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“What happened?” he asks.
Jess shakes her head in response.
“Did he throw you out?”
“I didn’t want to put him at risk,” she mutters. “He doesn’t deserve to be a part of this mess.” She keeps quiet about the real reason, the shame of Nav’s words still hot inside her.
Griffin starts the Land Rover and puts it into gear.
“Last of the good guys, eh?” he says to himself.
“You wouldn’t understand. You’re not like Nav.” Jess turns away and looks out the window into the darkened streets. She realizes what she’s implied, that the risk to Griffin doesn’t matter.
But Griffin shakes his head. “No. No, I’m not,” he mutters in reply.
CHAPTER
21
THERE’S NO WAY the investigation is quiet anymore. It’s exploded into a full-scale manhunt. Other constabularies are being drafted in; multiple investigations have to be combined. Cara knows the chief constable is having a coronary, shouting at anyone within contact.
Cara’s taken control, allocating actions and tasks to the new detectives in the operation. She now stands outside the block of apartments, watching the flood of scene of crime officers begin their work. Libby has arrived with a flash of pink hair and a smile to Noah; Dr. Ross is already inside. Despite the late hour, journalists and TV crews hover around, desperate for a crumb of a quote. One shouts for her attention from the outer cordon. She knows him—Steve Gray from the Chronicle—but she responds with a “no comment” and leaves him disappointed.
They’ve only shared the theory with a handful of people so far—Libby, Ross, a few other detectives; the press have no idea just how bad things are. Cara knows a statement needs to be made, but what would it say? We have a serial murderer on our hands. One who has killed more than ten people. And no, sorry, we have no idea where he is.
She watches Deakin in the doorway. He’s talking animatedly on the phone to the team back in the station, reiterating her orders, a cigarette burning down to the butt between his fingers. He’d handled the sight in the apartment better than she had, but he’d been shaken. And angry—she knows the signs. The furrowed brow, the twitchy hands.
Her phone rings and she looks at the number. She answers it.
“So we have a Dahmer,” Griffin says.
“News travels fast.”
“How many victims?”
“At least ten. But all in pieces, all in varying states of decomp, so who knows for sure.”
“And the neighbors didn’t notice anything?”
“They’re taking their statements down at the station now,” Cara says. “So far, they’ve just said they noticed a smell and complained, but there was a note through their door that said there was a rat problem.”
“Pretty big fucking rats. Did they keep the note?” Griffin doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m coming down there.”
“You’ll do no such thing. I’m serious, Griffin. Come to the station first thing in the morning, but I don’t want you here. Not now.” She pauses. “The place is crawling with journalists, Nate. They’ll have a field day if they see you.”
She hears him pause. He knows she’s right. She sees Deakin gesture to her from the door of the block of apartment buildings.
“Listen, Nate. I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”
There’s another pause. “Okay.”
Cara hangs up and takes a deep breath. She follows Deakin back inside.
* * *
“I don’t know what you need me for,” Dr. Ross is saying as Deakin and Cara approach the main living room. “There’s fuck all I can do here.”
His voice is strained. Cara’s not surprised. It’s not how she wants to be spending her evening either.
