Stolen Daughters by Carolyn Arnold (e ink ebook reader .TXT) 📕

tongue, but surely Fox’s friend would have noted that little touch, so it wasn’t a far stretch that she’d, in turn, tell another friend. That’s why he went with “friend” not “neighbor.”

When he’d finished with the reporter, his coffee was cold, but he couldn’t stop smiling. He retrieved his cup and sat with it at the kitchen table.

His spirit felt lighter now, and there was a grace to his steps. To think he hadn’t been too sure he could murder a person at first, but it had come so naturally to him. In fact, he wished he’d started killing sooner. But there wasn’t anything he could do about that. All he could control was the future.

He’d read that when you were doing something purposeful to your soul, people and circumstances lined up for you and everything progressed smoothly. He was finally experiencing the truth of that.

He cracked his knuckles and got to work on his keyboard. It was time to select his next victim.

Twenty-Five

Amanda had left Becky’s around one in the morning. So much for getting a good night’s sleep. Brandon’s warning kept repeating in her head, along with his conviction that they were very likely looking for a serial killer. There was no room for emotion. She needed to remain grounded and detached. At the same time, she couldn’t dismiss the way things were looking and the fact there had been at least one active serial killer in the area before. Trent’s bullet scars were a testament to that.

She was at Central now in front of her computer, a black coffee within easy reach of her left hand. The clock on the wall told her it was just approaching eight o’clock, and she had been there for an hour already. It was Saturday morning, so there weren’t too many other people milling about, and the room felt peaceful. She’d texted Trent to meet her at the station when he got the message.

Rideout still hadn’t come through with Doe’s picture, but she had received a message from Sullivan. The fire marshal had forwarded over some sketches and photos of inside 532 Bill Drive. He also confirmed that gasoline was the accelerant used to start the fire. Included in his packet were transcribed interviews with a few firefighters who had removed Jane Doe from the room and house. Spencer Blair was one of them.

His statement was straightforward. He went upstairs, found the bedroom door open, and the victim lying on the mattress. She was on her back and appeared to be staring at the ceiling. He tried to rouse her, but there was no response. He made the call to remove her from the house and hand her over to a medic.

Amanda brought up the photo of the room where Doe had been found. The head of the mattress was against the back wall. It and the drywall didn’t even look touched by the fire. There also didn’t appear to be any personal possessions in the area.

Her cell phone rang, and she answered without consulting the caller ID.

“Detective Steele?” It was a woman’s voice, and she was very guarded.

Amanda held out her phone. P Jeffery. The ME. “It is. Paula Jeffery?”

“I’m calling to let you know I’ve scheduled Fox’s autopsy for this afternoon at one o’clock.”

“Thank—” She never got the full expression of gratitude out before Jeffery hung up. The woman wasn’t exactly Miss Congeniality.

Amanda was getting ready to read more interviews when her phone rang again. H Rideout. She answered formally.

“Detective, you’ll be happy to know that I’ve just emailed you Jane Doe’s picture.”

She was happy but also felt it was about time. “Good news.”

“I ran her dental impression through Missing Persons but no hits. I have forwarded a sampling of her DNA to Forensics to be analyzed and entered into the system. As you know it will take time for them to process that, though.”

It could take months, but she didn’t want to dwell on the limitations of science, technology, and administrative backlogs. Results could come faster if a law enforcement agency was willing to foot the bill for a private lab, but that expense was rarely approved. Now, maybe if they proved there was an active serial killer and other lives were in immediate danger, they’d be able to get the go-ahead. Until then, she’d have to wait it out. There was nothing like the feeling of having your hands tied.

“I heard back about the dragonfly pin,” Rideout continued. “It’s worth five thousand dollars. Apparently, it’s handcrafted, made of gold and mother-of-pearl. As Trent had thought.”

“Whoever the true owner was had money.” Whether that was Doe or someone she had taken it from, Amanda would need to determine, and she had an idea just how to do that. “What about expediting the tox?”

“I’ve put in the request to have it moved along. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She ended the call. A pin worth five grand… Someone had to be missing it. When she’d tried searching Missing Persons with the pin as a parameter, she’d netted nothing. But there was another route they could try. Given the high value of the pin, maybe it had been reported stolen—and that would get them closer to an ID on Doe.

She saw Rideout’s email filter in and clicked on the attachment just as Trent came toward her holding two cups from a shop in Woodbridge. Their coffee wasn’t as good as Hannah’s Diner, but up there.

“Jabba for you.” He handed her a cup.

On their first case together, he’d told her about his little sister, who as a kid had gotten java confused with Jabba the Hutt. And every now and then Trent dropped the expression.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. When did you get in?” Trent took a sip of his coffee.

“Early.” She went on to fill him in about Fox’s autopsy, Rideout’s call, and her thinking that the dragonfly pin might have been reported as stolen.

He perched against the edge of her desk. “I can check with Property Crimes.”

“Sounds good.” She felt the