“She was fascinated about society’s view of witches,” Boxwood said.
“Looks like the author is making fun of her.”
“She agreed to the getup because she knew it would catch readers’ attention.”
“And it did?”
“Her class enrollment for the spring semester rose twenty percent.”
He leaned in and read a quote. “‘I am fascinated by the fact that society is so afraid of witches, who for the most part were simply strong women with strong opinions.’”
“Maya spent most of this past summer in Salem digging through archives. She’d chosen one woman who was hung during the trials and was trying to re-create the woman’s life.”
Rokov glanced at the stacks of papers on her desk. “Did she receive any threats?”
“If she did, she never said a word to me or anyone else.”
“Did she ever mention Diane Young?”
He flinched. “The other woman killed. No. She didn’t know her.”
“Did she visit the carnival?”
“She didn’t usually go in for that kind of thing, but a student left tickets on her desk so she went.”
“Which student?”
“She never could figure it out.” He pushed trembling fingers through his hair. “Christ, who would do something like this?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
Tears welled in Boxwood’s eyes, and his voice cracked when he spoke. “She didn’t deserve this.”
“No one does.”
Rokov and Sinclair arrived at Just Java a little after four thirty. Most of the round tables were full with patrons holding coffee cups, and the place buzzed with conversations punctuated by the hiss of cappuccino machines. As it had before, it smelled of cinnamon and coffee.
The detectives moved to the front cash register and showed the young cashier their badges. The kid doled out change to a customer and wiped his hands on his green apron. “You guys back again?”
“Afraid so.” Rokov pulled out the DMV photo of Maya Jones. “Has she been in the shop lately?”
The kid shrugged. “That’s Dr. Jones. Haven’t seen her in a few days. She’s a regular. She in trouble or something?”
“No,” Rokov said.
“She wasn’t the woman killed at The Wharf.”
“No. Did you serve her?”
“I did. She always gets the skinny latte with extra foam and a cookie on Fridays. Nice lady.”
“Did she meet anyone here?” Sinclair said.
“Honestly, I couldn’t tell you. But ask Katrina. She’s our waitress, and she gets around the room. I’m stuck behind the metal dragon.” He patted the cash register and smiled.
“Is she here?” Rokov said.
“Yeah. On the floor.” He pointed to a tall slim woman with long dark hair.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
The detectives cut through the crowd and approached the waitress. She balanced a tray full of dirty dishes as she approached.
“Katrina.” Rokov pulled out his badge.
“That’s right.” She blew long, dark bangs out of her eyes. “What do you need?”
“We’re looking for this woman.” Again he showed Dr. Jones’s picture.
“Maya. She’s cool.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
Dark eyes grew wary. “Last Friday.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. It was cookie day. She always gets cookies on Fridays. And she always tips well on Fridays.”
“Was she alone?”
“She came in alone, but then moved to the table of a man.”
Rokov tucked Dr. Jones’s picture back in his breast pocket. “Did you recognize the man?”
“He’d been in a couple of times. Kept to himself. Always tipped exactly fifteen percent.”
“Did he approach her?” Sinclair said.
“I don’t know. But they seemed to be talking about a book. Maya loves to read. She moved to his table, and they chatted happily. I know she’s been dating a louse, so it was nice to see her meet someone else.”
“What did he look like?”
Katrina frowned. “Medium height. Light-colored hair. Mustache. Baggy sweatshirt. Acted like he was in his fifties, but he gave off a younger vibe.”
“Good memory,” Sinclair said. “Folks don’t usually remember so well.”
“I remember how people tip. I’m kind of a savant that way. But I don’t usually remember people.”
“Why was he different?” Rokov said.
“He bled on the table.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Not when he was here with Maya but about a week before. He came back and wiped up something on the table and then left. I checked behind him and saw drops of blood on the floor near his chair.”
“Did he appear injured?”
“No bandages or anything. But it was definitely blood I cleaned up. I threw the wash cloth right in the trash.”
“Would you be willing to meet with a sketch artist and help him work up a picture?”
“Sure. Who is this guy?”
“We’re trying to find that out.”
“Did something happen to Maya?”
“I can’t say right now.”
She shoved out a breath. “Shit. You’d have told me she was fine if she was.”
They asked Katrina a few more questions before releasing her back to work. Outside Rokov rested his hands on his hips. “He came back because he knew he was bleeding.”
“Why was he bleeding?”
“I wish the hell that I knew.”
“Too bad she threw the rag out.”
“Yeah.” He glanced down the street at The Wharf.
“He dumps one victim down the block and kidnaps another from here. He knows this area. It’s his hunting ground.”
“So what now?”
“We beat the pavement and canvas the shops and ask about Dr. Maya Jones and mystery man.”
When Charlotte shut down her computer, it was past eight. Bone tired, she had a throbbing headache. She glanced at her calendar. Each day was packed with appointments and notes. She flipped the page to November and noted the first week of the new month was just as slammed as October. She didn’t see white space—breathing space a
s she liked to call it—until mid-November. Longingly she glanced at the Saturdays in November. The first few weeks would be spent putting her new place in order, and of course, Thanksgiving was open as always. For the last few years she’d worked on the holiday but perhaps this year she’d invite Sooner over for a meal. Home-cooked took on a whole and not so positive meaning when linked to her, but she’d see that the girl had a decent meal.
The front bell rang, startling her. She glanced at the monitor behind her desk. Rokov stood by the door, his hands casually in his pocket. Casual. That was probably the worst word anyone used to describe him. He possessed an intensity that carried over from his work into the bedroom.
She closed her eyes and imagined the look on his face the last time he’d pushed into her. He’d been staring at her, gauging her reaction, even trying to read her mind. They’d both promised the sex was just sex. No attachments. No commitments. But she’d sensed in that moment he was starting to have feelings for her. That’s why in the parking lot she’d told him no more meetings.
No sex. No touches. No contact.
And yet he was here now.
Sighing, she rose, smoothed her skirt, and walked to the front door. She flipped the locks and opened the door. “Detective. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
His expression was unreadable even as his gaze lingered on her. “Have you seen Grady?”
“No, I haven’t.” The edge of disappointment did surprise her. Of course he’d come about work.
“What about Sooner?”
“I saw her last night.” She stepped aside and motioned for him to enter. She closed and locked the door behind him. “She’s opening a shop on Washington Street. She’s leaving the carnival.”
“Does Grady know?”
“He does, and he’s not happy about her leaving.” She sighed.
“What kind of relationship did he have with Mariah?”
The shift tipped her off balance for a moment. “I’ve told you. He was her stepfather.”
“Was there more to it?”
“More?” Her face paled. “You mean sexually?”
“Yes.”
Her stomach felt hollow. “He couldn’t have done that.”
“Why not? She was lovely.”
“He was thirty years her senior.”