Cold-Blooded Liar

Book 1: The San Diego Case Files

by Karen Rose

Genres: Police Procedurals; Romantic Suspense; Suspense

Synopsis

Brace yourself for a scorching new series from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Karen Rose, where San Diego means sun, surf, sand…and serial killers.
 
Sam Reeves is a kindhearted psychologist who treats court-ordered clients. After one of his patients—a pathological liar—starts revealing plausible new details from a long-unsolved serial murder case, he’s compelled to report anonymously to the SDPD tip line, though his attempts to respect patient confidentiality land him facedown and cuffed by the aggressive (and cute) Detective McKittrick.
 
San Diego homicide detective Kit McKittrick loves the water. She lives on a boat, and when she’s not solving crimes with the SDPD, she’s assisting her foster sister with her charter fishing business or playing with her poodle. But there’s nothing that intrigues Kit more than a cold case, so when an anonymous caller leads her on the path of a wanted killer, she’s determined to end the decade-long manhunt.
 
Sam is soon released but goes home with both a newfound distaste for the SDPD and a resolve—not unlike Kit’s—to uncover the truth. Kit and Sam repeatedly butt heads in their separate investigations but are forced to work together to find one of the deadliest serial killers the city has faced in years.

Release date: February 28, 2023

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 464

Sample

PROLOGUE

Carmel Valley, California

Wednesday, April 2, 3:00 a.m.

Sixteen years ago . . .

She’s gone.

Katherine’s hand trembled as she gripped the barn door handle. Her whole body trembled. Her stomach churned so violently that she thought she’d be sick.

She’s gone.

And it’s all my fault.

So many things she could have done. Should have done.

Will do. But she didn’t know where to start.

However, she did know where she needed to be.

Alone. In the barn. In the place where they’d first huddled together as frightened twelve-year-old runaways to get out of the cold night. In the place where—much later—they’d come to talk about . . . everything.

Well, Wren would talk. Katherine would listen.

Katherine was a good listener. She’d had to be. She’d learned to hear the nuances in a person’s speech. To know if they’d help. Or hurt.

To know if they were lying or telling the truth.

She didn’t want to listen now. She wanted to be alone where she could scream her fury, where she could unleash her rage. Where she couldn’t hurt anyone else.

Because Wren was gone.

Her eyes burned and she swallowed the sob that rose in her throat as she slid the barn door open just enough to slip inside. She was so skinny, she didn’t need it to open much and she knew just how far she could slide the door before it creaked.

She didn’t let it creak. It would be all right if she did, but she still found something satisfying about sneaking in where she wasn’t supposed to be. At least not right now. She was allowed to be in the barn anytime she wished, but she was supposed to be sleeping right now.

Except she hadn’t slept in nearly two weeks. Tonight would be no different, so she’d given up trying.

Someone had turned the night-light on, its soft glow spreading through the barn, leaving shadows lurking in the

corners. She wasn’t afraid of the shadows. She knew every one. This was her place. This was where she came to think.

Now it was where she came to grieve.

She breathed deeply, drawing in the scents of horses and fresh hay—and even fresher motor oil. The latter was unexpected. Usually the motor oil smelled old.

Tools were strewn on the floor around the old tractor that sat parked along the far wall. It had been broken for months. No one had had the time to fix it.

Looked like someone had been working on it tonight.

Someone who was still here.

She tensed, hearing the labored breathing coming from one of the empty stalls.

No, not breathing. Someone was crying.

She started to turn and run, but the cries became sobs. Deep, racking sobs that ripped at her heart.

At least someone else is missing Wren. Which wasn’t fair, she knew. Everyone in the big house missed Wren. How could they not?

She crept farther into the barn, listening intently, ready to flee at a moment’s notice, but now needing to know who’d come to her private place to grieve, even though she thought she knew.

The tuned-up tractor had been her first clue.

A big, burly man sat on the floor of an empty stall, back against the wall, shoulders heaving as he cried. In one of his massive hands was a piece of wood. In the other, his carving knife.

Harlan McKittrick. Her foster father.

She’d never seen him cry, not in the three years that she’d lived here, not even at the funeral today. He’d been stoic, his expression immovable, like a statue’s. He’d held his arm around Mrs. McK as she’d cried her eyes out. He’d spoken a few words over Wren’s coffin in his deep, gravelly voice, about peace and eternity and God.

