“The bureau’s field agents in Chicago have their hands full at the moment. A large arrest of Latin Kings members is about to take place soon.”
Tatum nodded. The Latin Kings was a huge street gang with bases of operations across the country. The top brass of the Latin Kings were located in Chicago.
“While the Chicago field office would be interested to help in the matter of this killer, it has been decided that their resources were better allocated elsewhere.”
Tatum’s bullshit decoder decrypted the sentence to “Someone on top decided that they should keep their nose out of this. They are shitting themselves in rage.”
He sighed, looking up at her. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to go there tomorrow. Talk to the lead police detective, see exactly where the investigation is going, and report to me. Then we’ll decide how to move forward.”
“Do I report to the Chicago field office as well or . . .”
“It would be best if you let me handle that.”
“Okay,” Tatum said. He would be happy to leave that political tiptoe dance to someone more capable. This assignment would mean a weekend in Chicago, but he didn’t mind. He’d never been to Chicago before.
“Agent Gray, the FBI is there to consult. I don’t want to hear that you took over the case or in any way behaved as if you were in charge. We’re working hard to get the police to trust us enough to ask for our assistance in future cases. Got that?”
He nodded. “Got it, Chief.”
“Anything else?”
“No,” he said and got up. “Nice fish.”
“Yeah, you want one?”
He looked at her, confused. “You want to give me a fish?”
“I can spare one for your new home,” Mancuso said, glancing at her aquarium. “But I’m warning you—he’s a bastard.”
CHAPTER 4
Zoe unlocked the door to her apartment automatically, her thoughts far away, sifting through crime scene data. She had spent the entire day reading and rereading the cases of the eight murders Mancuso had given her, the two folders of suspects untouched. She should have been faster, she knew, worked harder. But something jarred her, preventing her from carrying on. Some of the details didn’t mesh, and she had pored over the evidence trying to home in on them, figure out the problem.
The case had hounded her on her way home, and she had nearly missed her exit off I-95. It was a constant buzz in her head, and she already knew she’d have a hard time falling asleep.
She stepped into the apartment and immediately tensed at a sound from the kitchen.
“Zoe, is that you?” a voice asked.
She relaxed and dropped her shoulder bag by the door. “Hey, Andrea,” she called.
Her sister’s smiling head popped out of the kitchen’s doorway. “Hey,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“I made pasta, so I hope you feel like Italian,” Andrea said and disappeared back into the kitchen.
Zoe wanted to say something funny, something about the kind of Italian she wanted. She tried to frame her witty repartee: Sure, if it’s an Italian man with a sexy body. But it didn’t sound funny at all, not even in her mind. Like most of Zoe’s jokes, this one died an early death in her head. Wit was something that happened to other people, and if it happened to Zoe at all, it was usually three hours too late. “Yeah, pasta sounds great,” she finally said.
“Awesome,” Andrea said happily.
Zoe stepped into the kitchen, then paused. “Holy crap, this is amazing.”
Andrea had placed two plates on the checkered tablecloth that hid the ugly square table. Each one was layered with green basil leaves on which a serving of yellowish-white spaghetti was placed. On top of the mouth-watering pasta lay a small slice of salmon with a garlic-spotted light-brown crust.
“I don’t deserve this magical meal,” Zoe said weakly.
“Sure you do. Come on—dig in. I brought a couple of beers as well.”
Zoe sat down and took a bite of the salmon. The crust was paper thin and crispy, and the fish practically melted in her mouth. She closed her eyes and inhaled. It was the first time all day that her mind had emptied completely, and she savored the pure physical joy of eating a wonderful meal.
Andrea placed a bottle of beer in front of her, the glass perspiring, a slice of lemon on top.
“This is like eating in a restaurant,” Zoe said.
“I suppose you meant that as a compliment.” Andrea smiled at her and swirled her spaghetti around her fork. “So . . . how was work?”
The eight dead girls flooded back into Zoe’s mind.
“That bad?” Andrea asked, watching Zoe’s face.
“No, no,” Zoe said quickly. “It was actually very good. Very interesting. Just . . . intense.”
She managed to hook three strands of spaghetti, twirling them around the fork. She topped them with a basil leaf, then sliced a piece of salmon and put the well-crafted bite into her mouth. Sublime. “I’m just looking at some murder cases. Eight girls were discarded in ditches in several states, and we think they may be connected. They all have bite marks on them. All eight were raped vaginally; four were raped anally; two had some teeth missing. But the weird thing is—” She paused.
Andrea took a drink of her beer, her fork discarded on the plate. She looked quite pale.
“Are you okay?” Zoe asked.
“So . . . when I ask you, ‘How was work?’ I want more stories about how your boss was bitchy or how the printer stopped working. And fewer stories about, uh . . . anal rape and missing teeth.”
“I’m sorry,” Zoe said. “I just—I was looking through those cases all day, and I didn’t think . . .” She cursed herself. She had always been careful to avoid talking about her work with Andrea. She didn’t want her sister exposed to this, not again.
“I just don’t understand how you can look at these things every day,” Andrea said, staring at the table. “Especially considering what happened in Maynard.”
Zoe said nothing. It would have been easy to tell her sister that it was her coping mechanism. That “this was how she made sure what happened in Maynard wouldn’t happen again” or some other piece of drama. But it would be a lie. She liked what she did. She was good at it. She was very much aware that her past had shaped her, but she wanted to believe that she was over that.
It was better not to discuss her work at all. Protect her sister from that part of her life. As she had always done. As she had done that night long ago.
Don’t worry, Ray-Ray. He can’t hurt us.
“It’s okay.” Andrea shook her head. “I mean, this is your job.”
Zoe nodded. “Yeah, sorry for mentioning that, Ray-Ray.”
There was a moment of silence.
“You haven’t called me that in years,” Andrea said, raising an eyebrow.
Zoe grinned at her sheepishly. “I guess that this dinner you cooked is making me sentimental.”
Andrea snorted and pushed her plate away. “Whatever. I think I’ll eat the rest a bit later. I stuffed myself with salmon before you even got home.”
“Okay,” Zoe said, taking another bite. “Did you season this with lemon?”
“Just a bit,” Andrea said, standing up.
“I can taste it,” Zoe said happily. “It really adds a lot. I think—”
The puzzle pieces suddenly clicked.
All bodies had been found naked, their clothes discarded nearby, but in three of the murders, the underwear and the shoes had been missing. This wasn’t in the crime reports; the reports only listed the evidence found. None mentioned the things that were unaccounted for. The missing underwear and shoes were trophies taken by the killer. But in the other five cases, no trophies were taken. Two different signatures. It was possible there were two killers, not one.
“Everything okay?” she heard her sister say. “You’re just staring at your plate.”
“I just figured something out,” Zoe said.
“Yeah? What is it?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Just work.”
CHAPTER 5