But if this were simply about the murders of two prostitutes, no one would ever have called his office.
Giving up on the notion of sleep, he brushed his teeth, took a shower, pulled on sweat pants and his academy sweatshirt. He sat down at the desk with the murder book and a bottle of antacid, drinking straight out of the bottle as he browsed through the reports.
Wedged in between pages was the packet of photographs Mary Moss had gotten from Lila White's parents. Pictures of Lila White alive and happy, and laughing at her little girl's birthday party. Her lifestyle had aged her beyond her years, but he could easily see the pretty girl she had once been before the drugs and the disillusioned dreams. Her daughter was a doll with blond pigtails and a pixie's face. One shot captured mother and daughter in bathing suits in a plastic wading pool, Lila on her knees with the little girl hugged close in front of her, both of them smiling the same crooked smile.
It had to break her parents' hearts to look at this, Quinn thought. In the baby's face they would see their daughter as she had been when her world was simple and sunny and full of wonderful possibility. And in Lila's face they would see the lines of hard lessons learned, disappointment, and failure. And the hope for something better. Hope that had been rewarded with a brutal death not long after these photographs had been taken.
Quinn sighed as he held the picture under the lamplight, committing Lila White's image to memory: the style of her hair, the crooked smile, the slight bump in the bridge of her nose, the curve where her shoulder met her neck. She would join the others who haunted his sleep.
As he went to set the picture aside, something caught his eye and he pulled it back. Half obscured by the strap of her swimming suit was a small tattoo on her upper right chest. Quinn found his magnifying glass and held the snapshot under the light again for closer scrutiny.
A flower. A lily, he thought.
With one hand he flipped through the murder book to the White autopsy photos. There were about a third of the photos of the victim believed to be Jillian Bondurant. Still, he found what he was looking for: a shot showing a section of flesh missing from Lila White's upper right chest—and no tattoo in sight.
KATE SAT CURLED into the corner of the old green leather sofa in her study, another glass of Sapphire on the table beside her. She'd lost count of its number. Didn't care. It took the sharp corners off the pain that assaulted her on several different fronts. That was all that mattered tonight.
How had her life taken such a sudden left turn? Things had been going so smoothly, then BAM! Ninety degrees hard to port, and everything fell out of the neat little cubicles into a jumbled mess that came up to her chin. She hated the feeling that she didn't have control. She hated the idea of her past rear-ending her. She'd been doing so well. Focus forward, concentrate on what was ahead of her for the day, for the week. She tried not to think too much about the past. She tried never to think about Quinn. She never ever allowed the memory of his mouth on hers.
She lifted a hand and touched her lips, thinking she still felt the heat of him there. She took another drink, thinking she could still taste him.
She had more important things to think about. Whether or not Angie was still alive. Whether or not they had a hope in hell of getting her back. She'd made the dreaded call to Rob Marshall to inform him of the situation. He had the unenviable task of passing the news on to the county attorney. Sabin would spend the rest of the night contemplating methods of torture. Tomorrow Kate figured she would be burned at the stake.
But a confrontation with Ted Sabin was the least of her worries. Nothing he could do to her could punish her more than she would punish herself.
Every time she closed her eyes she saw the blood.
I should have stayed with her. If I'd been there for her, she would still be alive.
And every time she thought that, Angie's face morphed into Emily's, and the pain bit deeper and held on harder. Quinn had accused her of being a martyr, but martyrs suffered without sin, and she took full blame. For Emily. For Angie.
If she'd just gone into the house with the girl . . . If she'd just pressed a little harder to get a little closer . . . But she'd pulled back because a part of her didn't want to get that close or care that much. Christ, this was why she didn't do kids: They needed too much and she was too afraid of the potential for pain to give it.
“And I thought I was doing so well.”
She rose from the couch just to see if she could still stand without aid, and went to the massive old oak desk that had been her father's. She picked up the phone and dialed the number for her voice mail, feeling the lump form in her throat before she punched the code to retrieve the messages. She'd listened three times already. She skipped through messages from David Willis and her cooking instructor to hit the one she wanted.
10:05 P.M., the mechanical voice announced. A long silence followed the tone.
10:08 P.M. Another long silence.
10:10 P.M. Another long silence.
She had left the cell phone in the truck. Hadn't wanted to go back out to get it because she was spooked. Any callers could leave a message. She'd check her voice mail later, she remembered thinking.
If those calls had come from Angie . . .
But there was no way of knowing, and nothing to do but wonder and wait.
THE CALL CAME into Hennepin County 911 dispatch at 3:49 A.M. A car fire. Kovac listened with one ear out of habit. He was cold to the bone. His feet felt like blocks of ice. Snow blew in the window he had kept cracked open to prevent carbon monoxide poisoning. Maybe he should set this car on fire. The heat could thaw his blood out, and the powers that ruled the motor pool could move him up to something better—like a Hyundai with a hamster wheel under the hood.
And then came the address, and adrenaline instantly burned off the chill.
They'd sure as hell drawn Smokey Joe out with the meeting, all right. He gunned the engine and rocked the car away from the curb and onto the street half a block down from Peter Bondurant's empty house.
Their killer had just lit up his fourth victim . . . in the parking lot of the community center where the meeting had been held.
22
CHAPTER
KATE RAN OUT the back door with her coat half on, half off. She had managed to pull on a pair of snow boots, but the heavy soles were little help as she hit the ice on the steps. An involuntary shriek raked her throat as she tumbled down into the yard, where what looked to be half a foot of wet snow cushioned her landing. She didn't even allow herself to catch her breath, but kept her legs moving and pushed herself upright.
Kovac had called on his way to the community center where the meeting had been held. A car fire in the parking lot. Reports of someone in the vehicle.
Angie.
No one knew at this point, of course, but the thought that it could be Angie burned in Kate's mind as she ran for the garage, fumbling in her pocket for her keys.
Quinn had given her an earful of his opinion on her garage. Terrible location. Poorly lit. Left her vulnerable. All of which was true, but she didn't have time to think about it. Anyone wanting to mug her or rape her would just have to wait.
God help her if she got pulled over en route, she thought as she hit the light switch. She probably had no business getting behind the wheel of a vehicle at all, but she wasn't waiting for a ride. No one was on the streets this time of night anyway. It wasn't five minutes to that community center.