Part 46 (1/2)
”Maybe.” Kendra leaned over and examined the victim's wounds. The woman's throat had been opened in five horizontal gashes, plus over a dozen punctures to the torso.
Who did this to you, Marissa? Could it really have been ... him?
Show me. Give me something. Anything ...
Her eyes flicked from Marissa's face to the back door.
Of course.
Kendra stood up and brushed herself off. ”Thank you all. I'm sorry for disturbing you.” She turned and walked out of the room.
Stokes ran after her. ”Wait. That's it?”
”Yes.”
He grabbed her arm. ”You didn't find out anything?”
”Yes, I found out what I needed to know.”
He gazed at her in frustration. ”Well, are you gonna let me in on it?”
”Of course.” But she might not have notified him until the next day. She just wanted to get out of here right now. She stopped in the living room and looked back through the doorway. ”This isn't the work of a serial killer. Certainly not the one I'm looking for.”
”Then whose work is it?”
”Her husband's.”
Stokes lowered his voice. ”What?”
”That scene in the kitchen was staged. Check upstairs. She was killed there.”
”How do you figure that?”
”The smell of blood is wafting down that staircase. Sickly sweet and more than a bit metallic. Plus a useless attempt to cover it up with a half a can of Lysol Powder Fresh.”
He sniffed the air. ”I smell the Lysol...”
”I'm sure you smell the blood, too. You just don't realize it. Send your forensics team up there with Luminol. The victim also has faint rug burns on the back of her heels. She was dragged down the stairs, posed, and maybe even stabbed a few more times postmortem. It looks like there are punctures without much bleeding.”
”And the door?”
”He knew enough to go outside and kick it in to give the appearance of forced entry. But he obviously didn't go any farther outside than the patio. The ground in the yard is a muddy mess, but there are no footprints out there.”
”Are you sure? It's dark.”
”The porch lights give at least fifteen feet of visibility. Trust me, no one approached the house from the yard. And I spotted a tiny shard of orange rubber on the splintered door frame.”
He stared at her. ”Orange rubber.”
She nodded. ”Surely you noticed the obnoxious orange rubber soles of the athletic shoes her husband is wearing?”
”Holy s.h.i.+t,” Stokes whispered.
”I'm done,” she said wearily. ”Good night, Detective. I'm sure you'll have no trouble taking it from here.”
Stokes didn't answer as he dashed out the door.
Kendra left the house and walked slowly down the driveway. She was in no hurry to get home. She was disappointed and tired, but there might be only nightmares when she got back to sleep.
She cast a glance back at Stokes as he approached the husband, who was still playing the part of the bereaved widower. The guy was an amateur; he'd undoubtedly left many more clues behind, and the cops would have their case against him sewn up in a matter of hours.
”Finished already?” A familiar voice called out mockingly to her from the street.
She let out an exasperated sigh. ”Adam Lynch ... Seriously?”
”Hey, I don't like your tone. You're hurting my feelings here.”
She turned back and saw Lynch leaning against her car. While everyone else on the scene was middle-of-the-night bedraggled, Lynch's every dark hair was in place. Probably just the way he rolled out of bed, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He wore jeans, a pullover sweater, loafers, and a s.e.xy, high-wattage smile that seemed terribly out of place at a grim murder scene. But then, everything about Lynch was high wattage. He was a highly paid freelance agent who worked for any agency or nation who could afford his services. Those services were both deadly and innovative, as Kendra had found in the past year. But there had been times when she had been grateful for both his skill and that cool intelligence when cases had thrown them together. And other times when she had only been wary of how Lynch managed to stir her emotions when she knew how dangerous that could be. It had become a complex relations.h.i.+p that bound them together, and she never knew from one minute to the next how she would feel toward Lynch.
”Feelings?” she said. ”Why would I think you actually have feelings?”
”You got me there.” He checked his watch. ”By the way, you wrapped up this case in about two and a half minutes. That's a new record, isn't it?”
”I didn't come here to wrap up the case.”
His smile faded. ”I know that, Kendra. I hear you've been visiting a lot of murder scenes lately.”
”Not because I enjoy it.”
”I know that, too.”
She let the silence hang between them. ”He'll be back, Lynch. We both know it.”
”It's been four months.”
”Colby's methodical. He's had years to plan his next move. What's another few months to him?” She was speaking only the truth. Colby was very patient. He was a serial killer who had killed at least twenty people in various terrible ways before he and Kendra had come together that night in the gully. He had taken his time with all his victims and made sure their deaths were agonizing. ”He's driven. He has to kill. He just has to do it his way.”
Lynch's gaze slid away from her. ”You've got a point.”
”You don't believe me, do you?”
”I didn't say that.”
”You don't need to. It's obvious you don't believe Colby is really still alive.”
”If you believe it, I believe it.”
She slammed her palms onto her car hood. ”That's one of the most patronizing things anyone has ever said to me. And believe me, when I was blind, I heard a lot of patronizing things.”
His gaze s.h.i.+fted back to her. ”I mean it, Kendra,” he said quietly. ”I do trust your judgment.”