Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) Page 22

  “Why, y’all don’t think I’d let a little old disagreement stop me from having dinner with you, do you?”

  Her coy smile makes me sick. She’s blending our relationship the way an egg gets scrambled. It’s dangerous. I know what she’s thinking. Dinner at my place means we have a date. And if we have a date, unprofessional bastard that I am, she will have leverage, and she will use that leverage to destroy me.

  I’ve avoided agreeing with her so far that dinner at my place means we have a date, but DeeDee’s taken it that way because she wants to. I know it’s dangerous to play her, but I have to, at least until I learn what she and Meyers are up to. Alaina Colby’s life could potentially be in danger. So tonight is a date or whatever DeeDee Laws wishes to tag it. I check my watch again. Tonight, a mere few hours away, will arrive quickly.

  “Aid,”DeeDee says, her breast brushing against my arm,“I’m sorry.”

  I step back, putting professional and physical distance between us. No doubt, Stewart has gotten something from DeeDee, maybe enough for a story, but I have to ask,“Did they get photos of the vic?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She’s lying, but I can’t do anything about it. I’ve called DeeDee out in front of NPD. She deserved it, but dressing downs should take place in private. I hate it that she got under my skin. In the chilly night air and framed in the glare of the flashing light bars and headlamps, our gazes catch and lock, two enemies sworn to mortal combat, each calculating what it’ll take to bring down the other, but for the moment both forced into unwilling cooperation. I know, though, that whatever it takes, she’ll get even eventually.

  And I have a severe handicap. I’m not political, but DeeDee’s a political predator.

  “Don’t be sorry,”I say. “Learn from your mistakes.”

  She won’t. She’ll continue maneuvering over top of her mistakes. She’ll connive and wiggle her pretty ass into the most powerful position possible at NPD—if I let her.

  I’m counting on being right about her, when she comes over tonight. With enough wine and my charm offensive, I can get DeeDee to talk.

  “I’ve got a crime scene to analyze,”I say, leaving her chewing her lipsticked mouth, eyes calculating her next move. She’ll catch up in two seconds flat, if I know Rookie Laws. I only hope I can wrap this up and then get home and sleep. I want to—I need—to be rested for tonight’s date.

  Chapter 31

  “I’m going to have a look at our vic.”

  I head for the dumpster and the latest vic’s body. The man who’s been standing back, listening to me chew DeeDee’s ass, joins me. He’s a suit, FBI, gauging from his clean-cut looks.

  I like clean. My only concession to the gents over in NPD Vice, scruffier than the criminals they chase, is my tattoo. I had it done at King’s Point, where Dad shipped me off after my fiasco with law school. But this guy, even in the pre-dawn dimness and the mist rolling in from the Ohio River, is so clean he squeaks. At two in the morning, he’s clean-shaven, his fingernails groomed.

  Breaking my stride, I stop and we shake hands.

  “Sir,”DeeDee says, catching up with us easily and giving him her mega kilowatt smile,“this is Detective Aidan Gerard—”

  “Aidan Hawks,”I say, cutting her off. “Detective Aidan Hawks. NPD Homicide.”

  He smells like Brownell’s gun cleaning solvent and lunch meetings in the best restaurants at Quantico. Desk man, I think, feeling the smooth palm. With a suit’s usual sneakin’ MO, he might seem soft, yet he’s got that unmistakable hardcore aura. I figure he could be ready to rock-n-roll in a shit storm at a moment’s notice.

  “So you’re the man we’ve all been standing around waiting on?”he says. His voice low and gravely, he’s about as polite as a downtown parking attendant, but I’m in no mood to give a damn.

  “Yup. That’d be me.”

  The suit flips open a leather wallet and flashes his shield. “Roger Smith,”he says,“Special Agent in Charge, FBI.”

  The suits are standing in the wings, ready to jump in?

  SAC Smith’s presence here tonight tells me one of two things has happened. It’s possible the vic over by the dumpster was murdered in some other state and dumped across the state line here in Kentucky. But I have no facts on which to base this, and I don’t even want to imagine Megalo’s been killing in other states, or that there’s yet more vics than the ones we’ve identified from Kentucky.

