Dying Scream

by Mary Burton

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

The killing just won’t stop as a ruthless psychopath revisits his greatest obsession—but this time, a Richmond, Virginia, homicide detective is determined to stop him in his bloody tracks . . . An aspiring artist. A high-school senior. A stripper. Three missing women with only one thing in common—wealthy Craig Thornton knew them all. For that, they paid the ultimate price. When Craig’s widow, Adrianna, begins to receive cards and flowers from her late husband, she assumes it’s someone’s cruel joke. Then grisly remains are found on the Thornton estate. Detective Gage Hudson believes the bodies are linked to Craig. But the biggest shocks are yet to come. A psychopath has resumed his work, each death a prelude to his most cherished target. The only way to stop him is to uncover a family’s dark past—and a twisted love someone will kill for, again and again… Praise for the novels of Mary Burton “Will have readers sleeping with the lights on.” —Publishers Weekly on Before She Dies (starred review) “Terrifying . . . this chilling thriller is an engrossing story.” — Library Journal on Merciless

Release date: May 29, 2018

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 401

Sample

Sunday, September 24, 10:00 p.m.

Time had degraded the videotaped image of the cowering woman.

A line skimmed down the center screen now peppered with electronic snow, and a sallow haze paled the image’s once vibrant colors.

As he’d made his movies over the last twelve years, he’d expected them to last forever. He’d never realized excessive viewing coupled with time would degrade the tapes of his three actresses and their final performances. The first tape wasn’t a great loss. He didn’t understand lighting, costumes, or camera angles. He’d been rushed and nervous. But as time passed, he’d gained experience and confidence and by the last tape, he’d honed his moviemaking talent.

Remote in hand, he leaned forward and directed his attention to the most recent tape in his collection. He tuned out the annoying technical distractions and focused on the woman.

A pale satin slip, the shade of forget-me-nots, skimmed her full breasts and slim body and pooled over long legs tucked under her round bottom. A blond wig covered chestnut hair and accentuated a pale face and listless brown eyes underscored by smudged mascara. Blue-black bruises darkened her cheeks. She stared sightlessly toward the ceiling, cradling the hand he’d broken the last time she’d resisted.

Off-screen a door opened and closed. Keys jangled. The woman straightened and tried to stand, but a waist-hugging chain forced her to remain on her knees. “Hello?”

He’d never stepped in view of the camera lens. “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”

The woman’s chest started to rise and fall in rapid, short breaths. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

He’d been gone eighteen hours. “I couldn’t leave you forever.”

Over the last two weeks, he’d left her intermittently. Each time he made his exit, he threatened never to return as he shut the door. Then from a closed circuit television he watched as she begged him not to leave and yanked at her tether. Then after three, five, or ten hours, he’d return. Each time she wept, her expressive features reflected relief, horror, and flickers of anger. Slowly he’d been breaking her down, teaching her that her world revolved around him alone.

Now as she glanced up, she offered a smile both pleasing and desperate. “Now are you going to let me go?”

“Not just yet.”

Her smile faltered. “You said next time when you came back I could leave.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” He zoomed in the video image. “I’ve enjoyed your performance so much I find I can’t say good-bye.”

The close-up vividly captured expressive eyes that mirrored disappointment and a terrifying understanding. “You’re never going to let me go, are you?”

“Didn’t I promise?” He sounded defensive.

Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Her lips quivered. She seemed to sense that this was the end. Game over.

Hysterically she started to yank the chain. Her breasts bounced delightfully as she struggled. “Let me go! Why are you doing this to me!”

“I love you, Adrianna.”

“Let me go!” She all but howled the words.

“I told you that I loved you. What are you supposed to say?” The words dripped with annoyance. How many lessons would it take for her to play her part correctly?

“No, no, no! My name is Rhonda.” The silk under the chain had frayed and turned brown from the iron in the links. “My name is Rhonda!”

“You are not Rhonda!” He snapped his fingers. “Say the words like I taught you. Or I will get the cattle prod.”

Mention of the prod drained the fight from her eyes. “Please. Please. Please.” The plea wound down to a hoarse whisper.

“Say it.” This would be their final scene together. And he couldn’t hide the desperate anticipation from his voice.

The woman closed her eyes. “I love you.” The faint whisper, void of feeling, tumbled out like rubbish from a bin. All the spirit and fight she’d had in the beginning was gone.

