Yard work and general home maintenance had ranked low on the priority list for Jennifer. The recycling bin full of wine and beer bottles suggested she’d liked to have parties. Her five-year abstinence had likely never actually made it past one year.
Melina and Ramsey both pulled on rubber gloves and stepped into the foyer. All the blinds were drawn, and the faint scent of death still lingered. The ashtray on the coffee table was full of cigarette butts. Some were cupped in lipstick and others not. The brands varied between Virginia Slims and Marlboro. There was one wineglass, lipstick matching the color on the cigarettes, and a pile of cheese crackers. No signs of pets and only a few photos encased in dollar store frames. Furniture appeared secondhand and worn, and the couch was covered in unnaturally orange cracker crumbs.
Ramsey walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and then slowly looked around the small galley space. He picked up a collection of travel brochures that looked like newer versions of the one Kelly had shown them. Hanging on a hook was a red vest and pinned over the left pocket was a gold brass nameplate that read JENNIFER.
Matt Piper, dressed in a hazmat suit, looked out of the bedroom and raised his hand. As she moved toward him, she noticed the death scent grew stronger. “Any luck?”
“We’re still working our way through the bathroom and bedroom. I have dozens of prints. I can tell you there is no forced entry and no signs of a violent struggle.”
“Anything else you can tell us about her killer?” Ramsey asked.
Matt motioned for them to follow him into the bedroom and the adjoining bath. “I think our guy got into the tub with her.”
“Why do you say that?” Ramsey asked.
“Two things. First, the hair found in the tub includes hers and someone else’s. Second, there are signs that the tub’s water spilled over, and what didn’t dry up pooled under the tub. However, when she was found, the waterline ringing the inside of the tub only reached the halfway mark.”
“Any signs of his DNA?” Melina noted scented lotion and more lipstick beside the sink.
“I’ve collected multiple hair and skin fibers,” Matt said. “At this point we don’t know if it’s the killer’s or someone else’s.”
“He knows her,” Ramsey said. “She invites him into her house, and he strangles her and then places her in the tub. Why does he get in the tub with her?”
“He isn’t ready to leave her,” Melina said. “He’s lonely and wants to spend time with her. Bathing together is very intimate.”
“He doesn’t have to worry about expectations or unnecessary conversation from her. She’s totally his and exists only for him.”
“It’s not the violence that attracts him, but the need for connection,” Melina said. “I’ve seen a similar character profile with pedophiles. The sick bastards want the emotional connection.”
“And he takes the fourth finger on the left hand,” Ramsey said.
“Which is supposed to be the direct line to the heart.” She glanced at her hand and traced her naked ring finger. Bonnie had been in Nashville to find Sonny. And though Bonnie had not admitted it, it wasn’t a huge leap to assume she had stolen the jar filled with fingers from Sonny. And if anything Bonnie had said about Sonny was remotely true, he was her half brother.
“I would bet he’s charming,” Ramsey said. “He woos his victims. Why force them when you can coax them into your arms? He’s moderately, if not very, attractive. The lack of struggle with his victims is a big part of the reason he has stayed under the radar.”
“If he sticks to his pattern, then he’ll only kill once in the Nashville area,” Melina said.
Ramsey shook his head. “If he keeps to his pattern.”
“A half sibling hit in the ancestry world is akin to hitting gold. Whatever DNA we pulled from the crime scene that we think belongs to this guy should be compared to mine. If we can confirm he’s my brother, we might be able to use that to our advantage.”
Resting and meticulous wound care had paid off for him. Though the gash was still tender, he was now mobile and ready to make his next move.
Now, nine days after nearly snagging his dream date, he drove to the Bottom in a rented dark-blue four-door sedan ready to get his van. But as soon as he approached his warehouse, he spotted the notice on the front door. CRIME SCENE.
“Shit!” he shouted.
As he drove past, he was careful to keep his head ducked. There were always cameras watching. How the hell had they found his van?
