Page 57

“With the identification of a new victim found along a popular hiking trail this afternoon, police are urging young women, particularly between the age of twenty-to-thirty years old, to be extremely cautious, especially after dark. Marnee Bucker is the latest victim in a series of murders that have baffled police. The unknown suspect, referred to by the media as The Sandman, is considered both cunning and dangerous. Police are strongly advising that anyone out after dark walk in groups and avoid areas with little to no lighting.”

I turn the radio down. Another woman found dead. I saw the news report earlier—Marnee Buckner. Of course, the finer details came from Jackson. Eyeballs missing and filled with sand. Flower in her hands—that one’s new. Maybe old age has made him a bit more sentimental about his kills, using the rare breed of flower my mom used to grow in her greenhouse.

Night settles over Belmont Avenue, quiet and serene, like something out of a retro photograph from the fifties. Parked across from Duli’s Diner, I watch the place for any sign of the white van I saw before, but the only thing consuming my attention is the brunette through the window, hustling from table to table, busting her ass for those measly tips. Mesmerizing the way the chick fights for a piece of this city like her life depends on it.

I hate stakeouts, but I could watch her for hours.

I have watched her for hours.

Sinking into the leather seat, I lean back against the headrest and reach down to adjust the painful hard-on I’ve worked up from watching those curves work for their perfect shape.

I try not to think about her thighs straddling me right now, or how easily her tits could fit in the palm of each hand, but my body, the torturing bastard, won’t relent those visuals. Her moans probably sound breathy and soft, like angel porn, or something.

I rub a hand down my face and blow out an exasperated breath.

That’s when my eyes latch onto movement in my periphery. A figure strolling down the empty sidewalk toward the parking lot, hands tucked inside his pants, hood pulled up over his head, concealing his face. I’d blow him off as a hood-rat, if he didn’t turn into the diner’s parking lot, right up to the only red SUV parked there.

He fiddles around on the windshield, and I open the door of my car, keeping my eyes on him as I tuck my gun into my side holster. Once out the vehicle, I cross the street, picking up the pace, when the stranger walks away from the SUV and back onto the sidewalk ahead of me. I kick it up a notch, to a light jog, and the moment he hastens his pace, it’s obvious he knows someone is following behind. Before he can leap into a jog, I nab his collar from behind and drag him into a nearby alley.

Dodging a swing, I slam him against the wall and tear back his hoodie to show a young adolescent face, staring back at me with both fear and confusion.

“Who are you?”

“M-m-my name’s Jared.”

“What’s your business here, Jared?”

“J-just on my way home.”

Bullshit. He’s lucky I don’t interrogate kids the same way I do criminals, because this little bastard has liar written all over his face. “You left something. Back at the car. What was it?”

“I didn’t leave anything, man. Like I said, just trying to get home.”

I pull my gun, holding it to the kid’s shoulder. “You either tell me, or I’ll blow your shoulder off.”

“Wait, wait, wait. So … this guy. He paid me fifty bucks to drop off a note on the red SUV parked at Duli’s Diner.”

“What guy? What’d he look like?”

“I didn’t see him. It was dark. He was in a white van.”

“When?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

Shoving the gun back into its holster, I release him and glance toward the mouth of the alley. “He say anything to you?”

“Just that he needed me to drop the note off. I swear I don’t know anything else.”

“Get the hell out of here,” I say, giving him a light shove.

Out of the alley, I head back toward the parking lot and come to a stop beside Nola’s SUV. In addition to the note, there’s a picture, and I lift it from beneath the wipers. It’s a polaroid of a woman lying on what appears to be leaves, her eyes filled with sand. The lighting seems to be either dawn, or dusk, it’s hard to tell, but it gives just enough visibility to see some of the details. Blonde hair and peachy skin that could easily be Marnee Buckner, the woman from the news report. In her hand is a Queen of the Night flower. Not only a telltale signature for police, but a sure bet I know the killer.

I glance around, eyes scanning the parking lot, the streets, the adjacent lot, for any sign of the white van, but there’s nothing. All is quiet and still.

The accompanying note says “Mine eternal” in typed letters across a small scrap of paper.

“Voss?” The familiar voice from behind steels my muscles, and as I turn to face Nola, I shove the note and photograph into my pocket. Eyes narrowed, she tips her head, lifting the strap of her purse up onto her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”