The words left him wanting. “Say it again. And look at me when you speak.”

The woman looked directly at him. “I love you.”

Better.

Nervously, she picked at the chipped red nail polish on her toenails. A ladybug tattoo framed her right ankle. “Can I leave now?”

He ignored her question. “Why do you have a ladybug tattoo?” These last two weeks he’d loved touching it. Kissing it.

Tears streamed down her face as if she realized her words had no effect on him. “I told you a million times.”

“Tell me again.”

“It’s a sign of good luck.”

His laughter rumbled rich and genuine. “For me, it’s good luck. Not such good luck for you.”

Her eyes flashed with sudden hot anger. “Why do you keep doing this to me?”

“Doing what?”

“Playing games. Why don’t you let me go? I’ve sworn that I’ll keep this secret. I just want to go home. I want to forget. I want to live.” The camera zoomed and caught the beads of sweat on her forehead. “I have done everything you asked.”

She tipped her head back and he could see her dark hair peeking out from under the wig. She was ruining the moment.

“Say it again.” His voice projected the annoyance he’d felt that day. “And say it like you mean it!”

The woman dropped her gaze and fisted the fingers on her left hand so tightly her nails drew blood. For several long seconds, she remained silent.

The snap of the prod had her meeting his gaze. “I love you.”

“What is my name?”

“Craig. Your name is Craig. I love you, Craig.”

“Again.”

This time she looked directly at the camera and nearly screamed the words. “I love you, Craig!”

His erection hardened and finally he was able to take her. Though he’d been driven by powerful emotions, he was mindful of the all-seeing lens and careful to keep his face turned away from the camera.

She’d lain under him, the slip bunched around her waist, her body as still and cold as a lake in winter. His climax had come quickly, violently. He’d never felt so alive, so in the moment, and for those fleeting seconds the voices that always stalked him—told him he wasn’t good enough—went silent.

Now as Craig viewed the tape for the hundredth time, the exquisite feelings he’d once enjoyed, like the tape, had faded.

The indefinable hunger that had tracked him for so many years had returned and the heavy weight of anticipation bore down on his chest. Lately, no matter how much he watched the tape, his darkest appetites clawed at his insides, begging to be satisfied.

“Damn.” He hit REWIND and replayed the last few seconds, his thirst desperate to be quenched. “I love you, Craig. I love you, Craig. I love you, Craig.”

Craig leaned toward the television and touched the image of her face. He traced her eyes and then her lips.

From the edge of the screen, the camera captured the tip of a gun barrel. The woman shrank back, trying to press herself through the wall.

Crying, she tried to crawl away, but the chain stopped her as he grabbed the wig and tossed it aside.

He wrenched her upward. Her fingers clawed at his hand as she screamed and struggled to get free. He held on tight and raised the .38 to her temple.

He whispered, “I love you, Adrianna.”

The revolver’s bullet tore through her brain. Blood splattered his face. She slumped forward, dead. His heart raged in his chest like a tornado.

Then he released her, stepped back, and watched as she crumpled to the floor. A second passed before the recording ended and the image turned to static snow.

Now Craig understood how much he’d fed off her terror. Her panic and those of the other two had invigorated his blood like a narcotic.

“I shouldn’t have listened. I never should have let you go.” He could have kept her tucked away down here for years.

If he’d known three years would pass until the next kill he’d have stowed her away and savored her all the more.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Frustrated, he shut off the television and turned his attention to the new digital camcorder he’d bought last week. It fit in the palm of his hand and had cost him a fortune but the kid in the electronics store had promised it would produce crystal-clear images guaranteed to last a lifetime.

“So clear you can see the pores on a face,” the kid had said.

Craig palmed the camera, amazed at its compact size. Technology was a wonderful thing.

Pointing the camera toward the empty basement corner with the wood panel and loosely coiled chain, he hit RECORD. The red light clicked on. He taped for a few seconds before stopping and replaying the image on the camera’s view screen. The kid had been right. The clear picture caught the grains in the faux wood and the threads in the brown carpet.

Craig glanced at the newly purchased pink silk slip and blond wig. He set the camera down and picked up the wig. He stroked the strands of real human hair dyed just the right shade of blond.

Imagine what detail he would capture when he filmed the next one. This camera wouldn’t miss anything, and the images would surely satisfy him for years.

This time, this time, he’d not be in such a rush. The next one, he’d savor.

