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“You pulled a gun on two Rangers,” she said. “And then ran.”
He muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?”
“I didn’t work for the nursery.”
“Liar. We found red dust on one victim that matched the soil samples from the cactuses. And your name is on the employee list.”
He stared at her. Opened his mouth, closed it again.
“I didn’t end up working there,” he said simply.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I mean, fine… I worked abit.But that was it.”
Her voice hardened. “You seem to keep changing your story.”
“I worked for a few days, but got canned, alright?”
“Why?”
“I… just… you know,did.”
“Without cause?”
He shifted uncomfortably, his sweaty shirt bunching up under rolls of fat. He picked at the shirt with trembling fingers, and then shrugged and mumbled something.
“Louder, please.”
“I was skimming money from my boss,” Mark confessed, his face flushing. “Just a little bit here and there. I never thought it would amount to much.”
“Only one person fits our profile who worked at that nursery. I know about your criminal record,” Rachel observed, her tone cool and detached.
Rachel studied Mark’s face for a moment. He didn’t reply, staring at his fingers.
“Mark, I’m going to show you some pictures now,” she said, her voice steady. “I need you to look at them and tell me if you recognize the woman in them.”
She reached for the folder and opened it, revealing a series of photographs of the third dead woman they’d found, her body covered in oil. As she spread them out in front of Mark, Rachel watched his face closely, searching for any sign of recognition or guilt.
Mark stared at the images, his eyes widening in horror. “That… that’s awful,” he muttered.
She studied him. The first victim they’d found had been a billionaire heiress. The next two victims hadn’t yet been identified, but the going theory was that someone was targeting the elite.
“I need you to tell me who she was,” Rachel said, still watching their suspect’s expression.
He was scratching with a dirty finger at his stubble, frowning down at the pictures. His initial repulsion was replaced by a grim sort of satisfaction.
He seemed mesmerized by the sight of it. Rachel said, “Four years ago, you beat a woman with a tire iron, didn’t you?”
He blinked, looking up.
“What was her name again?”
He just shrugged, shaking his head. “I didn’t do this,” he said, pushing the pictures back toward her.
“But you know who she is?”