Katherine had wanted to scream then. She’d wanted to hit someone.

She’d wanted to hit Mr. McK for being so . . . together. For being unfeeling.

But she could see now that she’d made a big mistake. The man was not unfeeling. He’d just saved his grief for when he was alone.

Just like I did.

She took a step back, intending to leave him in peace, to find somewhere else to scream her rage, but his head shot up and he met her eyes in the dim light.

continued to fall and she was poised to run. Finally, he wiped his face with his shirtsleeve.

“Kit,” he said gruffly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll go.”

He shook his head. “No, you don’t have to. This was your place, hers too. I should have known you’d come here tonight.”

Her cheeks heated. She’d been caught out of bed at three a.m. There were rules, even here. “I’ll go.”

“No, honey. I’ll go. Mrs. McK is probably wondering where I’ve got myself off to. You can stay.” He rose, wincing as he stretched his back. “I’m too damn old to be sitting on barn floors. I came out here to do some whittling, but . . .” He trailed off with a sigh. “It kind of hit me. You know how it goes, huh, Kitty-Cat?”

He always called her Kit or Kitty-Cat. Not ever Katherine, and she’d often wondered why. But she didn’t hate it. She might have even liked it. A little.

Talk to him. Say something to make him feel better. Because Mr. McK was a nice guy. And McKittrick House was so much nicer than any other place she’d ever lived. And she’d lived in a lot of places.

Mr. and Mrs. McK were good people. They never yelled, never hit. Never . . . took advantage of the girls or the boys, like so many of the other fosters had.

They’d let her stay even though she was not . . . good. They’d let her stay and they’d told her to call them Mom and Pop McK if she wanted to, just like all the other kids did who’d come through their big, warm house that always smelled like apple pie and clean laundry and lemon furniture spray.

She never had, though. She’d stuck with “Mr.” and “Mrs.,” anything to keep them at arm’s length. They’d never made her feel bad for doing so.

Now she wanted to make him feel better, because he was crying and it shook her hard. He was big and rough and gruff, but he was crying.

For Wren.

She pointed to the carved wood in his hands. “What are you making?”

He seemed surprised that she’d asked. Which was fair. Katherine didn’t talk much. She never asked anyone anything remotely personal. Never answered any question with more than “Fine” or “Okay.” And when they’d offered to adopt her, to make her an official McKittrick, she’d said only “No, thank you.”

Because nobody was that nice. Nobody really cared. It would end. They’d grow tired of her and make her leave, and then she’d be even worse off.

You know, like the bird.”

A sob flew from Katherine’s throat before she could shove it back in. “A wren?” she asked, her voice breaking.

He nodded, his eyes on the little bird. “I put one in her coffin, y’see. In her hands, so she’d have something to hold.” His smile was wobbly. “To maybe remember us by. So she wouldn’t be alone.”

Katherine pressed her hand to her mouth. Keep it in. Keep it all in. “You did?” she asked, the words muffled.

“I did. And, um, this one is done.” He held it out to her. “It’s for you. To remember her.”

For a moment she didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Just stared at Mr. McK’s outstretched hand holding the small bird.

She could see it clearly now, delicate and beautiful. Like Wren had been.

Mr. McK was still holding the carving on the flat of his palm, so that she could take it without touching him. They knew that she didn’t like to touch anyone.

Wren had been the exception. Her sister, even though they’d shared no blood.

Katherine’s hand crept forward, one finger extended. She stroked the little bird, expecting a rough surface but feeling only smooth wood. Mr. McK simply stood there, the bird on his palm.

She gingerly picked it up and held it tightly against her chest. “To remember her,” she whispered. Like she’d ever forget. Wren was all the good, sweet things.

Everything that Kit was not.

Mr. McK smiled down at her, so sadly. “We’ll always remember her, Kit. She was so special and deserved to have the best life.”

“But now she’s dead,” Kit choked out, clutching the little bird so tightly that even the smooth edges cut into her hand. “Someone killed her and no one cares.”

“We care,” Mr. McK whispered back fiercely.