Craig glanced at the pocket calendar taped to the side of his filing cabinet. Twenty-four red X’s marked through most of September. Anticipation burned like fire.

In just three days, it would be time again for hunting season.

In just three days, center stage would host a new actress to play his sweet Adrianna.

Tuesday, September 26, 7:15 a.m.

Adrianna Barrington ran down the center hallway of her house, keys clenched in one hand and a coffee mug in the other, as she wedged her feet in black leather flats and slid on a jean jacket. Fatigue-strained eyes had refused contacts, so she’d settled for tortoiseshell glasses. Breakfast was a banana muffin shoved in her purse. Make-up was simply mascara and lipstick.

Last night she’d planned to go to bed early. She wanted to be rested and ready to face this day. But an eleven p.m. call from the hospital emergency room derailed those plans. Her mother had arrived by ambulance and feared she was having a heart attack. Adrianna had dressed quickly and rushed to the hospital.

Over the last few years, Adrianna had seen the inside of too many hospitals. She’d grown to hate antiseptic smells, beeping monitors, and panicked visitors who endured endless waits for test results. She’d found Margaret Barrington in a back cubicle arguing with a nurse.

“Mom.”

Margaret Barrington’s anger dissolved into tears. Adrianna glanced at the nurse, who’d made a quick retreat.

“It’s okay, Mom. Don’t worry.”

And so they’d spent the night, Adrianna sitting next to her mother’s bed on a round hard stool while her mother slept. And the unanswered question that they had argued about just two days ago remained wedged between them as it had these last nine months.

Why didn’t you tell me I was adopted?

I don’t know. I’m sorry.

At five a.m. the doctors had pronounced Margaret healthy and fit to go home. She’d simply had a panic attack.

Adrianna had taken her mother home where the waiting home nurse had put her to bed. By the time Adrianna arrived home and showered the grime and smells of the hospital from her skin and hair, it was nearly seven.

And now she was late.

She scooped up her oversized Coach bag from the entryway table and yanked her black lacquered front door open. Temperatures for this Indian summer morning already nudged seventy degrees, and humidity left the air thick and sticky. Browns and golds were slowly replacing summer’s green leaves on the one-hundred-year old oak in her yard.

Adrianna closed the door with unintentional force that made the brass lion-head knocker clank. She dropped her keys into her free hand and dashed down the front steps to her Land Rover, sloshing coffee. She had a little over forty-five minutes to make a fifty-minute drive in rush-hour traffic.

Always late. Always overscheduled. Always looking for the next project to keep the bills paid.

Adrianna rushed past the FOR SALE sign in her front yard to her car parked by the curb. She opened the door, tossed in her purse, and slid behind the wheel. As she raised her cup to her lips for a quick sip, she noticed the card under her windshield.

Groaning, Adrianna set her cup in the holder, got out, and plucked the rich linen envelope free. Her name was written in a bold, thick handwriting. Adrianna Thornton. Her married name, a name she’d not used in two years. She ripped open the back flap and pulled out the card.

Happy Third Anniversary. Adrianna, you are mine forever.

Love, Craig

Craig.

Her husband.

The unexpected endearment sent a bolt of fear and pain through her body. Her heart pounded.

You are mine forever. Craig.

Time stopped. Remorse broadsided Adrianna as she traced a thumb over the embossed CRT at the top of the card. The initials stood for Craig Robert Thornton.

Good God, she’d forgotten today was her third anniversary. How could she forget?

This was the kind of note Craig would have written her. Simple. Endearing. Heartfelt. He’d always been writing her notes. Love you, babe. You’re the best. Always yours.

But her husband couldn’t have written this endearment.

Craig Thornton was dead.

Tears burned in her eyes as she stared at the bold script. Her hand slid to her stomach, hollow and empty.

Who could have left her this?

She glanced around at the University Drive neighborhood’s neat brick one-level homes and well-manicured lawns half-expecting—even hoping—to catch someone staring. In this moment, she’d dearly have loved to channel her pain into a fight.

A Prada-clad neighbor dragging a green recycling bin to the curb; an older man juggling a coffee cup and briefcase as he lowered into his Lexus; and a thirtysomething mom hustling elementary age kids into a van for the morning trip to private school. It was business as usual. Painfully predictable. Nothing out of place.

