Eternal by V. Forrest (primary phonics books .TXT) 📕

pretty quickly when confronted with a six-foot-tall redhead with no-nonsense eyes. It used to bother her, but over the years she’d resigned herself to it. Besides, it was handy with thugs. Or men, in general.

“Your investigating officer?” she asked as she glanced away, already taking in the scene.

The narrow, normally unlit alley was framed by the brick walls of two buildings. It looked like any other in Philly, or any city in the United States: a dumpster, some trash, a few used condoms, and some broken bottles. She smelled cat piss, and three-day-old potato skins. Typical and yet not typical. This alley also had a young blond woman, sprawled dead not fifteen feet from the street.

Fia felt, at once, as if she’d been here before. As if she had seen these very same walls, these same shadows, and the body, unnaturally twisted on the damp pavement.

Caught off guard, she tried to inhale through her mouth, exhaling through her nose, blocking out the smells, reining in her thoughts. Her job was not about weird flashes of déjà vu or uncanny feelings. It was about facts and evidence, and she needed to focus and get to work. The ME’s van was here and the police would want the body out of the alley before citizens hit the streets, headed for work. Early-morning joggers were already out, gawking on the other side of the street.

“Lieutenant Sutton’s in charge, ma’am.” Flustered, the uniform stepped back and pointed to a trench-coat hunkered down over the body.

Fia brushed by him. She had her “FBI Special Agent” game face on, practiced for years in the mirror. It kept her safe. Kept the men around her safe. Usually…

“Lieutenant Sutton? Special Agent Kahill, FBI.” The badge in its leather case again. Fia squatted beside the suit in the shadows over the lifeless body.

The victim was half nude, her black miniskirt pushed up around her waist, her silver metallic tank top ripped down the middle to expose small, round breasts. No bra. High heels were missing from her bare feet, but nearby. There was a halo of blood. A lot of blood.

It wasn’t just a murder; it was a sexual assault, too. The front of her thong panties had been shoved aside and Fia could still detect the pungent scent of semen. She could smell the terror of the last moments of life on the victim’s absent breath.

“I’m from the Philadelphia Field Office. I’m going to need my own photos, if you don’t mind,” Fia told the officer in charge, without looking at him.

“Special Agent Kahill, thank you for coming.” The lieutenant glanced over to meet Fia’s gaze, still squatting.

He was a she. Forty, maybe, honey hair, shoulder–length bob.

“Time of death?” Fia glanced down again at the victim. She appeared to be in her late twenties. Nice clothes, good haircut, no roots showing in her platinum blond hair. Expensive lingerie. She was educated, a professional; a CPA, attorney, maybe.

“ME just took a liver temp, but he can only give a range until he gets her into the morgue.” The lieutenant continued to study the body. “Happened between one and two this morning. A barback called it in at three-fifteen. He was tossing out trash, closing up for the night. We’ve got bars on both sides here, upscale. She was in one or the other, I’m sure. We’ll have to wait until tonight to ask around, see if the regulars saw her.

Fia shifted her weight, inching to the left, taking care not to step in the blood, already dark and congealing. She tried to keep breathing through her mouth, tried to ignore the fresh, heady scent. “Throat’s obviously been slashed. I don’t suppose he left the weapon behind?”

“My guys are walking the block, digging through the garbage, but you know he took it with him. Makes a nice souvenir, the bastard.”

Lieutenant Sutton stood and Fia did the same. Both women sighed.

The crime was certainly hideous. Shocking. But this type of homicide took place in cities all over the United States every night of the week. The FBI wasn’t called in by local police forces for random killings. There was a reason why Sutton had called them and down deep in the pit of her stomach, Fia knew why. She cleared her throat. “So, what’s unusual about this one, Lieutenant? What can the FBI do for the Lansdowne police?”

The cop had to look up to meet Fia’s gaze. “This homicide appears to be overly brutal. Blood everywhere; on the ground, splattered on the walls. Bruising on her arms suggests she was beaten before she was raped. This guy either hated this woman, or hates every woman.”

Fia nodded, focusing on Sutton’s words, trying to ignore the weird tingling in her fingertips. She had been here before. There was something hauntingly familiar about the crime. No, about the man who had committed it?…

“But see, the thing is”—the lieutenant looked down at the pavement, scuffing one sensible brown loafer, and then she looked up again—“I think he’s done this before.”

Again, the creepy vibes washed over Fia. They made her slightly sick to her stomach, but again she suppressed them. “Where? When?” She kept her tone professional.

“A couple blocks from here, if I recall correctly. I was still driving a squad car. I wasn’t called to the scene, but I remember the guys talking about it later. It had to have been fifteen, maybe sixteen years ago. We never made an arrest.”

The year flashed in neon in Fia’s head. She’d been a student at Temple. Barhopped most nights of the week. Prowled this same street. Maybe that was why it seemed so familiar.

“Let me have a quick look here before your ME gets her out. Can you put together a jacket for me?” Fia said. “I’ll read it, present the information to my boss and get back to you once I know if we can help out.”

“That’s all I’m asking for, Agent Kahill.”

At that moment, a city paramedic walked past them. “Excuse me,” Fia asked. “Could