Mariah Stewart - Cold Truth

“She wasn’t?” Cass frowned. “But all the others were.”

“Right. And something else. Remember I told you about the fibers?”

“The fibers you found in the hair of the other victims?”

Tasha nodded.

“Pink ribbon, did I tell you the lab reports came back? Pink satin ribbon. Real silk, not synthetic. Every one of the other victims had trace of it, and get this-the fibers matched perfectly.”

“Same kind of ribbon?”

“Same ribbon. We were able to trace it to the manufacturer. They stopped making that ribbon eighteen years ago.” Tasha tapped a finger on Cass’s knee for emphasis. “But this one tonight? Nada. No fibers.”

“You’re sure?”

“It was the first thing I looked for. There was something, I don’t know, awkward about the way he left this one. It looked different to me somehow.”

Cass nodded in agreement. “I thought the same thing. The legs weren’t really right.”

“Exactly. Similar, but not the same. A little haphazard. As if he was in a hurry and didn’t take the time to get it exactly right. Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

Cass looked at Rick.

“A copycat, maybe?” she suggested.

“Maybe he was in a hurry. We’ll need the report from the investigating officers to see what else they found,” he said.

“Well, don’t hold your breath until they offer to hand that over,” Cass reminded him.

“I can get it,” Tasha told them. “Might take me a few days…”

“Maybe your boss can get it sooner,” Cass said to Rick, who nodded.

“I’ll give him another call in the morning if I haven’t heard from him.”

“And another thing,” Tasha said. “In the past, the killer has made an effort to hide the bodies somewhat. This one over in Hasboro, he left her right out in plain view. Right there on the lower dock.”

“Like I said, maybe he was in a hurry,” Rick said. “Maybe he was afraid he’d be discovered if he took too long.”

“Not his style,” Tasha insisted. “If he was afraid of being seen, he would have left her someplace else. I think he wanted the body to be found, and fast.”

“How long had the body been there, you think?” Cass asked.

“I heard one of the detectives say that the family in the first house there off the bulkhead had gone out crabbing on their boat around three,” Tasha replied. “They found her when they came back, around five-thirty. So she’d been placed there somewhere within that time frame.”

“He was taking a chance, wasn’t he?” Cass said thoughtfully. “Broad daylight, the middle of the afternoon? It’s not like him to be that careless.”

“He wasn’t careless,” Rick said.

Cass looked up at him. “He wasn’t?”

“He didn’t get caught, did he? So far, no one’s come forward to say they saw someone there.”

“You could easily get away with it,” Tasha nodded, “if there were no other boats out at that end of the dock. And obviously, none were.”

“Plus, it’s early in the season. Not as many people around yet,” Cass said thoughtfully. “But still, why would he take such a chance?”

“I think Tasha’s right. He wanted her found,” Rick told them. “And he wanted her found today.”

“Why do you suppose that would be important to him?” Tasha asked.

“Maybe because he had another target in mind. Maybe this victim was incidental to him,” Cass thought aloud. “Or he could have wanted to draw our attention to her, and-”

“And away from someone else,” Rick finished her thought.

“Lucy,” Cass said flatly.

“Could be. He needed to get you out of the way, so he provided a diversion,” Rick suggested. “She fits the type exactly. Right age, right build. Pretty woman with lots of long dark hair. If he’s been watching her, he’d know she lives with a cop. He’d have had to lure you out of there to get to her. How best to lure a cop? With a dead body. Smart on his part.”

Cass winced at the thought of another innocent woman losing her life being considered nothing more than a means to an end.

“But not smart enough to realize that he went out of my jurisdiction, or that the Hasboro boys were so territorial they’d send me packing the minute I arrived.”

“You can thank those Hasboro boys and their petty mentality for saving Lucy’s life,” he pointed out.

Cass put her face in her hands.

“Oh, God,” she said, “if I’d stayed longer we’d probably be sitting in the morgue right now.”

The headlights illuminated the wooden gate and he left the car in gear when he went to push it aside. Then he drove through the opening, got back out, and closed the gate. No need for a well-meaning somebody to come along and wonder who might be wandering about this time of night.

He drove with only his fog lights on, lest some passing car see the reflection from the brighter beams and call the police. Not that he thought the police were merely sitting around this night, waiting for something to do. No, he’d seen to that, all right.

The dirt road wound about a quarter mile into the marsh before splitting off in two directions. He took the road to the left and followed it for about five hundred feet. Sensing he was near his destination, he slowed, then brought the car to a stop. He killed the lights and the engine, then opened the glove box and took out the first-aid kit he always carried with him. He got out of the car and went straight to the trunk, from which he took a suitcase. He walked along the path to the blind and carried the case with him up the steps to the shelter. It was awkward, because the case was heavy now after all these years, and one of the fingers on his left hand hurt like hell. He placed the case on the floor of the blind, then climbed in behind it.

He sat next to it and opened the first-aid kit. Taking the small flashlight from his pocket, he shined it into the case. He assembled a small bottle of peroxide and a roll of bandages in front of him; then, holding the flashlight between his teeth, he unwrapped the strip of his shirt he’d previously tied around the throbbing finger. He poured peroxide over the ragged wound to clean it, then wrapped it with the gauze.

It was a minor wound, and it wasn’t the first time he’d been shot. But it was the first time he’d been shot by a woman.

And that woman. That woman…

He felt a terrible burning behind his eyes, and his hands began to shake. Hatred rolled through him, so strong and so fierce, he almost became nauseated.

If it weren’t for her, he and his love would be together right now. On their way to Cape May, to start their life together.

If it weren’t for her, everything would be all right right now. Right now…

But instead, he was alone, hiding like a frightened animal in a dark swamp.

And his love… oh, his poor love…

Well, that was all her fault, too. If it weren’t for her, his love wouldn’t be…

He paused, remembering the way his love had tried to fight him. Why had she done that? He hadn’t planned on hurting her. Why didn’t she understand that?

His fingers touched his face, outlined the scratches her fingernails had made.

Why had she been fighting him?

If she hadn’t tried to fight, he wouldn’t have had to hit her so many times.

If she hadn’t tried to scream, he wouldn’t have had to put his hands around her throat and…

But he hadn’t wanted to hurt her, never meant to hurt her-he loved her! He would have stopped, he told himself, he wouldn’t have tightened his hold on her, if the other one hadn’t come in, waving that damn gun around. He’d been confused then.

For a moment, he’d forgotten where he was and whom he’d been with. A fog had seemed to roll through him, clouding his mind. He’d watched his hands at her throat as if in slow motion, and it seemed as if they belonged to someone else.