There could be only one explanation for the card. It was a coward’s attempt to frighten her and throw her off balance because she was selling the Thornton land and estate she’d inherited from her husband. The Thornton estate, called the Colonies, was a brick antebellum home in eastern Henrico County that sat on twenty acres of prime riverfront property. It predated the Civil War and was revered by historians. Selling the Colonies would drag this forgotten pocket of land into the twenty-first century. And there were some who didn’t like the changes on the horizon.

Today not only was it her wedding anniversary, it was the day contractors were scheduled to move the eleven Thornton family graves from the estate. The land had been sold, and all that was left was to move the graves. By day’s end her ties to the Thorntons would be forever severed.

When she’d filed permits with the state to remove the graves, she’d expected and braced for angry words, protests, and even lawsuits. But she’d expected nothing like this.

“Jerk.”

She marched around the side of the house, opened the lid to a trash can, dumped the note in the bin, and slammed the metal lid down. The clang reverberated up her arm.

Adrianna turned her back on the trash and moved forward. “I am not going to be scared off by a bunch of cowards.”

Happy Anniversary.

Stillness sank into her bones and she felt sudden hot tears burn her eyes. She tipped her head back, willing the sadness to vanish. “It means nothing. Someone is just messing with you.”

Happy Anniversary.

And yet the simple words scraped open old wounds she’d prayed had healed.

Adrianna’s still damp hair brushed her face and clung to her skin like a spiderweb. Suddenly she didn’t have the patience for the thick mane. She combed her fingers through her hair until it was off her face and tied it back with a rubber band.

A measure of control returning, she got into her car, locked the doors, and clicked on the radio. She cranked a Sheryl Crow tune. The singer’s words and melody rolled over her and coaxed away her fears. She wouldn’t think about the damn card. Her only priority today was getting the graves moved.

Adrianna fired up the engine, backed out of her driveway, and soon was skimming east down I-64. She elbowed aside thoughts of the note and used the drive time to call clients on her cell.

She owned Barrington Designs, an interior design business that specialized in home décor. A business that required not only an eye for design and color, but a talent for managing thousands of details that fit together like the pieces of a puzzle. Fabric colors. Shades of tile. Hardware. Furniture selection. All had to be considered, chosen, and monitored. It took endless follow-up calls to keep her projects on time and budget.

By the time Adrianna exited the interstate and wound down the old country roads to the estate, she’d contacted two painters, a wallpaper hanger, and a furniture company in North Carolina. She concluded her last call as she reached the estate’s white brick pillars.

The grass by the entrance was overgrown. The paint on the estate’s columns was chipped and several of the top bricks were missing thanks to age and a hurricane that had hit the county in late August.

A savvy seller in this slowing real estate market would have worried about curb appeal, but the estate had sold within hours of being listed. The buyer, William Mazur, was a powerfully built, fortysomething man with buzzed hair and sun-weathered skin. He had explained that he had always loved the property and had dreamed of owning it since he’d first moved to the area. He’d paid her asking price and his only stipulation was that she remove the family graveyard from the estate. Having graves on the property was too unsettling for his new wife. She’d agreed immediately.

Now as she drove through the pillars toward the house, she fended off jabs of guilt. The Thorntons had treasured the Colonies. So much family history. So much tradition. And she was selling out.

Her mind drifted to the last time she and Craig had visited. Just a week before their late September wedding, her mother-in-law-to-be Frances Thornton had asked the couple to travel to the estate and place flowers on the graves of the departed Thorntons. Frances and Adrianna’s own mother Margaret Barrington had been friends since college and Adrianna had grown up loving Aunt Frances and would have done anything for the woman who by then was weeks away from losing her battle with cancer.

 

“Craig, you really need to take this seriously,” Adrianna had said as she’d knelt in front of the grave.

Craig’s thick blond hair hung restlessly over crystal blue eyes and he reminded her more of a boy than a man. He wore khakis, a white polo, and Italian loafers with no socks. “I am taking this seriously, babe.” He checked his Rolex watch. “How long do you think this is going to take?”

“I don’t know. We’re supposed to put flowers on each grave and have a moment of silence.”

“What’s with the moment of silence?”

“I don’t know. This is your family tradition, not mine.”

Adrianna laid the lilies on the grave and rose, brushing the leaves from her designer jeans. “Now take my hand and let’s bow our heads.”

His smile was loving, indulgent. “You worry about the details so much, Adrianna.”

