“You think the organs were harvested to sell?” Wilson asked.
“It crossed my mind,” Cruz said, thinking of the inmates’ missing body parts. “But if someone is harvesting organs, why go after homeless people? Most of them have abused their bodies from years of living on the street. Many have Hep C or HIV.”
“Sac County’s dead body was a homeless woman, too,” Slater reminded him.
Cruz didn’t want to challenge another county’s medical examiner, but he had to ask. “How thorough do you think Sac County was with her autopsy?”
Slater’s craggy face had a fierce look. “I don’t know, but I mean to find out.”
“That county is much more overworked than Bigler County is,” Wilson offered. “A too-casual autopsy wouldn’t surprise me.”
“If the homeless woman in Sacramento had her organs removed, too, it’s – ”
“Right,” Slater interrupted, “going to be a shitload of a mess.”
After Cruz and Slater finished at the morgue, Cruz turned to Slater. “There’s more,” he said, not quite knowing how to explain Frankie Jones’ role in all this. “A doctor at Pelican Bay contacted me, looking for a paroled inmate. She was nosing around in inmate medical records through a routine health exam and was attacked at the prison.”
They’d reached their cars in the hospital parking lot by the time Cruz had told Slater about the assault on Frankie at the prison parking lot, about Cole and the sudden attack on both of them at the Rosedale house.
“Mary, Mother of God!” Slater said. “How? Why?”
During the post-mortem discussion, Cruz had considered another puzzle piece. “There’s more,” he began just as Slater’s phone rang.
“Urgent, I have to take this,” Slater said as he slipped into his truck. “Tell me the rest at this – this prison doctor’s house. Right now we need to keep your two people out of harm’s way. Text me the address and I’ll send a deputy there.”
Yeah, Cruz thought as Slater sped away. But will that be enough?
Cruz swung by the Jesus Saves shelter before returning to check up on Frankie and Cole. The building was locked up tight, no lights, no one inside. A dozen or so homeless men and woman stood smoking and leaning against one of the buildings. A pile of backpacks and two bicycles lay on the sidewalk.
When Cruz spied Sergei Petrovich from the corner of his eye, he approached him. “Where’s Angie?”
Sergei’s small eyes darted one way, then the other. “She’s missing.”
Cruz hovered over Sergei like a mountain. “What the hell do you mean she’s missing?”
The Russian man shrunk back. “I dunno, man. She’s gone.” He pointed toward the closed door of Jesus Saves. “She don’t show up today.”
“That’s not like Angie,” Cruz remarked, looking around the white picket fence of the Jesus Saves yard. He narrowed his eyes and fixed them firmly on the Russian. “Do you know where she’s gone?”
Sergei shrugged in a very east European manner, but his eyes slid away from Cruz. “Nobody know.”
“When did you see her last? Maybe she took a vacation day,” Cruz suggested.
“No, man, this place her life. She no show, she in trouble.” Again, his eyes didn’t quite meet Cruz’s. He started to say something, but was interrupted by the arrival of a woman Cruz had never seen before.
“Thas Sharon Fasser,” Sergei mumbled. “She muss be here to work for Angie.”
Chapter 48
Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, the killer realized he’d been thinking subconsciously about Angie Hunt for a long time. Been waiting for the right opportunity. He drew in a deep, shuttering breath, calmed his excitement, tried to tamp down the adrenaline rush from having snatched her right outside the Jesus Saves building.
He’d made peace with it all now.
He freely admitted to himself that the death of the man in Ryder Park had been an impulse. A rage without thought in the moment. It could jam him up royally. He couldn’t afford to give in to that kind of sloppiness again.
This time he’d planned, taken his time, and chosen carefully.
Bitch Angie Hunt, street skank supreme, acted like she was somebody important. Running the worthless shelter, overseeing the funds that rolled in from wealthy saps who believed her sob stories about street bums and their tough lives.
He would take his time with her. It wouldn’t be quick or easy.
The old homeless man had been a spontaneous act, an accident that’d ended in a risky situation, but this time he’d figured out all the details in advance. He knew where to take her, how long he’d keep her, and where he’d dump her when he was finished. A careful plan.