“Everybody go inside,” I say. “Except for you, Lieutenant. I need you over here.”
The work stops, but nobody moves. Bascombe makes the call, signaling the crime scene techs to indulge my whim. He comes over, bringing Dr. Green with him. With the scene clear I take another shot.
I hand him the camera, displaying the photo. “Does that remind you of anything?”
“Yeah,” he says, “it reminds me of what I can see with my own eyes.” He squints at the screen, then shows it to the ME. “You gonna tell me or what?”
“The Fauk scene.”
He looks again.
“Why does that name ring a bell?” Dr. Green says. “Wasn’t that your big case, March? The one they wrote the book about?”
I ignore her. “You were there, Lieutenant, I wasn’t. I inherited that case, if you remember. But ever since I got to the scene tonight, I’ve had this weird feeling. I couldn’t put my finger on it until now.”
He hands the camera back. “You’ve lost me, March.”
“You were there.”
“It’s similar, I guess. But the Fauk woman had her clothes on and she was only stabbed once. She was floating in the swimming pool, too, not halfway out. Not to mention the guy who did it is doing time in Huntsville thanks to the confession you wrung out of him-”
“I’m not saying the crimes are the same. But look at that picture. I studied the Fauk photos so hard they’re burned into my memory, and I swear there’s one that looks exactly the same. The pool, the way the body’s located off to the side, even the placement of the furniture. It’s all the same.”
“A lot of crime scene photos are gonna look alike,” Dr. Green says. “They all have dead people in them for one thing.”
Her voice trails off and it all comes back to me, that ten-year-old case, all the frustrations and roadblocks, all the drama. Donald Fauk murdered his wife and thought he’d gotten away with it. He had, as far as the investigation was concerned. But I was new on the squad, trying to prove myself, and the case was high profile enough to pass along once the lead detective retired. My old partner and I had gone to Florida, arresting Fauk as he planned his next wedding.
We flew him back on the morning of September 11, 2001, and after the Towers were hit in New York, our flight was grounded in New Orleans. After spending a few hours as guests of NOPD, we gave up on another flight out and rented a car. Somewhere along the Atchafalaya River Basin, Donald Fauk started talking and never stopped.
“The book,” I say. “The Kingwood Killing. There are pictures in the middle, including this one.” I point to the camera screen. “If you read that book and got inspired, this is what you’d do.”
“March,” Bascombe says, “this case here, it has nothing to do with the Fauk murder.”
“When you see the picture in the book, you’ll change your mind.”
Dr. Green shakes her head. The lieutenant catches her gesture and frowns. Then he turns that high wattage glare of his on me, and just like that, all the respect I’ve won back over the last year is gone. All he sees is the screw-up he was trying to bounce out of Homicide twelve months back. I start to say something, but he cuts me off.
“Listen to me, you tuxedo-wearing dimwit,” he says, moving closer so I get the full effect of his height. “I want you to get that canvass going, and then you find this girl’s husband and bring him downtown. If I have to hold your hand on this, March, I will. But believe me, you don’t want that. Are we clear?”
I can feel my cheeks burning, my body starting to squirm. He outstares me and suddenly I’m looking away and nodding obediently. Behind him, Dr. Green is nodding, too, a faint smile of triumph on her lips.
“Everything’s fine here,” he tells her. “We’re on top of this thing. Now, what we could use from you is an approximate time of death. . ”
They circle back to the corpse, leaving me to stew. The crime scene techs file back to resume their work. Bascombe calls one over and starts explaining about his chair theory, pointing out the probable path they should fluoresce for signs of blood.
After a moment I collect myself and get busy. There are doors to knock, interviews to conduct, and still a chance that some physical evidence will be found. And there’s a suspect to run down: Jason Young.
And when I find him, whatever else happens and no matter what Bascombe does in response, there is one question I am going to ask. Does he have a copy of The Kingwood Killing? Because whoever murdered Simone Walker had a picture in his head, and he rearranged his crime to fit the fantasy. I’m convinced of that.
Find the book and I’ll find the killer.
CHAPTER 2
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 6–6:29 A.M.
As I pull up the driveway, the dashboard clock reads half past six and gray light is already breaking through the corners of the sky. I push through the back door, dropping my briefcase just inside and my keys on the breakfast table, and try to make as little noise as possible on the creaky stairs. In the bedroom, Charlotte sleeps under the slowly revolving fan, her gray satin dress over a chair, the newly bought lingerie from La Mode discarded in a sad heap at the foot of the bed, a symbol of the wreck of our evening.
I sit at the edge of the bed, inhaling the scent of the room. She’s turned during the night, letting the sheets pull away to expose her back. Her skin is warm to the touch. The angle is different, but I think of Simone Walker anyway and shudder.
“You’re home,” she says, rolling toward me without opening her eyes, the hint of a smile on her pale lips.
“Not for long. I’ve got to change clothes and go back in.”
“Already? And when are you supposed to sleep?”
“You can sleep for both of us. I’ve got Aguilar sitting on a suspect’s front door, but I need to get back over there before the guy comes home.”
“A suspect already.” She sits up reluctantly, stifling a yawn. “You work fast.”
“We’ll see.”
Her eyes focus on my rumpled tuxedo. “You look nice, too.”
“Yeah. This was a real hit with the boys. I think everybody’s gonna start wearing them from now on.”
She rolls out of bed and puts on one of my old T-shirts, heading downstairs to brew some coffee. In the bathroom I run the tap until the mirror fogs, then strip out of the tux, careful to put it back on the hanger. Charlotte might toss her dress over a chair, but if I show the same disregard, she won’t be happy. This tux along with the contents of a dozen more garment bags stuffed into my overcrowded closet used to belong to her father, a beloved eccentric who kept his tall, trim figure well into his seventies. Apparently neither of the sons could fit into them-they’d tried, taking turns in his Austin mansion the week after he died-so Charlotte came back with the lot. The ways of the rich never cease to amaze me. With money like theirs, I’d just buy new clothes.
There’s more of it, too, still at her Galleria alterations tailor waiting for my return visit.
After shaving I pull one of my old suits out of the closet, a plain navy one that means business, perfect for the interview I’m planning for sometime today, and a stiff white shirt fresh from the cleaners. Downstairs, Charlotte frowns at my choice while handing me a mug of steaming coffee.
“You should wear one of your new ones, Roland.”
“It feels strange wearing somebody else’s clothes.”
She ignores me. “Say what you want about my dad, but the man had classic taste. Those suits will never go out of style, and they probably cost a fortune to make.”
“I’m sure. What does it mean, though, psychologically, that you’re dressing me in his clothes? Does it mean you have issues?”
“Oh, I have issues.” She pulls her unruly slept-on hair into a ponytail, then climbs onto a barstool to nurse her coffee. “But not those kinds of issues.”