And he never worried. “Traditions hold families together.”

“They suffocate me.”

“Craig.” The warning note in her voice reminded him that she’d broken their engagement last summer. She’d grown tired of the parties and the glib jokes. She had needed a man, not a boy. Only a great deal of pressure from her mother and his mother had brought her back to him at summer’s end. This was their second chance.

Craig straightened his shoulders and his expression became somber. “Okay, I’ll be more serious. I promise.” He wrapped long fingers around her smooth, soft hand.

Placated, she smiled. “Just stand here for a minute in silence.”

They stood in front of Craig’s father’s grave: Robert Thornton, devoted husband to Frances and loving father to Craig. She bowed her head and said a silent prayer for the Thorntons and for the marriage she was about to enter.

Within seconds Craig started to squirm and tap his foot. She opened one eye and peeked at him. “Didn’t your dad ever talk about this ceremony?”

Craig tossed her a rueful grin. “You knew Dad. He wasn’t the talkative type.”

Robert Thornton, unlike his only son, had been a serious, stern man. “He had to have said something.”

“Dad wasn’t as much into the family legacy thing as much as Mom was. You know how obsessed she is with the family. Especially now.”

Adrianna desperately wanted Craig to take charge of this moment and be a man worthy of her sacrifices. “And?”

He gave her a good-natured smile. “I honor the Thornton family and the privileges they’ve bestowed. And into the family welcome my new bride. We will be forever and always together.”

She lifted a brow. “That’s what you’re supposed to say?”

He leaned forward. “Close enough. And we’re supposed to kiss.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He winked as he kissed her warmly on the lips. “Now, I have a lovely bottle of Chardonnay and a picnic lunch in the trunk of my car. Let’s enjoy this day and leave the dead in peace.”

She let him wrap his arms around her and she sank into the warm embrace, savoring the scent of his cologne. “Do you take anything seriously?”

“I take you seriously.” Genuine emotion punctuated the words. “I love you. I never want to lose you again, Adrianna.”

The rapid beat of his heart drummed against her ear. Craig did love her. And she cared deeply for him. She just hoped it was enough and that marriage would help him settle down and mature.

“I’m pregnant.”

He hauled her back and stared into her eyes. “What?”

She nibbled her bottom lip, now afraid that he wouldn’t want the child. In so many ways he was a child. “Four weeks.”

Craig’s mouth rose into a genuine smile. He hugged her close. “Babe, this is great!”

“You’re okay with this? I know it wasn’t planned.”

He chuckled warmly. “It’s the best news I’ve ever heard! Life is going to just get better and better.”

 

Two months later a drunk driver had broadsided their car. She’d miscarried and Craig had suffered irreparable brain damage. He’d languished in a coma for two years before he’d died last December.

A twin pair of cardinals flapped across the drive, startling her and closing her mind to the memories that only made her miserable.

A deep breath loosened the tightness in her chest as she drove the half mile down the gravel driveway, which flowed into the circular loop by the old house’s front door. Out of the car, she glanced at her watch. With minutes to spare before the scheduled meeting with the grave excavation team at the cemetery, she had time to check on the progress in the house.

The place had been a showpiece just fifteen years ago, and had hosted some of the state’s most powerful and rich. She’d attended parties here as a teenager. Frances had even hosted her sixteenth birthday party in this house.

But over the last few years, she’d not visited the property. Her neglect showed in the rot that had eaten away at the rounded columns, the mold that had dulled the whitewashed clapboard, and the missing shingles damaged in the August storm.

Adrianna climbed the front steps and moved into the central foyer that led to a wide staircase and a long hallway that cut through the first floor. Open doors leaked light in from the side rooms to the hallway.

“Mrs. Wells,” Adrianna shouted.

Mrs. Wells peered out the front parlor. The housekeeper was a sixtysomething woman with short curly red-gray hair and a plump frame that filled out her blue sweatshirt and faded jeans. She and her husband, Dwayne, lived just miles from here and had looked after the estate for forty years. The woman dabbed red-rimmed eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

Concern gave Adrianna pause. “Is everything all right, Mrs. Wells?”

Mrs. Wells sniffed. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. It’s just so emotional closing up the old place. So many memories. Thank you for asking, Mrs. Thornton.”

Adrianna tensed. “Please, just call me Adrianna.”

