“I’ve already taken it. He says to not dress up when you chase bad guys.”
“I try, but sometimes the bad guys don’t give me time to change.” He sipped the black tea. She’d dropped a sugar cube into it to ease the bitterness.
“It will be ready by Friday.”
“Dad does not have to rush.”
“He does not mind.” She moved to an avocado green refrigerator that dated back to the 1970s and pulled out a bottle of orange juice.
“I mind. He’s busy enough.”
“He is your father. He loves you. Let him do this for you.” She filled a glass with juice and sat across from him. She sipped as he ate his bagel. “Daniel, it is time you move back to your apartment.”
He glanced up at her. “Alexa will be back in a couple of days, and then I will.”
“I am glad you two stayed with me while I was sick, but I am better now. Now you and your sister must leave my house.”
“I like it here.”
She arched a brow, sensing a lie behind the words. “I’ve said it before. A young man needs his own life. A young woman needs her own life.” She raised her chin. “I change the locks in two weeks.”
He laughed. “You are kicking us out?”
“Yes. I have spoken to your father and mother, and they agree that you and Alexa must live your own lives.”
“Do they agree you should live alone?” She was old but no less cagey than a seasoned thief in a police interview room.
“That is my concern. Not yours or theirs.”
He wasn’t sure what was driving this or why she chose to tell him now. “I don’t have time to talk about this now.”
“There is nothing to talk about. You have two weeks.” She hesitated. “I need my ... space.”
“Space?”
“That is the right word, no?”
“It’s the right word. Okay. You need space. I’ll talk to Dad.”
“Talk all you want. But the locks will change.”
“I’m in the middle of a murder investigation.”
She shrugged. “Then after you catch your bad guy, I will change the locks.”
He rose, kissed her on the forehead, and grabbed his thermos. “Aren’t you worried Alexa and I will starve if we leave?”
She shook her head. “You both can cook. You just choose not to.”
“We’ve got you.”
“Which is the problem. You need a woman. She needs a man. Neither of you needs a doting grandmother. Now go and find your bad man.” It was an order, not a request. And he had no doubt that if he didn’t move his things back to his apartment, she’d put them on the curb. She loved him. Wanted the best. And she’d kick him and his sister to the curb to see that they got it.
Rokov left his grandmother sipping orange juice at the kitchen table.
All thoughts of his grandmother’s edict had left Rokov’s mind by the time he pulled up in front of the crime scene, an abandoned office building on Van Dorn. The parking lot was filled with seven police cruisers with lights flashing. The parking lot had been roped off with yellow crime scene tape and news crews had gathered across the street.
He rubbed the back of his neck and got out of his car. Sinclair was on the scene as were Detectives Deacon Garrison and Malcolm Kier. The three stood together, watching as a trio of forensics technicians moved into the old modular office building, likely built in the fifties. No doubt in its day, it had been cutting-edge design. Now it looked dated and old. The grass in the parking lot islands was tall and unkempt and the asphalt pitted and cracked. A large weathered For Sale/Lease sign lay by a demolition Dumpster. Now the land was worth more than the structure.
Rokov nodded to Sinclair as he approached Garrison. “What do we have?”
“A woman murdered. No signs of a gunshot or knife wound. Water in the mouth.”
“Drowned?”
“No signs of a fatal wound. But I’ll leave the final verdict to the medical examiner,” Garrison said.
Tension crawled up his spine. “Was her body positioned like the first woman?”
“Yes. She was placed on her back, arms and feet extended and staked. Salt ring around her body. Tattoo on her forehead.”
“Witch?”
“Yes.” Garrison nodded toward the press. “The brass is going to be pushing us hard on this one. Two women murdered in less than two weeks.”
Rokov glanced at the television news vans and the camera crews rolling film. “Have you made a statement?”
“Not yet,” Garrison said. “I’d like to have more to say.”
Rokov rested hands on his hips. “Did the victim have any identification?”
Sinclair moved up from behind him, her notebook flipped open. “None. Forensics is rolling prints. We’re hoping for some kind of match.”
“Any missing persons reports?”
“None that match her description. But that could change.”
Garrison frowned. “All right, you two, go have a look. I’ll talk to the press. Find me a killer, people.”
Rokov and Sinclair ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and donned rubber gloves and paper booties before they entered the building.
Rokov glanced up at a surveillance camera posted by the front door and noted someone had spray painted black paint on the lens. “This son of a bitch is really thinking this through.” He turned and surveyed the buildings around them. “He couldn’t have gotten them all. We’ll need to visit every building in the area, and if they’ve got cameras, watch their tapes.”
“It’s like finding a damn needle in the haystack.”
They climbed the stairs, passing several uniformed officers on the way up to the second floor. The third floor was a large wide-open box illuminated by large fluore
scent ceiling lights.
Red crime scene tape, which forensics reserved for the most sensitive areas, greeted them. The detectives moved to the edge of the tape, where Paulie stood just inside the room, snapping photographs.
Paulie, still aiming his camera, said, “Your boss has already been here.”
“We saw him.”
“And he told you the killer has a distinct pattern. This crime scene is very similar to the last scene.”
“Yeah.”
The technician stepped aside, so Rokov and Sinclair could look into the room. The victim lay in the center of the floor, positioned on her back, limbs outstretched and staked to the ground. Fully dressed, her hair was splayed out behind her head, and a ring of salt encircled her body. Pentagrams were drawn on two of the walls and three large glass windows had been blocked off with large plastic garbage bags and duct tape.
He moved into the room and stared at the woman’s face. She had a wide-set jaw, high cheekbones, and dark hair. She’d not been stunning but pretty. She appeared to be in her mid- to late forties, wore a blue peasant skirt and loose-fitting white blouse and jean jacket.
The word Witch had been tattooed on her forehead in careful, block letters that measured an inch high and an inch wide.
Rokov forced out a breath. “The skin on the forehead is thin.”
“I know. Pretty fucking painful.” Sinclair was careful to keep her emotions checked, but there were moments when her anger bubbled to the surface.
“Covering the windows is different,” Rokov said.
“Maybe he wanted more privacy,” Sinclair said.
“Or he’s scared.”
“Let’s hope.”
“The circle is as defined as the last. He likes to take his time. He likes precision.”
“He picks places where no one goes,” Sinclair added.
“Abandoned places. He’s got a system. He’s obsessive-compulsive about getting the details right.” He stared at the neat circle. “He’s done this before Diane Young.”
“There have been no ViCap hits.” ViCap was the Violent Crimes Database. Though effective, it wasn’t foolproof because not every jurisdiction inputted crimes into the system.