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My head spins and I have to thrust out a hand to stop from falling forward onto my face.
“I-I have to go,” I stammer, ending the call before Sasha can say another word.
Fuck him if he thinks he can do this without me. Fucking Mitch and his goddamn irresponsible behavior! I shouldn’t let my emotions take charge. My rational side is begging me to stop, but I refuse to listen. Clambering to my feet, I head up to my bedroom, grab my laptop, and furiously start typing.
Fucking Johnny Utah. I’ll show him that I’m no damsel in distress.
Mitch
I accept the cup of burnt smelling coffee from the uniformed cop and take a sip of the bitter liquid. “Thanks.”
It’s awful, but beggars can’t be choosers, and at three in the morning at a gruesome crime scene, I’ll take what I can get.
“How did you get inside the tape,” he asks, frowning when he tastes his own cup of coffee.
“Professional courtesy.” When the cop continues staring, I elaborate. “Former Fed. Used to be on a serial killer task force. This homicide involves a client of mine.”
He nods. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
It takes a massive amount of concentration to keep from flinching back at the man’s question. No doubt he’s seen me in the tabloids or on T.V. with Gavin. “No,” I reply. “I doubt it.”
Naturally, that’s when the reporters huddled along the yellow crime scene tape spot me and go crazy, busting my lie.
“Mitch!”
“Mitch Hale! Where’s Gavin?”
“Is Gavin Walker the body you found?”
“Did the stalker kill someone?”
“Where’s Gavin?”
The cop smirks at me after listening to the inane questions, certainly able to place my name and face after that display.
Van Zandt emerges from the damp alley between a Chinese restaurant and a tiny grocery store in West Hollywood, snapping off his latex gloves. “Same guy,” he confirms, ignoring the continued shouts from the media. “Same victim type, same finger missing, same cause of death most likely, but we’ll have to wait for the M.E. to confirm.”
“What’s the cause of death?” I ask. I did hours of research on the serial killings and the suspect before receiving the call from Sasha that there was a body found. Not once did it mention how the victims died.
Van Zandt glances at the cop, glaring until the man walks away. “This is inside info, Hale. Only the bureau knows the COD on the vics.”
“I won’t say anything, Lex. You know me.” He doesn’t really, but he has to know I’m not looking for publicity on this case.
“They’ve all had their windpipes crushed,” he explains. “Someone most likely came from behind, put an a
rm around their throat, and squeezed until they died.”
“That takes an enormous amount of strength, Lex.” I’m shocked. Someone who uses a knife to sever a digit uses suffocation to kill? “Why not use the knife? Stab them or cut their throat?”
“My instincts are that he wants the scene as quiet and clean as possible. Blood is messy and leaves traces.” He shrugs. “Crushing the windpipe means no screaming, no noise, no mess.”
I dump the heinous coffee on the ground and crumple the cup in my hand. “But the victim would fight back, scratch the killer’s hands and arms, leaving DNA behind.”
Van Zandt shakes his head. “No. None. He must be completely covered up.”
“Jesus.” That means this is a trained individual. And smart. And not impulsive, which will make him harder to catch. More importantly, he matches the profile of Troy Wolski, the man who owns the apartment that Gavin’s father visited. We most likely have our man.
“I know,” Van Zandt agrees as if hearing my thoughts. “Nothing is done without reason,” he says.
