“You brought it up.”
“Because you defended her. If you were thinking like a cop when it came to Jenna Thompson, we’d not be having this conversation.”
Rick entered the forensics lab to find Georgia leaning over a light table gazing through a magnifying lens, the pink blanket for the Lost Girl case spread out. She held a pair of tweezers in one hand and an evidence bag in the other.
“Did you find something?”
Georgia didn’t answer but gently tweezed up what looked like a small hair and then dropped it in her evidence bag. She straightened and stretched the kinks from her back. “I don’t know. But I thought I’d tell you what I have so far.”
“Great.”
She reached for a tablet where she scrolled until she found her notes. “This is the blanket recovered at the scene with our victim. It’s a baby blanket that can be found in most high-end stores. It’s one hundred percent wool and is very well made. I made some calls and twenty-five years ago it would have cost thirty dollars, which is one hundred dollars in today’s market.”
That could mean any number of things about their victim. Yes, she could have been from a more affluent home, but that wasn’t a given. The blanket may have been stolen or bought secondhand. Any number of scenarios could have fit. “What’s the brown stain in the upper right-hand corner?”
“That’s human blood. I’ve pulled a sample and sent it off to the lab. If the sample isn’t too degraded to test, the lab won’t send results back for a couple of weeks.”
“Did the blanket tell you anything else?”
“I’ve pulled a couple of dark hair fibers and bagged them.” She pointed to another faint stain. “I’ve also tested them for DNA. I don’t know if it’s spit-up or semen or what. Tests will tell.”
Rick stood back. “The killer stripped the child of clothes. We don’t have a clear reason for that. And then takes the time to wrap her in a blanket. Why?”
“You said it before. Remorse.”
“The kid died of a head trauma. I’m seeing a scene where she’s crying. Maybe she’s taking a bath or getting ready for bed. The parent tells her to be quiet. She doesn’t. And the person snaps and hits the kid or shoves her into a wall and wham, she’s dead. Panic. Wrap the kid up and get rid of her.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. Sometimes this job really sucks.”
“You’ll let me know about the DNA.”
“Bro, you’ll be the first.”
“Good.”
“Tell me we’re gonna catch this guy.”
He met his sister’s lost gaze. She didn’t want to hear about the long odds. “You’re damn right, we’re going to find the killer.”
She smiled. “Thanks, I needed to hear that, even if you don’t really believe it.”
Ford was breaking the rules. But temptation had been so strong and he ached to prove that he was worthy of carrying out the plan they’d discussed so many times.
He stood in the back of the packaging store holding his letter. He had less than fifteen minutes to mail it and return to work or his boss was going to dock his pay. The boss had been riding him for weeks over missed hours and half days. Be late again and I’ll can your ass.
If he didn’t need the money, he’d have quit that loser job. He hated bussing the tables, picking up after sloppy customers who treated him like he was no more than trailer trash. He hated the waitresses who he knew were laughing at him. He hated . . . he hated almost everything.
A glance toward the front of the line and he saw her. She was standing there with a large package, like she did every month. Sending off a care package to her brother who was stationed overseas. She never missed a deadline.
Shoulder-length, curly hair framed her round face and made her round, green eyes all the more vivid and bright. She wore jeans, with rhinestones on the back pockets, and a blouse that she’d unbuttoned to just above the curve of her breasts. Like a tease, she must have known that leaving just enough skin exposed would make any man look twice. He imagined her standing in front of the mirror, fastening and unfastening the button, trying to decide just how much was too much.
Sweat dampened the back of his neck as he shifted his gaze to the box tucked under her arm and hugged close to her narrow waist. He didn’t need to see in the box to know what was in it. From the small camera planted in her house, he’d watched as she carefully placed socks, gum, coffee, magazines, and photos. She took great care and pride.
He tapped his finger on the edge of his letter. His assignment today had been simple. Make contact with her. Nothing too big or splashy so that, when the time came, she could look into his eyes and know he’d been in her life not just for hours but days and weeks. He’d tried to approach her before she’d entered the package-delivery office but had lost his nerve. He’d watched her get in line and the people pile in behind her. He’d paced outside, nervous and angry that he’d been such a wimp.
Ford counted the number of people in line. Ten. And the number of clerks behind the counter. One. The clock ticked. He couldn’t lose his shit job but his assignment had been clear. Make contact. Show her you’re in control. She is the pawn. Not you.
Tightening his grip on his package, he skirted around the line and moved right in front of her. Fear and excitement buzzed in his nerves as he waited for her to respond. She would have to notice him now.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m next in line. You just can’t butt in line.”
“I’m in a rush,” he said. “I got to get back to work.”
He could feel her gaze on him, seething. He’d busted into her regular day and taken control. “We all have to get back to work, pal. Get to the back of the line.”
A guy behind her swore. “Do what the lady says, pal. Get to the back of the line.”