She felt the heat rising in her cheeks and fought an urge to slap Whitney hard enough to rattle his fillings. Instead she leaned in just inches from his face, intentionally close enough that he could feel the heat of her breath on his skin, the way he had done it to her in his shop.
“Listen to me, you little turd, if you think I’m tedious now, just wait till we’ve been here for ten hours and I’ve asked you the same questions twenty-seven times just because I’m getting paid overtime for this and you’re not.”
Whitney flinched. It was small pleasures like this that helped make up for the many frustrations of being a detective and dealing with scumbags.
As she was savoring Whitney’s discomfort, her phone began vibrating once more. Verraday again. She felt her anger rising hot within her, pissed off now at both Verraday and Whitney. She turned her phone off completely. In the five seconds it took Maclean to deal with the distraction of her phone, Whitney’s lawyer had recovered enough to mount a counterattack.
“Detective Maclean, you’re attempting to intimidate my client. I must ask that you keep your distance.”
“It’s okay, Frank,” said Whitney with easy familiarity. Then he turned to Maclean and gave her a smile that was almost a leer.
“You know, Detective, if you ever want to trade in that frowsy pantsuit for something a little strappier—maybe boots, a corset, and a whip? I could get you eight hundred dollars an hour just for dishing out that attitude . . . and a bit of light punishment. There are some very wealthy and respectable people in Seattle who would just love to take orders for a change instead of giving them. If you want, I can even—”
“Just shut the fuck up,” shouted Maclean, annoyed as much by Verraday as by Whitney. “You do not talk unless I ask you a question. Got it, asshole?”
“Oooh,” responded Whitney with an exaggerated squeal. “Feisty too. But I don’t think I want to answer any more of your questions right now.”
“Good,” replied Maclean. “Then you’re welcome to camp out in the lockup until you’re feeling more talkative. We’ve got some crackheads and Crips that I’m sure would love to meet you. Have a nice night, Mr. Whitney.”
CHAPTER 15
Verraday’s call went directly to voice mail on the third try. He knew that Maclean had turned off her cell so she could ignore him.
“Damn it, Maclean. I’m telling you, the killer’s still out there. And you know what that means. Call me.”
Verraday terminated the call and put his phone down. Agitated, he went to the kitchen, took his Seattle World’s Fair tumbler out of the dish rack, then grabbed the bottle of brandy from the counter and went back upstairs to his den. He unscrewed the cap and was about to pour it, saw that it was still early, then screwed the cap back on the bottle and put it up on his bookcase where it wouldn’t be within immediate reach. Damn it. Maclean’s comment about good old-fashioned legwork stung him. But maybe there was something to it. He was already certain about the psychology of the victims and the perpetrator or perpetrators. But that wasn’t going to bring them any closer to catching the killer. Not yet. There was a missing piece of the puzzle that they had to find first.
He pulled up the screengrab that Kyle Davis had taken of Rachel Friesen dancing with the unidentified blonde girl. She might be able to tell them what Rachel no longer could. He zoomed in on her to look for any identifying marks. She had lots of piercings, including one in her nose, but all the studs and rings were nondescript. Her legs were mercifully free of the tattoos that marred so many otherwise beautiful young women these days. But that would make it harder to identify her. He scanned her chest, arms, and face. Finally, he spotted something distinctive. On her shoulder was a tattoo of the Norse goddess Freya.