“Nobody else does,” she snapped, her voice echoing off the barn walls. “None of those cops who came and asked questions. None of them cared.”

“I don’t know. I can’t see their hearts. I only know my own and Mrs. McK’s.”

Now the rage was back. Now the rage was building. She wanted to throw something, but the only thing she could throw was the little bird and she clutched it even tighter. She’d never throw the bird away.

She’d never throw Wren away.

Katherine was shouting now and couldn’t stop herself. The horses shifted in their stalls, one whinnying in dismay, but Katherine couldn’t stop herself. “They said she wanted to go. They said she was probably on the streets, taking drugs. They didn’t care!”

Katherine took a step back, then another.

Mr. McK continued to stand there, watching her with eyes so brokenhearted that she wanted to scream at that, too.

“Then they found her body in a dumpster and didn’t even tell us for five days!” she screamed. “Like she was trash and it was okay that she’s dead!”

“They said,” he said calmly, “that it took them five days to ID her.”

“That was five days too long! Five days that she lay there in the cold morgue all alone.” Her shouts became choked and finally, finally the tears came. Like a dam had burst and she couldn’t stop the flow. “They said they were busy. That they were backed up. That they were sorry for our goddamn loss.”

Mr. McK wiped his eyes again. “I know, Kit.”

“They’re not even looking for who did this. No clues. Case has gone cold. It’s been a week since they found her, and they’re not even pretending to look.” She dropped her gaze to the little wooden bird in her hand. “Well, I’m going to look. I’m going to find out who did this. Who took her from us.” From me.

Mr. McK opened his mouth, then closed it, saying nothing.

She stared up at him defiantly. “What? Not gonna tell me it’s too dangerous? Not gonna tell me that I’m too young? That I’m only fifteen? Not gonna tell me it could be me next?”

He exhaled quietly. “Why should I tell you any of those things? You already know them.”

She looked away, knowing that he was right and hating it. “I should have watched her better. It should have been me.”

He sucked in a harsh breath. “No, Kit. No. It shouldn’t have been either of you. It should never be anyone’s child. Please. It should never have been you.”

She shook her head, all of her words gone now. All used up.

“You’re ours,” he said, his voice ringing so true that she almost didn’t doubt him. She didn’t want to doubt him. “You might not think so or you might not want it official on paper, but you are ours, Kit Matthews. You are ours to protect. Ours to love. Whether you want that love or not. That we didn’t protect Wren will haunt me until the day I die. Please don’t make me mourn you, too. I can’t do this again.”

She looked up at him then, hating the tears that she couldn’t stop. But he was crying, too, and that shook some more words

gone. And she’s never coming back.”

He took a step forward, giving her a chance to step away.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Her feet were frozen.

Her heart was frozen.

Finally, he brushed his fingers over her hair. “We go on, Kit. We’ll remember her always, but we go on. It’s what we have to do.” He hesitated for a long moment, then cupped her cheek in his big hand. “We’ll cry for her, but we’ll also live for her. You’ll live for her. You’ll make yourself a good life, Kit Matthews. We’ll make sure of it, me and Mrs. McK. You will live.”

Katherine closed her eyes then and leaned into Mr. McK’s warm palm. Just for a second. He was . . . safety. Security. Strength. And affection she didn’t need to repay. She’d take just a little. Just for a second. “I want to make whoever hurt her pay. I want them to die.”

“Me too, Kit. Me too. But we’ll do it right. We won’t be stupid. We won’t take any chances. We won’t be reckless and get killed and leave Mrs. McK all alone.”

She chanced a look up at him. He was serious. “You’ll help me?”

“I’ll help you. I’d search for her killer even if you didn’t want to.” One of his wide shoulders lifted in a half shrug. “I’d already planned on it. But I’m a farmer, not a cop. It’s not going to be easy.”

She met his eyes directly. “And if I want to be a cop?”

“You’ll be a damn good one. You’ll never make any family feel like their loved one didn’t matter.”

She scoffed. “You sound pretty sure of yourself, Mr. McK.”

He withdrew his hand, stooping down to pick up the carving knife that he’d dropped at some point. He slid it into its sheath and dropped it into his pocket. “I’m pretty sure of you, Kit.”

She took a step back, her chest too full of feelings.

She hated feelings.

