The local authorities in all three cases not only confirmed that the bodies were found wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic and that the hair had been painstakingly shaved off post--mortem, but that the murder weapon was most likely a straight razor and used to do the shaving. Those facts had been concealed from published reports in all instances, just as they have been here in New York.
It would have been difficult, if not impossible, for local police investigators to spot a pattern that would link homicides unfolding so many miles and months apart. Viewed individually, the cases would appear to be random, even when checked against a state’s unsolved homicide database.
The federal databases are considerably more effective than they used to be, but they’re far from ideal. Crimes continue to slip through the cracks.
Sully and Stockton alerted the FBI that they might have evidence of a highly organized serial killer crossing state lines. If this were a television show, a string of black government SUVs would immediately be dispatched to hunt down the killer. In reality, the bureau is as overburdened and understaffed as the NYPD, and it will take some time and red tape before they’ll be able to assist in the case.
At least they’re making progress on their own, although it’s painstaking. None of the missing persons reports filed over the past -couple of days fit their Jane Doe’s description. The distinctive ladybug tattoo might help to identify her, but for now, they’re holding that detail back from the public as well.
“You know what I could go for?” Stockton asks, leaning back and stretching.
“Coffee? Sleep? San Shan soup and shredded beef with spicy Asian green chili leeks and white rice?”
He groans. “Szechuan Emperor again?”
They’ve had takeout from her latest favorite Chinese place at least two days out of the past four.
“It’s a serious craving, Barnes. I can’t stop thinking about that beef.”
“Maybe you’re pregnant.”
She snorts. “With my track record lately? Yeah, sure. It would be an Immaculate Conception.”
Naturally that comment sets Barnes on a snarky roll until the phone rings on Sully’s desk, cutting off his comment about the Blessed Virgin Gingersnap.
It’s the desk sergeant, informing her that he’s putting through a tip line caller. “She’s the real deal. Got a missing roommate who fits the bill.”
“Go ahead,” she says, and grabs a pen and paper as the call clicks in. “Hello, this is Detective Leary.”
There’s a long pause. Then a halting female voice says, “I, um, just saw on the news . . . there was a thing about a . . . um, death, and I’m worried . . . I haven’t been able to get ahold of my friend in a few days and when she blew me off the other night I thought she was just being annoying but now I’m scared that . . .”
“Okay, what’s your name?” Sully asks, pen poised.
“Dana Phelps.”
“And what’s hers?”
“It’s Julia. Julia Sexton.”
Bob Belinke hasn’t been stood up since . . . since . . .
Wait, has he ever been stood up?
Not that he can recall. But there’s a first time for everything.
“Would you like to order your entrée, sir?”
The waiter has materialized yet again, the furrow between his brows deepening with every visit to this cozy table for two since Bob sat down over an hour ago. Clearly, he thinks Bob is waiting for a date—-something he figured he and Rick could laugh about when Rick gets here.
But it looks like he’ll be laughing alone—-if at all.
“I’ll hold off a little longer,” Bob tells the waiter. “I’m sure my friend is coming.”
“Shall I clear away the appetizer?”
“Why don’t you leave it for now? My friend might have some.”
Friend . . .
Remembering that Rick had used the same term yesterday to refer to his previous diner companion, Bob wonders again why he was so cagey.
As the waiter walks away, he checks his cell phone.
It’s been nearly two hours since Rick texted to say he was leaving the office. He didn’t pick up when Bob called to say he was going to be seated to keep the reservation, and he still hasn’t called or texted back, which isn’t like him.
At least, it wasn’t like him.
How well do I know him now?