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His mouth tightens. “This…gift…is to help give people closure. To let them live in peace. Nothing more. Just solve the crime for which you’re here and leave the rest to history.”
One could argue…
But that’s enough of a gray statement for me to nod, without guile.
“Good.” And then he smiles, something warm in his eyes. “I knew I could trust my gut on you.” He clamps me on the shoulder. “I do hope we ended well.”
We will. I vow it in my soul.
9
Gretta Holmes deserved justice, and with every bone in her body, Eve would find it for her.
Even if she starved to death doing it.
While Silas categorized all the items taken from the crime scene, Eve had gone down to the Hennepin County Medical Center to pull fresh evidence and take pictures before Gretta’s body was sent to the Office of the Medical Examiner. Silas had already left for lunch by the time Eve returned from the morgue.
Now, she stood in front of the cork board in her lab, studying the array of photographs. The sun cast bare shadows through the window of her downtown office, across the stainless steel counter tops, her workstation, a cold cup of coffee, and the collected crime scene evidence, categorized by Silas. Backstreet Boys crooned As Long As You Love Me from a boom box shoved beneath her metal desk.
Her stomach growled, but she ignored it.
Knowing the victim by name only deepened the tragedy and urge for justice that burrowed inside Eve. She’d dissected plenty of crime scenes since joining Booker’s precinct a month ago, but for some reason, this crime latched onto a place deep inside.
Gretta was young, and the parallel scars on her arm bespoke a profound pain that triggered a memory Eve didn’t want to revisit.
She’d been a teenager, too, once upon a time, who didn’t know where to put her grief, her loss, her guilt. Who turned it inward to her body and left a few self-inflicted scars.
She wasn’t that troubled teenager anymore—long from it—but seeing the scars on Gretta’s arms galvanized Eve.
Who hurt you?
Stone was a good detective to have identified Gretta so quickly. But Eve already knew that—after all, he’d tracked down the third coff
ee shop bomber with only fragments of clues.
She should have been with him, helping him.
Eve turned away from the pictures and headed out to the hallway toward the vending machine.
This time, she had every intent of solving this case, or at least helping, before Rembrandt walked into an ambush with a knife-wielding bomber.
She stood in front of the vending machine, perusing her choices, and settled on a Diet Coke and a Snickers bar.
Why does a woman run?
Rembrandt’s voice clung to her, and it felt more like a real question than rhetorical, because of course he’d know. Like she said. Fear. Hurt.
Gretta probably fled from both. She’d skinned her knees and her hands, so maybe she’d actually fallen from the car. A button had popped off her jacket, as if it had been grabbed. Maybe to stop her? Eve hadn’t found a button at the scene, but it might be worth a return visit.
Fingerprints pressed Gretta’s throat in three perfectly formed bruises. Eve had tried to lift prints from her skin, but it was too rigid and oily.
The only other possession, besides her clothing, was a twenty dollar bill Rembrandt had found stuck in her grip. She’d tried to find prints off it too, but she couldn’t find anything clear. Money usually passed too many hands to be conclusive.
“Oh, so we’re there are we?”
She turned and hated her stupid heart for its wild thump when Inspector Stone sauntered into her office. He’d clearly been driving with the window down because his dark hair was wild, and he wore a hint of the summer sun on his skin under his open collar and face.
Shoot, he was handsome and down, girl.