  At this point, if we knew Meera’s country of origin and it wasn’t the U.S., we’d already have called in the suits, but we’re still working on identifying Meera, so that’s not why he’s here.

  The second reason why it’s possible he’s here is that the Campbell County sheriff, coordinating the investigation with NPD, has screwed up something and Captain Meyers has caved and invited the Feds. I also doubt this.

  If neither of those reasons work, then the Feds are here because they invited themselves, and they don’t give a shit whether we like it or not.

  “Glad you don’t mind waiting,”I say, not explaining why I arrived late. There’s been no shooting and no kidnapping, so this is still my crime scene, not the FBI’s. “Medical Examiner’s here,”I say, glad when the van pulls in at the alley entry next to Sixth.

  Doc Smalley unfolds from the passenger’s side and then strides to the van’s rear. He opens the double doors and then orders the tech,“Haul out that mobile CSU evidence lab. Hurry.”

  The other techs who arrived earlier are already collecting evidence. They don’t look up when Doc Smalley starts working the scene. They’ll be coordinating with him and the van’s driver, who is the lead tech. Noses to the grindstone, focused on their tasks, they have no desire to irritate their demanding boss.

  “Let’s have coffee later,”SAC Smith says. “You and I need to talk. I can offer you pointers on handling rookies.”

  “Don’t need any,”I say,“but when I get a minute I’ll spot you a cup,”I add, not wanting to piss him off, but letting him know I’m in charge.

  With the ME’s arrival, my sense of smell—the scent of blood and murder—is flaming inside me. I’m on, quivering deep down in my groin like a bitch in heat. But it’s a temporary high. In another hour, I’ll either be asleep on my feet, or I’ll have to crash for an hour in the Buick’s back seat.

  “You want to do the grid walk with me?” Preparing to check the scene, I invite the SAC along for the ride.

  “Yes, I’d planned on it.” SAC Smith’s already pulling on latex gloves. I note with a satisfied glance he’s wearing sensible shoes, the FBI equivalent of my clunky Bates Lites. His feet are already ensconced in white cotton booties.

  “What’ve we got?”I ask.

  “It’s another topless dancer from Omar’s,”DeeDee says.

  SAC Smith nods.

  “It’s Megalo Don’s,”she adds. “Same signature.”

  “Is that right?” I grit my teeth. I’ve given her an assignment. Go do background on Alaina. She’s ignoring me, and now I’m stuck with her, unless I want another head-on with her in front of SAC Smith. “Where does Megalo Don find all these topless dancers, so many willing young ladies without tops?”

  “Huh?”DeeDee asks. SAC Smith’s expression darkens.

  So my joke fell flat. I don’t like the way she berates topless dancers, her syrupy voice dripping moral judgment. Her remark was a cut on Alaina, I’m certain. From his dark expression, I can see SAC Smith doesn’t miss the tension between me and DeeDee.

  “Omar Jain just hired her,”DeeDee says,“to replace Angie Miller.”

  I swing my gaze to the back door of Omar’s, which closes the same time as the Brass Ass. Keep your eye on the mouse, son, not the cornfield you’ve found him in. Think like a Hawk. Could I have been sitting on Megalo all this time and not realized it?

  “Where is Omar Jain right now?”

  DeeDee shrugs, her gaze following mine to the back door of Omar’s.

  “Okay,”I say,“he and I are going to have a ta
lk.”

  “He was here earlier tonight,”she says. “The deputies sent him packing. He was acting crazy, distraught over the murder.”

  “How distraught?”

  DeeDee snorts, but I’m in no mood. “What? That’s funny?”

  “He was trying to interview witnesses and ordering deputies not to let anyone out of the alley. He said the murderer was still here.”

  I wonder why Omar Jain would act crazy or distraught, but I let that go. If he said Megalo Don was still here when the police were, someone should’ve done her homework, but I’ll take that up with DeeDee later. Right now, SAC Smith’s suited up and ready to roll.

  “Did they get a statement from Jain before they tossed him out of their way?”

