blue. Petechial hemorrhages had darkened the whites of her eyes bloodred.

The back of her head was thick with blood and gray matter. The walls bore the spray pattern. Beckett had strangled her to death, dropped her down, then beaten her with a blunt wooden instrument. Typical homicidal overkill.

Thirteen victims later, Beckett’s rage was only growing worse.

Shelly Zane’s body was already outlined with chalk, unusual for this early in the evidence-gathering process. Behind him, Lieutenant Berttelli was raking a young officer over the coals for it. Probably the officer who’d arrived on the scene first.

“What the fuck were you thinkin’?” the lieutenant was screaming. “Didn’t they reach you to never mess with the crime scene until the photos are taken? What am I supposed to tell the DA now? I got a bunch of fucking photos of a fucking outlined corpse that no fucking judge is gonna admit as evidence.”

“I swear, I didn’t do it—”

“Well, it wasn’t the fucking chalk fairy.”

“Beckett,” Quincy said calmly. Lieutenant Berttelli shut up long enough to pay attention. “Beckett knows the rules of evidence,” Quincy continued. “And he likes to mess with our minds.”

Quincy’s gaze came to rest on the note pinned to Shelly Zane’s stomach.

“The officers left it for you,” Lieutenant Houlihan supplied.

The note had his name on it. It said in simple block letters: SHE WAS NO LONGER OF USE TO ME.

Quincy rose. “He’s on the move.”

“You think he’s going after Tess?”

“Yes.”

“We should call and warn her.”

Quincy eyed him sharply. “I thought you didn’t know where she was.”

Lieutenant Houlihan shifted. “I don’t personally know where she is, but I know who does.”

“And you would contact this person and he would contact her?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Quincy nodded. “Lieutenant Houlihan, absolutely, positively, do not do that.”

“What?”

He gestured at the note, and for the first time Houlihan caught the anger simmering in his eyes. “Don’t you recognize those words? Do you think it’s mere coincidence that he’s using the same phrase I used in the briefing one week ago?”

Houlihan blanched. “Holy shit.”

“Do you see now how much he’s toying with us? That note is a lie, Lieutenant. Because Shelly Zane is still useful to him. You react to her murder. You break the silence, you contact the person, who contacts Tess—”

“Which is exactly what he’s waiting for us to do. He’s watching us, hiding wherever the hell he hides. The minute we break silence, he’ll have her. Holy shit.”

Houlihan looked as if he’d gained ten years in ten seconds. Quincy figured he looked the same.

“Tess was right to go out on her own. We are absolutely, positively, dangerous to her. Beckett’s too close for us to see, he hides in our wake. And he’s not going to stop until he finds her. He’s got his message in mind, but his ultimate target, his ultimate goal, is killing Tess.”

Houlihan looked at the blond corpse on the bathroom floor. He stared at the note piercing her skin. “God, I hate this job.”

“Me too, Lieutenant. Me too.”

THE YOUNG, SOMBER-FACED man walked into task force headquarters, went straight to the officer on duty, and flashed his badge. “Detective Beaumont,” he introduced himself. “I’m from Bristol County and I have an urgent message for Lieutenant Houlihan.”