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He chuckled at himself. Fifty-one years old, and he still bitched like a teenager. Maybe that was why Lucinda hated him so much.
He opened the door and walked inside, flipping on the lights as he went. He tossed his keys onto the counter and turned toward the hallway.
He had just enough time to think of Lucinda’s face before the knife entered his throat.
CHAPTER NINE
Faith rolled over directly into a massive, furry body. She rolled back on her back and sighed. She debated just kicking him off the bed and decided against it. He’d just wait for her to fall asleep and then climb back on.
“Well, you might be waiting all night for that one, kiddo,” she muttered.
For over a year now, ever since Jethro Trammell had nearly killed her, she had been plagued with nightmares about that day. Tonight, for the first time, the nightmare came before she could sleep.
This wasn’t a frightening nightmare so much as a frustrating one. The copycat killer was still out there somewhere cutting people up like Trammell had cut her. Clark and Desrouleaux were continuing to chase their tails hopping from one crime scene to the next, learning nothing new and probably not even worrying the copycat at all.
She recalled the look on Jared Greenwood’s face when he saw her in that rent-a-car. The moment of surprise and then the other look—the flat, emotionless hate. She had seen that same look on his father’s face, the Weed Killer, Horace Greenwood.
She retained enough objectivity to know that she couldn’t know for sure that Greenwood was the killer, but since this was her nightmare, she decided to allow herself to use his image in her fantasy of catching him and bringing him to justice.
She realized with sudden clarity how much it bothered her that Michael had to save her. She had spent her entire life dealing with every problem she faced. She had stood next to her brothers in the Corps not behind them. Sometimes, she had stood in front of them.
But somehow, someway, Jethro Trammell had gotten her. He of all people had gotten the drop on her, overpowered her, tied her to a chair, and hurt her. He hadhurther. He had hurt her, and he would have killed her, and there was nothing she could do about it. She was done. She was had.
And Michael had to step in and save her. He had to show up and shoot Trammell at the last minute, earn himself a commendation and a handshake from the Director, and now Faith had to live with the fact that she owed her life to someone because she couldn’t protect herself.
She couldn’t get Trammell, but she could get the next best thing. She needed the copycat. Sheneededhim.
A furry nose wormed its way under her hand, then continued worming until it rested in the crook of her shoulder. Turk snuffled happily and promptly fell back to sleep. Faith smiled faintly. Thoughts of the copycat killer receded. She closed her eyes and finally, blissfully, sleep—
Her phone rang, jarring her instantly awake. She allowed herself a half-second of irritation, then checked the caller ID.
It was Detective Chapman. “Bold,” she answered.
“Wake your partner up,” Derek said. “There’s another body.”
***
Faith was beginning to think the old adage that serial killers favored a specific sex was a lie. In two of her past three cases, the killer had killed both women and men.
The latest victim was Elmore Holland, fifty-one, not only a man but significantly older than the previous two victims. He lived in a small apartment in South Tucson and get this—he lived alone.
“The neighbor heard a noise,” Derek explained. “He looked through his window and saw Mr. Holland’s door was ajar. He decided not to go inside in case whoever broke in was still there. That was probably wise. He called us instead. This is what we walked into.”
“Please tell me I’m wrong and that Mr. Holland actually is married,” she said.
“Good news for you,” Travis said. “Thereisa Mrs. Holland. Lucinda, fifty-two, lives in Oro Valley.”
“Oro Valley?” Michael said. “That’s on the other side of the city.”
“That is correct,” Travis said.
“Wedding ring’s missing again,” Faith said.
“Well,” Travis said, stooping down and peering at Mr. Holland’s hand, “this one’s been missing a while. Five or six months, I’d guess.”
“He was divorced?”
“No, he was married,” Travis said, standing up. “Separated. You see this a lot with the wealthy people, especially the childless ones. They get tired of each other, but they have to be careful about the divorce because they stand to piss off a lot ofverywealthy relatives who might hold a grudge ‘til death, if you know what I mean.”