Mrs. Wells offered a lopsided smile. “It just doesn’t feel right calling you by your given name.”

The housekeeper was over thirty years Adrianna’s senior. “This isn’t the nineteenth century, Mrs. Wells.”

A hint of humor sparked in pale green eyes. “Now that depends on who you ask. Some folks around here would strongly argue that point. Fact, I suspect some are still thinking the Confederacy will again rise.”

“I suppose you are right.” Adrianna smiled, following her into the parlor.

White sheets covered the furniture and carpets had been rolled. The furnishings would go with the house but the twenty-three paintings, which now were crated and tilting against the walls, belonged to Adrianna. They awaited transport to the auction house where they’d be sold in a week. Auction proceeds would be donated to the new Thornton Neonatal Unit at Mercy Hospital.

“It looks like you’ve made headway downstairs.”

“All the furniture has been polished and covered in the front two rooms. I’ve still to do the rest of upstairs furnishings.”

“Are Dwayne and Ben coming today to move the furniture to the warehouse?” Mrs. Wells’s husband and son, Dwayne and Ben Wells owned a successful moving company that specialized in antique furniture and artwork. Adrianna had used them on several Barrington Designs jobs.

“Ben said to tell you it would be first thing tomorrow. They had another small job today. I think antiques to a dealer.” She smiled. “The paintings will go to the auction house tomorrow as well.”

“You’ll have each piece cleaned by then?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Great. The new buyer, Mr. Mazur, had insisted the home’s interior be pristine.”

“Excuse me for asking, but isn’t Mr. Mazur bringing in contractors to renovate the wiring and plumbing?”

“He is. And you’re right, the contractors are going to tear the place up when they modernize. Why Mr. Mazur wants the house cleaned before a renovation is beyond me. But he is the buyer.”

Mrs. Wells nodded. “Will do.”

She checked her watch. “I’ve got to get down to the gravesite.”

“I saw that Dr. Heckman headed that way.”

Adrianna’s lips flattened. “No doubt he saw the public notice in the paper.” The notice had been required by the state.

Dr. Cyril Heckman had been a friend of Frances Thornton for many, many years. During the last years of her life they’d grown close. He now saw it as his personal mission to maintain the Thornton estate as it had been for generations. He’d filed suit in the spring to stop the sale but Adrianna’s attorney had had it dismissed.

“You want me to call Dwayne or Ben and have them run him off?”

“Tempting, but I can handle him.”

Mrs. Wells blew a strand of hair from her eyes. “I don’t like the man and I don’t care that Miss Frances was partial to him.” Mrs. Wells was intensely loyal to Frances Thornton’s memory. Frances had left Marie Wells the caretaker’s cottage and surrounding land in her will.

“Once the furniture and paintings are gone, have Ben bring the old drums up from the basement,” Adrianna said.

“Why do you want to fool with them? Let me go through them and save you the trouble.”

“I think it’s best I do it.”

“Must be three generations’ worth of stuff shoved in those bins. Good Lord, there is no telling what you’ll find.”

“Yeah, no telling.”

Tuesday, September 26, 8:15 a.m.

Anticipation and determination congealed in Detective Gage Hudson’s gut as he drove down the rural road toward the Thornton estate.

“Hudson, Thorntons are practically Virginia royalty, and let’s face it, sport, you’re a good ol’ boy from southwest Virginia.” The comment came from homicide detective Nick Vega, who propped his arm on the front seat of the Crown Vic. Perfectly relaxed, he didn’t seem to have a care in the world even as Gage pushed the speedometer higher and maneuvered around a pickup truck.

Hudson was the lead detective in the missing persons division and more often than he’d have liked, his cases resulted in death. He’d consulted with Vega and the other members of the homicide team over the years and had gotten to know work styles and some habits. Vega’s jabs and digs were as much a part of him as his love of cigars and jazz music.

“Didn’t you hear my briefing to the homicide team?” His southwest Virginia accent deepened when he was under stress.

Vega shrugged wide shoulders honed by regular body-building and amateur league baseball. About thirty, he had olive skin, ink-dark hair kept short, not shorn. He preferred casual open collars, loose pants, and bad jokes that disguised a lightning-quick mind. “Had to take a call. Missed the big finish.”

Gage tapped his thumb on the steering wheel. He wasn’t accustomed to repeating himself. He’d been a cop for twelve years and in missing persons for six. He was conside. . .