  “Well—”

  They did not. And I don’t fault them. To preserve evidence, the deputies cleared the alley of rubberneckers, one of them being the distraught Omar Jain, the other quite possibly our killer. Maybe Omar Jain can’t help it that Megalo’s chosen the alley behind his bar as a convenient stash. Maybe it’s a coincidence Angie Miller and the latest victim were dancers at Omar’s. But I don’t believe in coincidence. And now, I know one dancer who—if it’s the last thing I do—isn’t going to show up in a garbage bag behind Omar’s. If anyone’s gnawing on her shoulders and toes, it’s going to be me.

  That thought floors me. I’m taking Alaina Colby’s safety way too personally. But then, I’m aware, I want her alive for my own undeniably selfish purposes.

  “The victim’s body’s over behind the dumpster,”DeeDee says.

  Before the words are out of her mouth, I sprint off.

  Chapter 32

  The victim lays face up in the alley, mouth gaping, eyes open, pupils completely dilated and reflecting the night sky. Whatever she’s seeing, I pray it’s better than the last few minutes of her life.

  “Hello, son,”Doc Smalley greets me, shooting DeeDee and SAC Smith cursory gazes and an impolite grunt.

  I circle the body, half-in and half-out of the garbage bag, propped against the dumpster.

  “Gotta give Megalo credit,”Doc says, kneeling. “Daring bastard dumps his bodies in the same spot every time.”

  “Yep,”I answer,“he’s not afraid.” He never changes his MO, either. In fact, he’s taunting NPD. But this is where the buck stops for him. If he’s been here, and at this point it looks like his MO, I’ll nail Megalo’s ass.

  “If you find one hair, or a fiber or speck of dust from that crazy bastard’s body, I want to know,”I say.

  Doc grunts again. He’s in operational mode, busy supervising the crime scene photographer.

  I take another turn around the dumpster, and then return to the body. Yes, you are one daring bastard. But you’ve touched her, so no matter how clever you think you are, you’ve left evidence. But then my sense of triumph evaporates: I think with futility of the moon pie crumbs we found on Angie Miller’s body. They’re useless as forensic evidence. Could’ve been left there by her killer, or they could’ve been eaten by Angie Miller for dinner: and she was a sloppy eater.

  Surely, they’ll pick up something,”I say, glancing toward the NPD deputies and CSU techs sweeping the scene.

  “He’s a beauty, he is,”Doc says. “Sixteen hands high, and white with blue spots.”

  For a second I think he’s referring to Megalo. “What? Oh, yeah, right,”I say.

  As many times as he’s canvassed death scenes, it still troubles him. Talking about anything other than the body helps. Tonight, it’s the new thoroughbred stallion he’s found for my mom.

  “That big?”I ask. “Is he Arabian?”

  While we chat about the new stallion named Sahib, the techs swab the vic’s mouth and bag and tie off her hands. Doc watches, angling his head this way and that. It’s comforting having him here. Like I said, he’s the best ME in Kentucky. I watch him stretch and look at the vic’s face from multiple angles, guiding the photographer in for differing shots, and at the same time directing the techs.

  “A friend of mine over in Louisville found him. You want to come over and take a look at him this weekend?”

  “I’ll be busy chasing this bastard,”I say, aware Doc’s picked up on my anxiety. We’ve both seen many homicide victims, Doc more than I, but this vic’s been grossly abused. I’m sure the ante mortem mental abuse was as bad as the physical. “Who is Sahib’s sire?”I ask. Talking about whatever Arabian horseflesh Doc’s rounded up for my mom eases both our minds. Trying to relax, I take more mental snapshots and keep asking myself the same question over and over.

  Motive. What’s Megalo’s motive?

  “Any ideas yet, Doc? Anything?”

  “It’s too soon to tell.”

  I try to pin him down to speculating. “Why do you think he’s doing this?”

  “I leave motive to you, but by tomorrow I’ll be able to tell you when she died.”

  “Okay,”I say, not worried about that right now. Determining time of death—the when of this vic’s demise—is Doc’s purview. I’m worried about other things. Why’s Megalo doing his murdering? And where? Until I figure out where these victims are being murdered, I don’t even have a primary crime scene. All I’ve got is a dump site here in the alley behind Omar’s, a secondary crime scene.

  “He’s obviously killed her somewhere else and dumped her here,”Doc says, musing out loud but not really needing to speak. We can almost read each other’s thoughts. “I’m guessing it’s the same MO,”he says. “It’s him—again.”

  I heave a sigh of relief. “That’s good.”

