Another very good question.
“Her friend came to get her, the one who was friends with them. Sasha something. I didn’t catch the last name, but I’ve seen her around before. Told the FBI agent that she was taking Daisy to ‘Mom and Dad’s house.’” She quirked her fingers for air quotes.
“Do you know where that is?” the same guy asked.
“No,” Mrs. Owens said, clearly sorry that she did not have this information.
“Can you describe the body, ma’am?” a third reporter called.
The woman shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it, but . . .” She leaned forward, expression avid. “It was awful. The woman had been stabbed at least twenty times. Maybe thirty! And her head . . .” She swallowed hard. “He’d slit her throat. Nearly cut her head off.”
Now that’s just not true. He’d strangled Trish. His knife had never strayed above her collarbone. He always strangled them. If they died of their wounds, it just felt . . . empty somehow.
But the audible gasp from the small group seemed to satisfy the woman, who sat back in her chair with a nod. “She ran wild, that girl.”
“Ma’am,” a female reporter called out. “Are you suggesting that the victim brought this on herself?”
The old woman shrugged. “He certainly didn’t break her door down. How else would he have gotten in if she hadn’t brought him home willingly?”
He was starting to feel sorry for Trish. Too bad the old biddy wasn’t his type. He’d take care of her for the simple pleasure of it.
The female reporter’s lips had pinched into a straight line. “Thank you, ma’am.” She started to walk away and he followed, hoping the woman could give him some more information. Like where the Fed was now. It was likely that wherever the Fed was, Daisy would be there, too.
“Excuse me,” he said softly, fixing his expression into one of shock and sorrow.
The reporter turned and took him in in a glance. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I . . . just heard about Trish. We . . .” He closed his eyes. “God. We were dating.” He let a sob escape his throat.
The reporter took a few steps closer, patting his arm. “How long were you dating?” she asked, her tone compassionate, but he wasn’t fooled. There was a gleam in her eye that said she was looking for a fresh angle.
He’d give her a story. He just had to make sure he wasn’t photographed. Couldn’t have his face in the newspaper. Mrs. Martell might recognize him as her daughter’s “friend.”
“Not long,” he told the reporter. “About a month.”
“And what’s your name, sir?”
“John,” he murmured distractedly. “John Senegal. I need to talk to the FBI agent who was with Daisy, Trish’s friend. What that woman said about what was done to her . . .”
“I don’t think the woman was telling the truth,” the reporter said kindly. “I don’t think it was that . . . extreme.”
Yes, it was. It was totally extreme. I just didn’t cut off her fucking head.
“I need to talk to the agent handling the case,” he repeated more forcefully. “The old woman said it was being handled by the FBI.”
“Well, an FBI agent happened to find the body, but a pair of SacPD homicide detectives is on the case. Sokolov and Rhee.”
“Sokolov and Rhee,” he murmured, pretending to be taking his leave. “I’ll go to the station right now. Thank you.”
“They weren’t going to the station,” she said when he turned to go back to his car.
He pivoted back to face her. “Where did they go?”
Her expression became intensely sympathetic. “To the morgue.”
He sucked in a breath. “Oh. Thank you.” He made a show of squaring his shoulders. “All of them? The FBI agent, too?”
“Yes, he was with them. If you hurry, you can catch up to them. They only left a short time ago. I’m so sorry for your loss,” she added softly, then handed him her business card. “My cell and my e-mail are on there. Please contact me if you learn anything new. I’ll make sure your story is told with dignity.”
Sure you will, he thought sarcastically, but he took the card. “Thank you,” he breathed, then hurried to his car, waiting until he was behind the wheel to bow his head and let his grin take over his face.
Excellent. He tapped Maps, found the county coroner’s office, and started driving.
Fifteen minutes later he was slowing as he drove by the coroner’s offices—just in time to see the Fed park his car in between a blue Range Rover and a red Subaru, then hurry inside.
Daisy had been in that man’s arms. He really didn’t like that.
He’d given the subject some thought while driving to the morgue and realized that not one of the women he’d ever met—and that included his guests, passengers, everyone—had made him feel the way Daisy had today.
Not one had made him want her. Like a normal man wanted a normal woman. Not like Sydney, that was for damn sure. No one until Daisy Dawson. He might not ever find this feeling again, so he was going to make sure he held on to her.
He needed to see if this was real or something he’d only imagined. Of course he knew that she was very attractive. He’d seen that today. He knew she was nice. He’d watched her be kind to everyone she saw today, including himself. He’d watched her smile, and watched others smile back. He knew she was generous with her time, volunteering with the animal shelter.
She was the kind of woman a man brought home to meet his mother. Unless the man’s mother is dead and he has a vicious stepmother that makes Cinderella’s stepmom look like freaking Mother Teresa. Then . . . no.
If she’d only been “nice,” he could have kept walking. He could have ignored her. But it was his body’s response that had floored him and that was what he needed to explore. She made him feel sexual.
That was it. Sexual. For the first time ever.
That decided it for him. He’d find a way to take Daisy home with him, so that he could take his time finding out if this feeling was real. If it wasn’t, he’d kill her quickly and painlessly.
Because he’d have to keep her. Once he took her home, he could never let her go. He’d have to reinforce his doors and windows, probably even locking her in the basement so that she couldn’t escape when he was gone to work.
But he’d make her happy. And in return, she’d make him very happy indeed. He could keep a woman alive. He’d done it before. He didn’t kill all his guests right away. He’d kept Susan for almost a year. He’d have kept her longer if she hadn’t gotten fucking pneumonia. If he kept Daisy, he’d have to do something about the dampness of his basement guest room.
He’d also need to get rid of that Fed who hovered over her like she belonged to him. Then he’d figure out what to do with her. If she proved a problem, he’d have to kill her, no matter how nice she was.
He parked a half a block down and put money in the meter. Just in case. He did not want to be delayed by an overzealous meter maid.
He’d tail the Fed when he came out of the coroner’s. Because if the man really had held Daisy in his arms, he’d go to her at some point.
I just have to be patient.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 6:10 P.M.
Gideon found Rafe and Erin waiting for him outside the door to the autopsy suite. “How is Daisy?” Erin asked.
“Holding up,” Gideon said, then told them what she’d said about the customer who’d been bothering Trish on Thursday.
“Shit,” Erin murmured. “I should have asked her that. I took her home from the ER on Thursday. I should have asked.”
Gideon sighed. “You couldn’t have known, Erin. We all thought he was after Daisy.”
“He did grab her,” Rafe said, “and try to abduct her.”
Erin shook her head. “Only after she confronted him, thinking he was her friend Jacob. He must have figured that it didn’t matter which of them he took. Except that he tracked Trish to her apartment. If he comes after Daisy, too, we need to be ready. We can’t let our guard down.”
Gideon had already thought of this—several times. It still made his gut tighten painfully. “I won’t. What does the coroner have?”
“Not sure,” Rafe said. “Let’s find out.”
Gideon followed Rafe and Erin into the autopsy suite just as a man came out of one of the offices, gowned and goggled. He gave a nod when he saw them coming.
“Dr. Sifuentes,” Rafe said, “this is Special Agent Reynolds. He’s working with us on this investigation.”
“Good to meet you,” Sifuentes said, his rich voice echoing off the white tiles.
“And you.” Gideon looked to the body covered by a sheet. “This is the victim?”
“Yes. I haven’t started the examination yet. I won’t get to her until late tomorrow, but I thought you would want to see what we found when we prepared her.” He lifted the sheet from her face, folding it back at her abdomen.
With the body washed of its blood, more stab wounds were visible.