“Thank you, Mr. McK. For the bird. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She turned and ran for the house, tiptoeing up the stairs and slipping into her room. With the twin bed with messed-up sheets because she’d tossed and turned. And with the other twin bed, neatly made with the quilt with bright yellow sunbursts. The empty bed.

Because Wren was gone.

Carefully she put the little wooden bird on her nightstand where she’d see it at first light. Then she climbed into bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling.

I’m pretty sure of you, Kit. Well, that makes one of us.

CHAPTER ONE

San Diego Police Department, San Diego, California

Monday, April 4, 11:30 a.m.

Present day

Hey, McKittrick.”

Kit swiveled in her desk chair, raising an eyebrow at Basil “Baz” Constantine, her partner of four years. “You rang?”

Baz pointed to the double doors leading into the San Diego Police Department’s homicide division. “You got company.”

Kit turned in time to see the doors close behind familiar wide shoulders. Harlan McKittrick ambled toward her, his gait as smooth and his smile as wide as it had been for the nineteen years that she’d been privileged to know him.

“Pop!” She pushed away from her desk, walking into his outstretched arms. She still didn’t like to be touched, but she made exceptions for Mom and Pop McK. The contact seemed to make them happy.

Kit would do nearly anything to make those two happy.

“Kitty-Cat,” he said, tightening his arms until her ribs protested. He let her go when she grunted, his expression sheepish. “Sorry. Haven’t seen you in too long.”

“It’s been two weeks,” she said dryly, but leaned up to peck his cheek, her heart warming at his pleased look. “What brings you into the city?”

Because Harlan McKittrick hated the city. He was made for wide open spaces, not high-rises and traffic.

“We’re getting a new kid. Mom is meeting with the social worker and I thought I’d stop in and say hi.”

“Well, hi. Come and sit with me. I can take a short break.”

He looked around as he followed her back to her desk, curious as always. He was no stranger to the homicide division, having haunted its halls for years after they’d lost Wren. He’d kept the promise he’d made after Wren’s funeral, helping her search for the man who’d killed her sister. They’d been unsuccessful in finding the monster, but even after sixteen years they still searched.

She wondered if he’d come with a new lead. If so, it would be the first one in five years.

“Nope,” he said as he eased his six-foot-two frame into the chair next to her desk. “Nothing new.”

maddening in her teenage years. He’d always known when she was ready to bolt or if she was telling anything less than the total truth. Now it was a comfort that someone knew her so well.

“Me either. So tell me about the new kid.”

“Thirteen-year-old girl.” His shoulders drooped. “She was scared of me.”

She squeezed his hand. “She’ll see that you’re different. They always do.”

One side of his mouth lifted. “You did.”

“I did, indeed.”

He sat quietly for a moment, then dug something from his pants pocket. Kit tensed, knowing what it would be even before the little carving appeared.

It was that time of year. Again.

Sixteen anniversaries of Wren’s murder and still no closure. But true to his word, Pop McK had never forgotten the little girl who’d been such a bright light.

He held out his offering on his flat palm, just as he always did, year after year. It was always a little bird. Kit had a special shelf in her bedroom for the birds, placed where she could see them when she opened her eyes each morning.

They were the only things in her home that she routinely dusted.

Except today it wasn’t a bird—or not just a bird. It was a cat with a bird perched on its head. The bird looked quizzical. The cat looked . . . content. Three inches long and an inch wide, it was intricate and detailed and beautiful.

“Pop,” she breathed. Gingerly, she took it from his hand. At one time, it had been because she was touch averse. Now it was because it looked like the little figurine would snap if she gripped it too firmly. “Thank you.”

“It won’t break,” he told her. “You can carry it in your pocket if you want to. For luck.”

“I will.” But she didn’t, not yet. She held the small carving up to the light, marveling at his skill as she always did. “It’s amazing.”

His smile was shy, an adorable look on a man as big as he was. He dug in his pocket once again, bringing out another carving. This one was just a bird. It was still beautifully done, but the bird sat alone on a twig.

“For your shelf.”

She took it from his palm. “Thank you, Pop.”

“You’re welcome, Kitty-Cat,” he murmured, running a hand over her hair. “I have something for you, Baz.”

hadn’t even been pretending not to listen. “Yes, please.”