Angry now, he blamed this mess on Ms. Perky Breasts. She had hurt him, and she must have told something to the cops about his van and they had found it.
He needed to figure out who Ms. Perky Breasts was, find her, and make her pay.
He circled the block for almost an hour, but he found no sign of the girls she had been with last Monday night. A week was a long time for girls like Ms. Perky Breasts. He dreaded the thought that she had moved on or found a new corner to work.
He drove around the block again and decided any girl at this point would do for now. The sex was boring when there was no pain, but he might get lucky and find out something.
Three girls stood on the corner just ahead. They huddled close. All were wearing high heels and short skirts. One had a cigarette dangling from her hand. All the women were blondes, or at least wore blond wigs. Not the look he wanted. None of this felt right.
He slowed his vehicle to a stop in front of the women. He lowered the passenger window as the tiniest blonde approached his car. “I need a date.”
She tossed her cigarette aside. “How long?”
“Half hour. Get in and we can go around the corner.”
Her smile told him she liked the idea of staying close. A quick turnaround meant she could find another client quickly. He bet she thought her evening was looking up.
They agreed on a price and she slid into the front seat, locking in her seat belt. As promised, he drove to a darkened alley. He shut off the engine and killed the lights.
“Take the wig off,” he said.
She hesitated and then pulled the blond wig off. Dark hair tumbled out. It was not as lush as Ms. Perky Breasts’, but it was better.
“You like it?” She tousled her hair with her fingers.
“Yeah.”
She unhooked her seat belt and twisted in the seat toward him. Her gaze dropped to his lap, and, not seeing signs of an erection, she licked her lips and rubbed her hand over his crotch. The sensation was pleasant enough, so he nodded, giving her the go-ahead to unzip his pants. She pulled his cock free and took just the tip while looking up at him.
He imagined Ms. Perky Breasts chained to the floor of his van. An electric prod to her breast would make her scream. Or maybe a solder gun to her belly. He could burn his initials into her pale tight skin.
“There you go, baby,” she said. “Nice and hard. Want me to climb on top?”
“No.”
As if understanding, she wrapped her lips around his cock and began to suckle. He fisted a handful of her hair and drove her face down hard. She gagged and shifted her hand to his thigh to steady herself. Her fingers brushed his wound and he hissed in a breath as pain cut through him.
“Careful!” he shouted. He released the pressure on her head.
She instantly sat up and stared at him with wary eyes. No doubt her instincts were telling her to run. “Did I hurt you?”
He ran his hand lightly over his thigh. “No. Finish it.”
She moistened her lips, hesitated, and then went down on him again. He grabbed her hair with both hands this time and twisted the strands until he knew it hurt. A whimper rose in her throat.
Her suffering excited him, and he gave in to the pleasure and coiled his hand tighter around her hair. Finally, he came in her mouth. She choked, trying to catch her breath. If he kept her like this, she might suffocate.
Suffocate. It was too easy a death.
“Swallow it,” he ordered.
When she complied, he let her up. She drew in a deep breath and pressed her back to the passenger door. She was smart enough not to complain.
He zipped up his pants and then fished a couple of twenty-dollar bills from his pocket. “I’m looking for someone. Tall, lean, dark hair. Doesn’t dress like a hooker. She was on your corner Monday night a week ago.”
“I don’t know her.” She eyed the bills. “I could ask.”
“I can do my own asking.”
“You a cop?”
“No.” He folded the bills neatly in half, creasing the edge to a fine point. “Who else would know about this woman?”
“The best person to ask is Sarah. She runs the Mission. She knows almost all the girls.”
He handed her the bills. “Get out.”
She quickly opened the door and stumbled into the alley. His headlights turned on with the engine, catching her slim frame pressed against the wall. Even if she remembered him, he had altered his appearance enough to throw any cop off.
He backed out of the alley, turned, and headed back toward the city. He needed to get a van.