Allison Brennan - The Kill

“Do you need me?” Cohn asked, obviously clued in by Zack’s end of the conversation that there’d been a crime.

Zack shook his head. “The sheriff’s people are there. But it looks like the same guy, so I’ll have them send everything to our lab.” The sheriff’s department generally sent evidence to the state lab, but Seattle had a top-notch facility and could expedite the lab work. Whenever possible, the county used the local lab.

Cohn nodded and ran a hand over his nearly-bald head. “Rodgers’s people are team players. We’ll have no jurisdictional problems.”

Olivia looked from Cohn to Zack, perplexed. “What happened? Another kidnapping?”

Zack glanced at Olivia and for a split second thought he saw rage in her eyes. Rage tinged with fear. Then it was gone, like an opaque shield sliding down. She grabbed her briefcase off Cohn’s desk, all business, cool and detached.

“Three months ago,” Zack told her. “They just found her body.” He led Olivia from the lab to the parking garage.

“Three months…” Olivia paused in her stride and stumbled. When Zack caught her elbow to steady her, she tensed under his touch. “Thanks,” she mumbled, but moved away from him. “Three months,” she repeated. “That means Michelle Davidson was his third Seattle victim.

“Zack, I don’t think I pointed it out when we were reviewing the cases, but he only kills four girls in each city he hits. If we don’t get him now, we’ll lose him.”

Vince Kirby ran a hand through his short-cropped hair before hitting SEND on the e-mail to his editor.

Now, he couldn’t take it back.

The Seattle Slayer ? Corny. And it didn’t sit well with Kirby. These were kids who were murdered. He didn’t feel comfortable sensationalizing their deaths.

Well, if Bristow wanted to fire him, fine. But Kirby wouldn’t stand for major editorial changes under his byline. Not anymore.

The biggest problem was Zack Travis. When he read the paper tomorrow morning and saw the sub-headline SPD fumbling investigation , he’d blame Kirby, no doubt.

Why did Kirby even care? He’d tried to explain to Travis a half-dozen times that he didn’t write all his stories the way they came out in print.

But Travis had been important to Amy, and that made him important to Kirby.

Kirby reached over, picked up the only picture on his cluttered desk, and stared at Amy’s secretive smile. Lips together, turned slightly up, her dark eyes lit with humor and a touch of mischief.

God, he had loved her.

Bristow’s door slammed open. “Kirby!” he called.

So, maybe sending the e-mail wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but changing the article at the last minute when he’d been covering the crime beat for eight years-that was low, even for his editor.

He stood. “Coming,” he called.

But Bristow was already crossing the floor. Most everyone had left for the day, but Kirby had a feeling the senior editor lived in the building. There wasn’t a time of day or night that Kirby was here when Bristow wasn’t.

“Get out to Vashon Island ASAP. There’s some sort of police activity, all hush-hush on the band, but one of my contacts said the sheriff called in Detective Travis. My gut says it’s the Slayer.”

Kirby cringed at the killer’s moniker. “Mr. Bristow, I think we need to tread lightly in this case. I-”

The editor waved his hand as he lit a cigarette. It was a nonsmoking building. Bristow took that to mean nonsmoking during business hours. Then, he smoked in his office. “I saw your e-mail. Funny. You work the beat, I’ll clean your copy. Now go, before you miss the damn ferry.”

Kirby stuffed his camera and notepad into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.

He had to find another paper to work for. Nothing was keeping him in Seattle now that Amy was dead.

Except a promise.

He prided himself on his discipline.

He planned each operation precisely, from the vehicle he stole to the neighborhood he targeted to the girl he chose. Patience. Planning. Discipline.

Two or three times he’d acted on impulse. The first time, of course, but that worked out amazingly well. After all, stealing Hall’s truck turned attention to someone else. It was after that he decided he would steal trucks for every operation. That took finding the least likely vehicle to be reported stolen, which was surprisingly easy. He generally picked people going on vacation. More often than not, they took a taxi or shuttle to the airport. Picking locks was child’s play; virtually everyone had an extra set of car keys in the house. He had use of their truck for days and no one reported it stolen.

He preferred either American trucks or SUVs because they were big, he understood the mechanics, and they were common. If he selected a pickup, it had to have a shell over the bed for privacy; an SUV needed darkened windows and collapsible rear seats. Cars were too small and their trunks usually stuffed with the owner’s junk, and cargo vans were out of the question; they immediately appeared suspicious sitting in a residential neighborhood.

Sometimes he made mistakes. Like the time in Texas when the daughter came home from college to house-sit. Close call, but he’d talked his way out of that one.

If only that bitch had known she was minutes away from dying. He’d wanted to reach out, wrap his hands around her neck, and squeeze. Squeeze until her neck snapped.

But rash actions like that could have drawn attention to him, and he had more important operations to plan.

His sweet angels waited for him to free their souls.

But three months ago he’d again acted on impulse. He’d seen his little angel running along the edge of the water, glowing. Radiating just for him. And he knew beyond a doubt she’d been sent to him.

He’d been on the island for a year, blending in, planning. He’d already selected a neighborhood off the island, and was looking for the right truck when the angel ran along the beach and her soul sang to him.

He brought her to his cottage. Another mistake.

There was nowhere else to take her-he couldn’t remove her from the island because of surveillance cameras on the docks. And the authorities had started the search immediately, even before he’d secured her inside his house.

He kept her safe, hidden, until the search was called off well after sundown.

Everyone thought she’d drowned.

Then he freed her, and his sweet little angel became a spirit, pure and brilliant.

But it had been a mistake, an impulsive decision that he now regretted. The police were swarming the island. Would they talk to him? Perhaps. They had nothing on him, couldn’t come into the cottage, had no reason to suspect him. He’d been on the island long enough to divert suspicion, and the fact that he was still here helped his case.

No one had seen him with her; otherwise they’d never have assumed she drowned when they couldn’t find her. Days later, he’d put her empty shell in the middle of the island, where the woods were dense and people would be less likely to find it. He quickly dismissed the idea of burying it. That wouldn’t do. Her shell was nothing; her spirit was free. To bury it would imply there was some value in emptiness, something to preserve.

He’d planned to be gone by now, but one of his little angels eluded him. It didn’t happen often. He watched, waited, planned. He followed the patterns. There were always patterns. But sometimes it happens that a schedule suddenly changed, and last month he’d been waiting and she never came. So he was behind.

Not for long.

Even mishaps like changing schedules were planned for. He had more than one contingency plan.

With the angel’s shell discovered and the police on the island, he’d considered leaving. But disappearing now might cast suspicion on him. A waiter not showing up at the restaurant right after the police find a dead body on the island? No, that wouldn’t do. He needed to report to work. Answer questions if they were asked. Express a moderate amount of surprise. Expected sadness. Go about his business.