She was a tall woman, a bit overweight but with a voluptuous figure. The long, dark hair and smoky eyes made her look younger than her forty-five years. There was something statuesque about her that brought to mind the term “tower of strength.”
Graceful despite her size, Laura Alverez had glided that evening from her kitchen sink to the cupboard and back to the sink, over and over. She had answered his questions calmly and quietly. Much too calmly. In fact, it had taken him ten, maybe even fifteen minutes before he had realized that, for every cup or plate she had washed and stacked in the cupboard, she removed a clean one, taking it back to the sink with her. Then he noticed the tag sticking out of the collar of her inside-out sweater and the two mismatched shoes. She had been in a state of shock, disguised by a calm Nick found more spooky than reassuring.
Her calm remained throughout the week. She had portrayed an unflinching rock of strength, pouring coffee and baking rolls for the men who had filled her small house each day. Had she displayed some form of emotion, perhaps it wouldn’t have been so difficult, moments ago, when he had watched this same stately woman bend in two and crumple to the cold, hard floor of the hospital morgue. Her cries had sliced through the sterilized halls. Nick recognized that sound. It was the low-pitched scream of a wounded animal. No woman should have to face what Laura Alverez faced alone. Now he wished they had located her ex-husband, just so he could beat the crap out of him.
“Morrelli.” Bob Weston came into Nick’s office without knocking or waiting for an invitation. He plopped down in the chair across from Nick. “You should go home. Shower, change clothes. You stink.”
He watched Weston dig the exhaustion out of his eyes and decided he was only stating facts, instead of hurling more insults.
“What about the ex-husband?”
Weston looked up at him and shook his head. “I’m a father, Nick. I don’t care how pissed off he might be with his wife-I just don’t think a father could do that to his kid.”
“So where do we begin?” He must be tired, Nick realized. He was actually asking for Weston’s advice.
“I’d start with a list of known sex offenders, pedophiles and child pornographers.”
“That could be a long list.”
“Excuse me, Nick,” Lucy Burton interrupted from the doorway. “Just wanted to let you know that all four Omaha TV stations and both Lincoln stations are downstairs with camera crews. There’s also a hallful of newspaper and radio people. They’re asking about a statement or press conference.”
“Shit,” Nick muttered. “Thanks, Lucy.” He watched Weston twist in his chair to follow Lucy’s long legs down the hall. Maybe he should talk to her about the short skirts and stiletto heels now that they would be making the news. What a shame. She had lovely legs and a walk trained to show them off.
“We’ve avoided the press all week,” Nick said, returning his gaze to Weston. “We’re gonna have to talk to them.”
“I agree. You need to talk to them.”
“Me? Why me? I thought you were the hotshot expert.”
“That was when it was a kidnapping. Now it’s a homicide, Morrelli. Sorry, this is your ball game.”
Nick slumped back in his chair, leaning his head into the leather and swiveling from side to side. This couldn’t be happening. Soon he’d wake up in bed with Angie Clark beside him. God, last night seemed like a lifetime ago.
“Look, Morrelli.” Weston’s voice was soft, sympathetic, and Nick eyed him suspiciously without lifting his head. “I’ve been thinking. This being a kid and all, maybe I could request someone to help you put together a profile.”
“What do you mean?”
“It may be too early for people to start noticing the similarities to Jeffreys, but when they do, you’re going to have a frenzy on your hands.”
“A frenzy?” Frenzies weren’t part of his training. Nick swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. Suddenly, he was nauseated again. He could still smell Danny Alverez’s blood soaked into his jeans.
“We have experts who can put together a psychological profile of this guy. Narrow things down for you. Give you a fuckin‘ idea of who this asshole is.”
“Yeah, that would help. That would be good.” Nick kept the desperation out of his voice. Now was not the time to reveal his weakness, despite Weston’s sudden compassion.
“I’ve been reading about this Special Agent O’Dell, an expert in profiling murderers practically right down to their shoe size. I could call Quantico.”
“How soon do you think they could get someone here?”
“Don’t let Tillie cut up the boy yet. I’ll call right now and see if we can get someone here Monday morning. Maybe even O’Dell.” Weston stood up suddenly with new energy.
Nick untangled his legs and stood, too, surprised that his knees were strong enough to hold him.
Deputy Hal Langston met Weston at the door. “Thought you guys might be interested in this morning’s edition of the Omaha Journal.” Hal unfolded the paper and held it up. The headline screamed in tall, bold letters, Boy’s Murder Echoes Jeffreys’ Style.
“What the fuck?” Weston ripped the paper from Hal and began reading out loud. “Last night, a boy’s body was found along the Platte River, off Old Church Road. Early reports suggest the still-unidentified boy was stabbed to death. A deputy at the scene, who will remain anonymous, said, ”It looked like the bastard gutted him.“ Gaping chest wounds were a trademark of serial killer Ronald Jeffreys, who was executed in July of this year. Police have yet to make a statement concerning the boy’s identity and the cause of death.”
“Jesus,” Nick spat as the nausea infected his insides.
“Goddamn it, Morrelli. You’re gonna need to put a gag order on your men.”
“It gets worse,” Hal said, looking at Nick. “The byline is Christine Hamilton.”
“Who the fuck is Christine Hamilton?” Weston looked from Hal to Nick. “Oh, please don’t tell me she’s one of the little harem you’re bopping?”
Nick slid back into his chair. How could she do this to him? Had she even tried to warn him, to contact him? Both men stared at him, Weston waiting for an explanation.
“No,” Nick said slowly. “Christine Hamilton is my sister.”
Chapter 7
Maggie O’Dell kicked off her muddy running shoes in the foyer before her husband, Greg, reminded her to do so. She missed their tiny, cluttered apartment in Richmond, despite surrendering to the much-needed convenience of living between Quantico and Washington. But ever since they had bought the pricey condo in the expensive Crest Ridge area, Greg had developed an absurd obsession with image. He liked their condo spotless, an easy task since both their jobs kept them away. Yet, she resented coming home to a place that swallowed her monthly paycheck but felt like one of the hotels to which she had grown accustomed.
She peeled off the damp sweatshirt and immediately felt a pleasant chill. Though it was a crisp fall day, she had managed to work up a sweat after another night of tossing and turning. She balled up the sweatshirt and shot it into the laundry room as she passed on her way to the kitchen. How careless of her to miss the laundry basket.
She stood in front of the open refrigerator. A look inside revealed a pathetic view of their lack of domestic talents-a box of leftover Chinese food, half a bagel twisted in plastic wrap, a foam take-out container with unidentified gooey stuff. She grabbed a bottle of water and slammed the door, now shivering in only running shorts, a sweat-drenched T-shirt and sports bra that stuck to her like an extra layer of skin.