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“Frank Wilson?” Ryland exclaimed. “I’ve heard of him from some of the old-timers. This is him?”
“I believe so,” Kit murmured. “I wonder if he changed his name after he married the other man in this photo.” She gave the photo back to Ryland. “This could be another high-profile case.”
Ryland sighed. “I was thinking we were about due. It’s been, what? Six months?”
Six months since they’d stopped one of San Diego’s deadliest serial killers, throwing their entire homicide department into disarray. They were finally getting their acts together again and now they had a dead, high-ranking retired cop. “Yep. I guess we are due.”
“Should I expect your lieutenant to breathe down my neck again?” he asked.
“Probably.” Lieutenant Navarro had recently returned from personal leave and was chomping at the bit for something big to do. “Was there anything missing from the bedroom?”
“Possibly a computer,” Ryland said. “The router and Ethernet cable are still there, but the desk is empty. There’s a dust-free space the size of a laptop, so that one was stolen is a reasonable guess. The bedroom is in the same state as the rest of the apartment—photos, papers, books all over the place. It’ll take us a while to get through it all, but we’ll be as quick as we can.”
“Okay. I need to find Connor and we’ll get started. First thing we need to do is inform Navarro.” Their lieutenant would take care of informing the hierarchy. She cast a glance at the speaker on the victim’s living room wall. “At least I’ll get away from the music.”
“Why?” Alicia asked. “It’s beautiful.”
Yes, it was. It was also too damn sad. “I’ll find out what CD he’s listening to and if it was his norm,” Kit said, evading Alicia’s question because she didn’t like to talk about things like feelings on the job. She suppressed a shudder at the thought.
“There’s no CD player, Kit,” Ryland said. “Just an old-fashioned stereo. I’m still looking for where the music is coming from.”
Even more reason to get out of here. “Let me know when you find it. See you guys later.”
Kit left the apartment, nodding to the officer guarding the door. “Do you know where the common room is?” Because that was where Connor had told her to meet him.
“Yes, Detective. Go down the elevator to the ground floor, turn left, and it’s at the opposite side of the building from the lobby. Most of the residents on this floor are in the common room. They were asked to stay out of our way, so they gathered there.”
She glanced at his badge. “Thank you, Officer Stern. I appreciate it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Kit ducked under the crime scene tape and took the elevator down as the officer had directed. And was surprised to still hear the music. A different tune, but the same melancholy piano.
It was faint when she exited the elevator on the ground floor but grew increasingly louder as she made her way to the common room. Again, her chest tightened. She’d gone to church enough in her youth to recognize the melody now being played. “ ‘Amazing Grace,’ ” she murmured.
Suddenly she was transported back to the small church where they’d said goodbye to Wren. They’d played that song at her sister’s funeral, sixteen years before. She remembered the numbness, the feeling of being outside her own body. She remembered the tears. Not her own, of course. Not then. Not in front of everyone. Kit hadn’t cried until hours later. She and her foster father, Harlan McKittrick, had both waited until the rest of the house had been asleep, both taking refuge in the barn, not knowing the other would be there. It had been the first time she’d seen her foster father cry.
The sight had shaken her. And had changed her life.
It had been the moment when the wall she’d built around her heart had begun to crumble. The moment when she’d started to let herself believe that Harlan and his wife Betsy could really love her.
I need to go home. I need to see them. Even though she’d seen them only an hour ago at Rita’s meeting. Even though she’d been home nearly every Sunday for the last six months, hearing the music left her feeling vulnerable. Left her feeling like she was fifteen years old again and grieving.
But you’re not. You’re thirty-one and standing here with your hand on the doorknob like some kind of zombie. Move it, McKittrick.
Kit swallowed hard and drew a deep breath before she opened the common room door, pausing in the open doorway to the large, well-lit room. And realized that the music wasn’t coming from a radio or a CD player. It was coming from a baby grand piano. A pianist sat with his back to her, his hands moving gracefully over the keyboard.
She gave herself a shake, trying to clear her mind of the music and the memories. Pay attention. There were about a dozen folding chairs on the right, filled with senior citizens. Most looked like she felt right now—numb and vulnerable. Some cried quietly. Some had closed their eyes. All appeared to be in shock.
Well, having one of your own stabbed with a butcher knife will do that.
The first thing she had to do was silence that music. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to think.
“Kit, wait!”
Kit turned to see her partner hurrying her way. “Give me a second, Connor. I have things to tell you, but I need some quiet.” She stepped into the common room. “Excuse me?” she called to the pianist. “Sir, can you take a break?”
“Kit, wait,” Connor hissed in her ear, grabbing her arm, but her eyes were fixed on the pianist.