Harlan produced a small carved horse, making both Kit and Baz frown. It wasn’t a bird. They both always got birds.

“It’s for Luna,” Harlan explained. “She saw me carving the last time you brought her out to the farm and asked if I’d make her one for her birthday.”

Baz’s face softened at the mention of his five-year-old granddaughter. “She’s going to love it, Harlan. Thank you.”

“Well.” Harlan cleared his throat gruffly. “You’ve been there for us more times than I can count. So thank you.” He held out a fourth carving. A bird. “For you.”

Harlan had started giving Baz and Kit carvings at the same time. Kit, so that she could remember Wren. Baz, so that he wouldn’t forget about the victim whose murder he’d never solved.

Baz didn’t try to aw-shucks his way out of the gratitude. He’d been the detective who’d worked Wren’s case and was not as callous as fifteen-year-old Kit had assumed.

Wren’s murder had been Baz’s very first homicide case. It had shaken him, and his attempts to distance himself from their grief so that he could do his job had come off as cold and unfeeling. He’d been anything but, having helped them track down every lead ever since.

That they hadn’t found Wren’s killer was not from lack of trying.

Baz slipped the carvings into his own pocket. “I’ll make a video when we give Luna’s to her. Be prepared for squeals that could break glass.”

A door opened behind them and their lieutenant’s voice cut through the bullpen noise. “Constantine, McKittrick. With me. Now.”

A chorus of ooooh came from their fellow detectives, like they were all in middle school. Which wasn’t far off for many of them—behaviorally speaking—despite being mostly middle-aged men. It was how they coped.

“Gotta go,” Kit said. “Sorry, Pop.”

“I need to pick up your mom and our new kid. Wish me luck.”

“You won’t need it,” she said. “I give the kid a week before she’s calling you Pop.”

“Unless she’s like you,” he teased. “Then it’ll be four years.”

“I was a little stubborn,” she admitted.

Baz snorted. “A little?”

Sunday for dinner.”

Harlan gave her another rib-crushing hug. “See that you are. Your mother worries.”

Betsy McKittrick did worry about her. She and Harlan had been the only ones who ever had.

“I’ll be there.” She started walking backward toward her lieutenant’s office, not turning until Harlan had passed through the double doors.

Straightening her spine, she slid both carvings into her pocket before opening the lieutenant’s door. “What’s up, boss?”

Reynaldo Navarro gestured to the chairs across from his desk, handing them each a sheet of paper. “Transcript of an incoming call. Audio’s been sent to your email for your listening pleasure.”

Kit scanned the transcript before looking up with a frown. “He mentioned me?”

“In particular,” Navarro said. “Listen.” He hit a button on his computer and the voice of a very nervous-sounding man filled the air.

“Hi. This message is for homicide detective Kit McKittrick. I have reason to believe you’ll find the victim of a murder in Longview Park at the following coordinates.” He rattled off a string of numbers and the call ended.

Kit tried to place the voice but came up empty. “I don’t think I’ve ever met him before.”

Navarro shrugged. “Well, if he hasn’t met you, he at least knows of you. I want you two to check it out. Report back. Baz, you can go. Kit, stay.”

Damn. Kit had a feeling she knew what was coming.

When Baz was gone, Navarro sighed. “You skipped your appointment. Again.”

Yep, this was what she’d expected. “I thought it was optional.”

Navarro gave her his I’m-disappointed-in-you look. She was almost immune to it. “You promised,” he said. “That’s why I made it optional.”

She had promised. “I’m sorry. I just hate going.”

“None of us likes going to the department shrink, Kit, but we’ve talked about this every year for the past four. Every one of your bosses before me has talked to you about it, too. This time of year, you work yourself into near exhaustion and we all know why.”

Well, yeah. That she’d lost Wren this time of year wasn’t a secret. Especially in the homicide department.

“Working helps. And I can handle it.”

“Maybe this year you can. Maybe next year, too. But sooner or later, it will become too much. Your performance will drop. You’ll lose your edge.”

She ground her teeth. He knew her too well, because losing her edge was one of the things she feared most.

“Go to your appointments, Kit. You might be surprised. Dr. Scott may actually be able to help you.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“You mean if you don’t want to tell him anything personal?”

