“Audrey Jones,” she said, raising an eyebrow as he gaped like a fish. “Sure, take a pair. Make sure to give your associates some as well.”
He nodded and put on the gloves. They were small, perfect for Audrey’s delicate hands, but his clumsy paws felt as if the latex were slowly squeezing the blood out of them. He told himself not to clench his fists, an action that would surely tear the gloves in half.
“When did you get here?” he asked.
“About half an hour ago,” she said. “The body was discovered at half past nine.”
Tatum looked around him. “Was the beach empty? Why did it take so long to discover the body?”
“I gather people just didn’t notice her,” Audrey said, slowly folding the paper bag she held. She took a pen from her pocket and scribbled something on it. “They thought she was sleeping or something.”
Tatum shook his head in disbelief. A woman dead in the middle of a public beach on a sunny day, and it took people two, maybe three hours to notice her. “Find anything?”
“There were some footprints,” Audrey said. “But this entire scene was trampled, so I doubt any of them are relevant. We took some photos anyway. I found a couple of cigarette butts and a used condom almost completely buried in the sand.”
Tatum suspected that if Audrey were to search any other part of the beach, she’d find a similar collection of items.
“Thanks, Audrey,” he said, standing up.
“No problem,” she said, smiling and glancing at him, her head quirked sideways. Even her body language was like Tina’s. He wondered if Audrey was bioengineered to mess with his head.
Zoe approached them, and Tatum wordlessly handed her a pair of gloves. She slipped them on and looked at the body, her eyes intent. Tatum followed suit, trying to see what she was looking at.
The victim’s hands covered her face in a perfect imitation of a person sobbing. If it weren’t for her unnatural stillness and the slight grayish hue of her skin, it would have been impossible to guess she wasn’t alive. She wore a long-sleeved yellow shirt and a brown skirt, which was bunched around her thighs. Her feet were bare. There was a bruise circling her throat and bruises around her wrists and ankles. Tatum didn’t need the ME to tell him she had probably been bound. Had she been tied when she was killed? Had her death been painful? Had she screamed, begged her captor to let her go? He looked away and stared at the waves, feeling angry.
It was a windy day, and Lake Michigan’s small waves broke against each other randomly, creating eddies of white foam. A bad day for surfing, he thought automatically, even though he hadn’t surfed for over fifteen years. Once he had begun surfing, he could never look at the waves without trying to assess if they were good enough.
It was a nice beach, the water on one side, the high buildings of the Chicago shoreline on the other, their windows mostly tinted blue, as if mirroring the water. There was a small green park to the south. The residents must love coming here, walking or running alongside the beach, maybe going for a swim. How long before they began doing that again? Would the beach be full tomorrow, even though a dead woman had been left there not long before?
“Can you estimate the time of death?” he heard Zoe ask. He turned to her and the body again. She was talking to the ME.
“Maybe later, when I do the autopsy, but I’m not sure. If she’s embalmed, like the ones before, it’ll be tricky.”
“Are you the ME who checked the previous two?” Zoe asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“I’d be happy to talk to you later, compare your findings for the three victims.”
Happy. Zoe sure could pick her words. Happy to talk about women who were strangled to death and embalmed. Overjoyed. Tra-la-la.
The ME nodded, then grabbed one of the victim’s hands carefully while holding the upper arm firmly with his other hand. He pulled, and the hand moved away from the face.
“She’s more flexible than the other two,” he told Zoe.
“Her eyes are closed,” Zoe said, looking closely.
“And her mouth,” the ME said. “The first victim’s mouth wasn’t shut.” He slid a paper bag over the palm and fastened it there with a rubber band.
“She has a ring,” Zoe said, pointing at the other hand.
“Yeah. They’ll remove it in the morgue,” the ME said, pulling the second hand down, uncovering the face completely. Both of the victim’s eyes were shut, her face a mask of calmness.
“Can I?” Zoe asked, motioning at the palm.
“I’d really prefer that you—”
“I’ll be careful,” Zoe said. She grabbed the palm carefully and slid the ring aside. She looked carefully at the finger, then at Tatum. “No tan line,” she said.
“Maybe she has no tan,” Tatum suggested.
Zoe shook her head impatiently and gently shifted the shirt’s collar. A slight difference in the skin tone was clearly visible. “She had a tan line here,” Zoe said. “A different type of shirt, one that exposed more skin.” She pulled the collar downward, exposing the same tan line near the body’s chest. “More cleavage,” she added.
“So?” the ME asked as he put a paper bag on the second hand.
“She was used to being in the sun in shirts that exposed her body.” Zoe chewed her lip. “There’s a good chance she was a prostitute.”
“Or a bike delivery girl,” Tatum said. “Or a Cubs cheerleader. Or an unemployed girl who liked to walk in the morning in a spaghetti strap shirt. You can’t deduce—”
“I’m not deducing anything,” Zoe said sharply. “But one of the previous victims was a prostitute. High-risk victims are the main targets of serial killers. I think it’s probable.”
Irritated, Tatum turned and walked away. He approached the civilian who stood with Lieutenant Martinez. The man had blond hair and an almost invisible mustache. The contrast to Martinez’s facial hair was very noticeable.
“Is this the guy who found the body?” Tatum asked.
“Yup.” Martinez nodded. “Dan Finley.”
“And I really need to go,” Dan said, his voice high. “I have business to attend to and—”
“What kind of business?” Tatum asked.
“I’m a quinoa supplier. I have stores and restaurants that depend on me. These days, if you’re late on one shipment, people move on to a different supplier. There’s no loyalty, no partnership. It’s every man for—”
“What time did you get to the beach?” Tatum asked.
“I went through this twice already. How many times do you expect me to answer the same questions?”
“It’s a murder investigation, Mr. Finley,” Martinez said. “We don’t want to make any mistakes. I’m sure you understand that.”
“Like I told the others, I got to the beach around eight.”
“And you didn’t report the body until nine thirty?” Tatum asked.
“I didn’t know she was dead. I thought she was crying.”
“There was a woman crying on the beach for an hour and a half before you checked it out?”
“No one else approached her either. I didn’t want to intrude,” Dan said, his mouth twisted in bitterness. “These days you can’t go to the beach without something like this happening.”
“You can’t go to the beach without finding a dead body?” Tatum looked at the man, incredulous.
Dan pursed his lips and said nothing. Tatum shook his head and walked away. Martinez joined him a minute later.
“Third victim,” Tatum told Martinez.
Martinez nodded. “And only eleven days after the last one.”
Tatum folded his arms, looking at the lake. He was frustrated and worried. He hoped they’d manage to get the killer before a fourth dead woman showed up.
CHAPTER 13