  “Encouraging,”DeeDee says, watching me glance toward SAC Smith, who smiles, his lips a thin grim line, and nods—“good work”—then takes off to join the CSU techs. He’s got a suave manner and smooth manicured hands, but I can tell he’s a bloodhound on a killer’s scent.

  “Doc, I’m gonna run over there and talk with him,”I say, to which I get a surly grunt.

  When I reach him, SAC Smith doesn’t speak. Walking the grid with the CSU techs, he’s not writing anything down or taking notes, either, a good sign. I fall into step beside him.

  “You ought to know better,”he says. “We need more women in law enforcement.”

  “You’re right,”I say. “I didn’t need to call my rookie out in front of God and everyone.”

  “She’s not the type to accept your apology?”he asks.

  I snort.

  Staring ahead at the graveled alley, he keeps walking. “She’s green as spring willow, isn’t she?”

  “Yup,”I say, realizing what he’s asking. “It’s been a while since anyone’s accused me of sexual profiling.”

  We keep walking the grid.

  Asking her to dig up everything she can on Alaina’s friends’ sexual habits isn’t about profiling as DeeDee mistakenly believes. The new FBI, whose protocol I use, focuses on unique traits of individuals with access to a crime scene. They gather evidence with a pit bull’s locked-on discipline, and then they plug their evidence into whichever behavioral category the evidence fits. But in every case, the evidence has to be there. No looking at offenders pooled into abstract groups or“profiles”and then compiling a suspect list into which just about anyone can be socked. The evidence has to fit the crime scene, not some vague group of offenders. And the suspect has to be linked directly to the evidence.

  Which is why it’s critical I figure out where Megalo Don is doing his killing.

  It’s also why I’m glad SAC Smith is walking the grid with me. I approve, as long as he knows whose case this is. Mine, not DeeDee’s. Not the FBI’s.

  “You got a high solve rate,”he says, never missing a step.

  “Yup,”I agree. Humble’s not my style.

  “You think your rook’s really worried about profiling Alaina Colby’s friends?”the SAC asks.

  “Nah,”I say, truthful. “She knows why I’m asking, and it’s not about wanting her out of the way. She’s a rookie and can prove herself, if she can learn to take orders.�
�

  SAC Smith knows this, too, so I don’t give him the run down on DeeDee. Finding out who Alaina knows and what her friends do with their mouths and bodies during intercourse isn’t about sexual profiling. It’s about finding ways, and people and places, from which to start collecting hard physical evidence. Forensic evidence. If I’m right and Megalo has targeted Alaina as his next victim, then one of her friends, or someone she’s been in contact with, is a walking DNA or evidence pool.

  “So who do you think Alaina Colby knows?”he asks.

  “Soon as I get a list, I’ll share it with you,”I say. “Doc Smalley’s waving at me from over near the dumpster. I’ll be back in a few,”I add.

  SAC Smith just keeps walking the grid. Man’s a robot. I like his style.

  * * *

  “You ready to turn her over?”

  I nod. “Sure, Doc, let’s do it.”

  Using surgical tweezers, he lifts the garbage bag by an edge and pulls it back from the body. With the help of a CSU tech, he turns the vic gently over with his gloved right hand. When he flips her, we both turn away for a few seconds to avoid gagging. Even wearing our cotton masks, the stench of rotting meat—like frozen raw hamburger that has thawed and then set encased in a plastic bag in the sun for days—is overpowering.

  “Phew! I’m getting too old for this,”Doc says. “My horse barn smells better.”

  “Any evidence of insect activity on her wounds?” Even though my eyes are watering from the sharp rancid smell, I still want to know how long she’s been dead. The activity of flies and ants, or beetles and other insects, might provide an answer.

  Maybe.

  Doc sits back on his heels beside the body. “I can’t say with any accuracy, not until we get her back to the morgue, but at this point I can tell you for certain I see no evidence of insect activity.”

  “So she’s been stored?”

  Doc nods. “Yep. No visible insect activity, so it looks like she’s been stored inside,”he says. “From her pasty skin and mottled purplish-blue lips, I’m guessing she’s been kept on ice in a freezer. When she came out and started to thaw, the cells broke down, giving her the bluish tint.”