“Yes.” Because she didn’t. She didn’t dislike Dr. Scott. She just didn’t want to bare her soul. Like any normal person wouldn’t.

“Then you can sit and talk about your cases for an hour. It’s one hour a week, Kit. It’s not going to kill you.” He dropped his gaze to the paperwork in front of him, effectively dismissing her.

She wasted no time leaving his office.

“This anonymous guy sounds like a kook,” she grumbled to Baz when she was back at their desks. “We’ve got better things to do than chase after anonymous tips all day.”

“No, we’ve got a mountain of reports to write. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s go check it out and then we can grab some lunch.”

“It’s always a beautiful day. It’s freaking San Diego.”

“Stop whining, McKittrick. I’ve got a craving for Vietnamese.”

Rolling her eyes, Kit followed him out. “Waste of time.”

Luckily, she liked Vietnamese food.

Longview Park, San Diego, California

Monday, April 4, 5:30 p.m.

Kit pulled the handkerchief across her nose and mouth as she watched the two CSU techs meticulously uncovering what was, indeed, a grave. Based on the odor, the body had been there awhile.

They’d arrived at the mystery caller’s coordinates to find that the ground had settled somewhat, creating a slight depression that measured five and a half by two and a half feet.

Ground-penetrating radar had shown a body.

The victim had been small.

Kit slipped her hand into her pocket, finding the little cat-bird figurine. Stroking it with her thumb. Please don’t be a child.

“I hope it’s not a kid,” Baz murmured, echoing her thoughts.

All homicides were difficult. Even drug dealers murdered on the street had been loved by someone. Were missed by someone.

But the child homicides were a completely different level of hell.

She looked away from the grave to where Sergeant Ryland, the CSU leader, was making a plaster cast of the only footprint they’d found in the area. It was a man’s shoe, size eleven.

“You got anything for us, Ryland?” she called.

“I just might.”

She and Baz walked from the grave site to where someone had stepped off the asphalt path, leaving the single footprint in the strip of ground between the path and the field of grass.

Ryland finished pouring the plaster over the footprint, smoothed it out, then set the timer on his phone. “Thirty minutes for the plaster to set. Come see the photos I took of the print while I wait.” He retrieved his camera and beckoned them closer. “There was lettering on the sole of the shoe—likely a brand name. I can’t quite make it out in the photo, but I’m hoping to get detail from the plaster cast.”

“So it’ll be seventy-two hours or so,” Baz said and Ryland nodded.

Kit leaned closer to the screen. “Can you zoom in on it?”

Ryland did, handing the camera to Kit. “I can make out what looks like a Y at the end of the brand name, but—”

“Sperry,” Kit said. “Sorry to interrupt, Sergeant. I recognize the logo. They’re Sperry Top-Siders.” She gave him back his camera. “My sister runs a charter fishing business and sometimes I first mate for her on my days off. A lot of her customers wear them.”

Ryland studied the photo. “You could be right.”

She was, Kit was certain. “Trouble is, that’s a popular shoe. I’ve even got a pair.”

“So do I,” Baz said. “Tracking those will be nearly impossible.”

Kit shrugged. “But when we find the guy who owns these shoes, we can put him at the scene. Any way to get a weight estimate on the wearer?”

Ryland shook his head. “Ground’s too hard. Barely enough sinkage to get the plaster cast. I’ll let you know when I have something definite.”

“Detectives?” one of the techs at the grave called, his tone urgent. “Something over here you need to see.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Kit said, then approached the grave alongside Baz, schooling her expression. If it was a child’s grave, she would maintain her professionalism. She’d let herself react later, when she was alone.

“Victim’s a postpubescent female,” the tech said when they were graveside. “The ME will be able to give you a better age than I can, but I’m guessing somewhere between fourteen and eighteen.”

Feeling Baz’s eyes on her, Kit reassured him with a quick glance. She was fine.

He always worried about her reaction when the victim was the same age that Wren had been when she’d been murdered, but after four years as a homicide detective, Kit had seen far too many victims who’d been Wren’s age. It never got easier.

She hoped that it never would.

But at least she no longer wondered if it was the same guy who’d done it. That had been her first thought earlier in her career. She’d never stop looking for Wren’s killer, but she’d made her peace with the fact that she might never find him.

