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The photos of Kara Benson showed her lying on her side by the road, wearing a short red dress. Her feet were bare. Many of the pictures were out of focus, but the ones that were readable showed her face turned from the camera.
“You said she was last seen at a Halloween party?” Bowman asked.
“That’s right.”
“Explains the outfit. Were there signs of rape?”
“There were indications of intercourse. Though there was no vaginal bruising or tearing to suggest force.”
“Was semen found?”
“Yes, and it was tested. But when the sample reached the lab, technicians determined it was compromised, so a full DNA panel couldn’t be obtained.”
Bowman stared at his pale face. “Hell of a tragedy for Sharp to deal with.”
Andrews was silent for a moment. “I still don’t want to discuss this case with him right now. I want to have specific questions before we talk.”
Bowman nodded toward a pile of handwritten papers. “These are the notes Knox made during his interviews?”
“Yes. He talked to dozens of people about Kara. Each time he focused on any stranger who might have been spotted with her. Nobody saw her leave with anyone.”
“Anything else?”
“There are still receipts to be catalogued, pictures to be examined, including a copy of her autopsy report, which I’ve yet to read.”
“I can read the witness files. You can read the autopsy report, and we can compare notes.”
“Not necessary. Better I process it all and give you a report. It won’t take much more time.”
“Understood,” Bowman said. “Knox gave these files to Sharp for a reason. Said he thought if there were any new clues to find, Sharp would uncover them.”
“The case might have been solved twelve years ago if Knox and his department hadn’t done such substandard work at Kara Benson’s crime scene.”
“Maybe that explains why he never let the case go. He felt guilty.”
“It’s been my experience that the real intentions are usually hidden under the surface.”
“You think Knox is hiding something?”
“Perhaps.”
“Knox lives close by. Talk to him.”
“As soon as I read the files today, he’s first on my list.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Always.”
When Tessa’s alarm went off at six in the morning, she hit “Snooze.” She was still struggling with jet lag, and it had been a long time since she’d been this tired. The late night at the crime scene hadn’t helped. To compound the situation, she’d dreamed again about Dakota, the man who was never far from her even if she put thousands of miles between them.
In the dream she’d had so many times, she was standing at the stove of their Libby Avenue apartment and stirring tomato sauce for their dinner. Pasta boiled on a back burner.
Dakota always moved so quietly, she often didn’t hear him approach. And when he wrapped strong arms around her waist, she’d started. “Damn it, Dakota. I’ll spill the sauce.”
A deep chuckle rumbled in his throat as he kissed the crook of her neck. His hands slid along the sides of her sundress and then up under the thin cotton, caressing her thighs’ bare skin.
Her breath hissed through clenched teeth as she tried to focus on her task. His hand skimmed her belly to the front of her panties and teased the nest of curls. Hot energy raced through her blood, and her appetite for food vanished. Letting the wooden spoon drop into the pot, she shut off the stove and pressed her bottom against his erection.
“That’s my girl,” he whispered close to her ear.
“You make me crazy.” From the beginning, he’d known how to touch her body and make it react in ways she’d never imagined.
He pulled her away from the stove and lifted her up onto the kitchen table they’d just bought a couple of weeks ago. As he stared at her, he pushed her legs open, then freed himself from his jogging shorts. He shoved her moist panties aside and pulled her close to the table’s edge. With one thrust he was deep inside her, moving both her and the table with determined lunges.
She arched her back to take the full penetration, and he leaned forward and sucked her breast through the dress fabric. Her fingers balled into tight fists as the tempo built. He liked taking her to the brink and then easing up. She whimpered his name, begged him to continue, and then he licked her until she came.
Finally, when the last spasm shuddered through her body, he slid inside her moist center. “Watching you lose control makes me so hot,” he whispered against her ear. He was never in a rush as he thrust in and out of her, holding her face in his hands as he growled her name until he came.
Tessa’s alarm went off a second time, and this time she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, cradling her head in her hands. She glanced at the empty side of her bed, feeling hungry for him and aware she was alone.
She’d wanted to kiss him for weeks and had hoped for more of a reaction from him. She could feel he wanted her, but Dakota had held himself in check and detached as stone. “I’m not finished with you, Dakota Sharp.”
She placed one foot in front of the other until she reached the shower. Turning on the hot spray, she let the water rush over her and wash away some of the fatigue. A half hour later, she was out of the shower, her damp hair curled into a knot, and wearing clean scrubs. She made herself coffee and poured it in a travel mug before grabbing her purse, backpack, and keys.
Tessa arrived at the medical examiner’s office twenty minutes later. The morning traffic had already fallen into a somewhat predicable routine, and she was grateful for this one consistency in her life.
After stowing her backpack in her desk, she and Dr. Kincaid moved to the bank of refrigerated shelves to make morning rounds of the pending cases. The first case appeared to be a heart attack, but an autopsy would confirm it. The second, a fall. And the third was the Jane Doe from last night.
Dr. Kincaid pulled out the tray. Lying on the cool table was the body of the young woman. Her body had been shaved of hair, and her face and hands were perfectly covered in tattoos.
“I’ve no doubt she was sedated during the process. Her arms, legs, and muscles have atrophied, suggesting she moved very little in the last month,” Dr. Kincaid said.
There was a familiarity in the woman’s features that still bothered Tessa, but without hair and a clear view of the woman’s face, she couldn’t place her. “Where are her clothes?”
“With the forensic department. They’re testing the blood sample.”
In the stark light, the garish doll-like features looked all the more shocking and gruesome. The classic red cheeks, freckles, and bow lips lost all their charm and innocence in this brash context.
She stared at the eyes still open. “You removed the con
tacts?”
“I didn’t want them fusing with the eye. But there’s no closing the lids.”
Tessa shifted her right leg, which was aching more than usual today. She chalked it up to too much time on her feet and not enough stretching.
“When will Agents Sharp and Vargas be here?”
“The autopsy is scheduled for ten,” Dr. Kincaid said.
Dr. Kincaid nodded toward her leg. “Your leg bothering you?”
“I’m a little tired.”
“Is it painful?”
“Just stiff.” Even after a dozen years, long days still irritated the bone that had been nearly shattered by the car. “It’ll pass.”
At nine forty-five she moved into the autopsy suite, where she found Jerry setting up the instrument tray Dr. Kincaid would use.
“You’re an early bird,” Jerry said as he placed a sterile pack of instruments on a small worktable.
“It’s the newbie in me. Once I get this place figured out, I’m sure I’ll be cutting it closer.”
He laughed. “When you get this place figured out, would you send me the cheat sheet?”
“I’ll be sure to copy you.”
He nodded toward the bank of cold storage compartments in the other room, where they kept the bodies. “Help me get the next case ready?”
They transferred Jane Doe’s sheet-clad body to the autopsy room.
She raised the sheet and studied the woman’s face. “Have you seen any disfiguration like that here?” she asked.
“I’ve seen some crazy stuff over the years,” Jerry said. “Piercings, body modification, tattoos, but I have never seen anything like that.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thursday, October 6, 10:00 a.m.
Tessa turned as the doors to the autopsy suite whooshed open to admit Agent Julia Vargas. The agent had pinned up her ink-black hair in a ponytail, which accentuated an angled face and a faint splash of freckles peppering her skin. She wore a black T-shirt and blazer over dark jeans, ankle-high boots, and her badge dangling from a chain around her neck. She cradled a cup of coffee close. “I’m Agent Vargas. The victim with the doll face is mine.”
