Carol Ericson - The District

“You’re welcome. Anything else I can do for you?”

Christina gave her one of her sweet smiles that seemed to have gotten even sweeter. “We’re good. Thanks so much for your help.”

Rita practically bowed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Eric jerked his thumb at the door. “What do you think she expects out of all this? It’s not like you can give her a recommendation for homicide.”

“Maybe she thinks you can pull some strings with your brother.”

“Sean? Rita’s in the same department. She should know by now Detective Sean Brody is not a quid pro quo kinda guy. He expects everyone to work hard to get ahead.” He leveled a finger at Christina. “Besides, it’s you she idolizes.”

“I think she just wants to learn. The men in the department probably aren’t very encouraging and maybe she doesn’t have any role models here.”

“You didn’t need any role models.”

“I was a special case. Didn’t you always tell me that?”

Drawing his chair toward the desk, he hunched forward. “What drove you up that tree, Christina?”

“I told you—a hunch.”

“One of those hunches? Did you feel anything?”

She squeezed her eyes closed and massaged her left temple. “Incredible evil.”

“Did you tell the P.D. here?”

She gave a short laugh, almost a bark. “Are you kidding? I want to be taken seriously, not written off as a crackpot.”

“The Bureau has used psychics before.”

“I’d hardly call myself a psychic, and honestly, the Bureau may use them but most don’t respect them. Greavy sure doesn’t.”

“Like I told you before, it’s a talent you should try to develop.”

She hugged herself. “I don’t know if I want to develop it. Besides, in this case, I didn’t get much at all, just a feeling.”

“Up to you.” Eric checked his watch. “Let’s get started before lunch gets here.”

“Umm, do you want to wheel around here? I’ll take you through the first San Francisco murder.”

He walked his chair to her side of the desk and at once her scent overwhelmed him. The familiar musky perfume wrapped its tendrils around him, but the essence of Christina had a stronger impact on him.

He couldn’t put his finger on it. He never could and it had haunted him ever since the day he cut her loose.

She dragged a file folder between them on the desk and flipped it open. She spread a stack of photos in front of him, and green, leafy, verdant forest blurred together.

“Was it another running trail?”

“Hiking, just across the bay.”

He thumbed through the photos. “Victim?”

“Liz Fielding, late forties, single. Some trouble in her past but clean for at least five years.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Some drugs, petty theft, a little hooking.”

“What about the other two?”

“Haven’t dug up anything like that yet, but the investigation is still young.”

He plucked out the pictures of the body. She’d been positioned like his male victim in San Diego—stretched out on her back, hands positioned over her stomach, the tarot slipped between her fingers. He traced a finger over her disheveled clothes.

“No sexual assault, huh?”

“Nope, not for any of the victims. Your guy?”

“No.” He shook out another photo, this one a close-up of the victim’s throat and the ghastly, gaping wound. A necklace clung to the woman’s neck, still intact.

Eric’s pulse jumped and he held the picture closer to his face.

“What is it? You see something?”

He dropped the photo and he jabbed a finger at the victim’s throat. “This necklace...same one my kidnapper wore.”

Chapter Three

Christina jerked her head to the side, her jaw dropping. Was Eric seeing things? He’d rarely mentioned his kidnapping as an eleven-year-old in San Francisco. It had been a strange one—no ransom note, no demands, and the kidnappers released him on a street corner two days later.

At the time, the police had connected his kidnapping to the serial killer case Eric’s father had been working—the serial killings Joseph Brody would later be suspected of committing. Right before he jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge.

What did this murder victim, Liz Fielding, have to do with Eric’s kidnapping?

She snatched up the photo from the desk where he’d dropped it. “What are you talking about, Eric? Her necklace?”

“She kept her face hidden, they all did. I guess they figured that was easier than blindfolding me. And the woman, she’s the one who always checked on me. When she leaned over me, her necklace would swing forward. I got a good look at the medallion hanging from the chain.” He tapped the picture. “Just like this.”

She squinted at the necklace with the round pendant nestled against the dead woman’s chest. “It’s just a coincidence, Eric.”

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I always thought it was some symbol of Satan or something.”

“And why wouldn’t you?” She studied the design of the symbol, black etching on the silver disc. It almost looked like the outline of a whale’s tail, but she could see how a child might see a pair of horns.

“Did you ever research it?”

“Honestly, I’d forgotten all about the design until two minutes ago.”

“How can you even be sure it’s the same symbol after all these years?”

“You have your feelings, and I—” he poked his chest with his thumb “—have mine.”

“It’s not the same necklace, Eric. This is not the same woman.”

“The age is right. My kidnapper was probably mid-twenties. This woman is mid-forties.”

“Eric.” She gripped his wrist. “Liz Fielding is not the same woman who kidnapped you. She’s wearing a similar necklace.”

Licking his lips, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “You’re right. It just took me back. Crazy.”

He opened the desk drawer and slipped out a piece of paper. He started sketching on it with his pencil.

“Now what?”

“I didn’t have access to a computer or the internet twenty years ago. Now I’m curious what, if anything, this symbol means. Who knows? The meaning of Liz’s necklace might even lead to a break in this case.” He lodged his tongue in the corner of his mouth and continued drawing.

While Eric took his walk down memory lane, she perused the crime scene photos, checking them against the report. The detectives in Portland hadn’t identified a location where the killer could’ve been lying in wait, but he must’ve done so. He’d had his killing accoutrement with him, a blunt object for stunning his victim, a sharp knife for the cutting and the tarot card for the coup de grâce.

Maybe it wasn’t going to be Liz Fielding that day, but it was going to be someone.

She’d have to make a return visit to the area where Liz had been found and take Eric with her. She slid a glance at his face, the lines set in concentration.

He still made her pulse race, and warm, sweet honey pool in all the right places.

He’d broken her heart when he walked out on her. By the time she’d discovered her pregnancy he’d gone on a leave of absence and escaped to parts unknown.

Even when she’d heard he was back on the job, she couldn’t bring herself to contact him and tell him about Kendall. He probably would’ve accused her of using Kendall to get him back.

Once he’d discovered her notes about the Phone Book Killer, it had completely destroyed any trust between them. She’d been so outraged that he believed Ray’s lies about her, she didn’t bother explaining the truth to him. When she found out she was pregnant, it was too late. He’d disappeared from her life...but apparently not for good.