The CSU techs had uncovered the victim’s head and torso. The remains were badly decomposed, but some of the girl’s basic features were identifiable. She’d been Caucasian with shoulder-length blond hair.

She was clothed in a pink T-shirt and jeans, the waistband of which was just visible with her lower body still covered by dirt.

Big gold hoop earrings shone against the dirt, her earlobes having decomposed long before. There was a necklace around her neck, a thick ring hanging from the chain. A class ring of some kind.

High school or college? she wondered.

A second later Baz gasped. He was staring at the remains, his eyes wide behind his bifocals, so she looked back.

And abruptly understood her partner’s shock.

“Fucking hell,” she whispered.

The victim’s wrists were restrained with a pair of pink handcuffs that still managed to sparkle despite the coating of dirt.

“Pink,” Baz said hoarsely.

Kit swallowed hard. “Sparkly pink.”

The tech was masked and goggled, but his eyes still showed grim recognition.

His much younger assistant did not understand, however. She looked up from where she was removing the lower-body dirt with a small brush. “What am I missing?” she asked hesitantly.

“Old serial killer case,” her supervisor said quietly. “Always left the bodies cuffed with pink handcuffs. The last body found was five years ago. The first was found fifteen years ago, and two were found in between. This could be the fifth victim.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh. Shit.”

Indeed. “The pink handcuffs detail was not released to the press.” Kit met the young tech’s eyes, silently warning her to

keep her mouth shut.

“I won’t say a word,” the younger woman promised. “Holy cow. So it’s not likely to be a copycat.”

Baz exhaled, a frustrated sound. “That’s what we have to find out.”

Kit tilted her head toward their vehicle. “We need to call the boss.”

Baz grimaced. “Rock, paper, scissors. Loser makes the call.”

Kit rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous. I’ll make the call.” She waited until they were both in the car with the doors closed before dialing Navarro and putting him on speaker.

“It’s Kit and Baz,” she said when he answered. “Is anyone with you?”

“No,” Navarro replied slowly. “Why?”

“Because the victim was buried with pink handcuffs.”

There was a beat of silence. “Motherfucker,” Navarro growled. “Not again.”

“Yeah,” Baz agreed. “That was our reaction, too. She fits the profile—young, blond, and petite. She’s been in the ground a year or two based on decomp. ME’ll give us a range for time of death, but she’s wearing a class ring on a chain. Hopefully that’ll help narrow things down and maybe even ID her.”

“Any evidence of the doer?”

“A footprint,” Baz said. “Either the doer or the caller or both, if he called it in himself for the attention. But it’s probably a Top-Sider. Kit recognized the logo.”

“Hell, even I have a pair of those,” Navarro muttered. “That’s no help.”

“Not to trace him, no,” Kit agreed. “We’re going to pull missing-person reports for teenage blondes over the last few years and get IT to trace the anonymous call. What we wanted from you is direction on the pink handcuffs. Keep it confidential?”

“Absolutely. Last thing we need is for the press to get their hands on this. It’ll go viral and we’ll have copycats and fake sightings and . . . hell. ID the victim and trace the caller. Then we’ll go from there.”

“Yes, sir,” Kit said. “We’re heading back now.” She ended the call and looked at Baz, who was driving this week. “I don’t feel much like eating.” They’d missed lunch and it was now dinnertime, but she still wasn’t hungry.

Baz started the car. “Now that I’m not downwind from a body, my stomach is growling. We can order something back at the office.” He shot her an arch look. “You will eat.”

She didn’t argue because Baz was right. Plus he’d tell on her to Mom McK. “Fine.”

Accepting his victory with a smirk, he handed Kit his phone. “Text Marian, please. Tell her I’ll be late tonight.”

Kit did so, grateful that she didn’t have a spouse to disappoint with her late nights. “She says you owe her ‘stuff.’ She used quotes. Do I want to know?”

He chuckled, a rich sound that normally made Kit happy, but at this moment, it was TMI. “No, Kit. You do not want to know.”

“Old-people sex,” she teased with an exaggerated shudder. “Let me get Snickerdoodle settled for the night.”

She texted her sister Akiko: ...