The Face of Death

THE KILLER?

A lack of connection between the two sets of victims would indicate that the killer was finally starting on something he'd been planning for a while and hitting it fast. Making a list, checking it twice . . .

VARGAS APPEARS TO HAVE CONTINUED TO ABUSE MINORS. (FOUND

WITH AN UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE COMPANION WHO WAS NOT OF

AGE.)

I consider the page, set it aside. I grab another and across the top I write:

SARAH KINGSLEY:

ADOPTED DAUGHTER OF DEAN AND LAUREL KINGSLEY (SO WHAT'S

HER REAL LAST NAME?).

SIXTEEN YEARS OLD.

LEFT ALIVE BY THE PERPETRATOR. (WHY?)

SAYS HER BIRTH PARENTS WERE MURDERED. (VERIFY)

ADDENDUM: SAYS HER BIRTH PARENTS WERE MURDERED BY THIS

PERPETRATOR.

ODDITY: CLAIMS THE PERP HAS BEEN STALKING HER FOR YEARS.

I turn my gaze back to the ceiling. Sarah's importance is glaring and obvious. She's the only living witness, and she claims to have knowledge of the perp. She also represents a significant anomaly in the perp's behavior: He didn't kill her. He left her alive as part of his vengeance plan. If what Sarah says is true, he's been at this for a good long while. He's not delusional, he's capable of differentiation of desires, and he's very, very smart. All bad for us. Planned vengeance killers are harder to catch than sexual sadists or ritual murderers. They aren't crazy enough. But why the intimacy?

In vengeance murders, you generally see more anger than joy. It's about destruction. What I had seen at the Kingsleys' was an almost equal balance. The messages on the wall, the disembowelments, these were compelled by rage, they fit. The blood paintings didn't. They were a sexual act. Memories to masturbate to.

That's just noise, I realize. The investigatory key is the vengeance motive. The other is an anomaly, but the human condition is filled with those. Interesting but not probative.

I turn back to the page.

SARAH ASKED FOR ME AT THE KINGSLEY CRIME SCENE, BUT HAD ALREADY PLANNED TO CONTACT ME BEFORE IT HAPPENED. (WHY ME?) WROTE A DIARY SHE CLAIMS IS PROBATIVE.

I can feel myself flagging. I want to continue, but I'm about to hit the end of my rope for today.

Concentrate. What's the assignment of resources for tomorrow?

BARRY AND I TO INTERVIEW SARAH KINGSLEY.

CALLIE AND GENE TO FINISH PROCESSING THE VARGAS CRIME

SCENE.

GET EVERYONE A COPY OF THE DIARY WITH ORDERS TO READ IT. IT WILL HAVE TO WAIT TILL MONDAY, BUT WE NEED DEEP BACKGROUND CHECKS ON SARAH AND ALL VICTIMS. FIND THE CONNECTIONS!

I read what I've written, nod to myself, satisfied. We still have a long way to go, but I can see him now. I've begun to feel him, and that's bad for him. A muted satisfaction purrs through me. Less than a day's gone by, and I already know why you do what you do.

I put the pen down and let myself go slack.

God, I'm tired. At more levels than just the physical. My cell phone rings. I look at the caller ID. Tommy. Something in me lifts a little.

Tommy Aguilera is more than a friend, but less than a husband. Not just a lover, but not someone I need beside me, night after night. Tommy is a possibility; that's the ten-words-or-less summary. He's an ex-Secret Service agent who now works as a private security consultant. We'd met when he was still in the Service. I'd been investigating a case involving a California senator's son who'd decided he liked rape and murder. Tommy was assigned to protect the senator, who was pro-life and had been getting a ton of death threats. In the events that followed, Tommy was forced to shoot this Fortunate Son. My testimony saved Tommy from a political firestorm that could have ended his career.

He'd told me then to let him know if I ever needed anything. I'd taken him up on this six months ago, and afterward, something interesting had happened: I'd kissed him, and he'd kissed me back. Better still, he'd undressed me and had wanted me bad, scars and all. It made me cry and helped me heal. Matt was the love of my life. He was my soul mate. He was irreplaceable. But I needed a man to tell me I was beautiful, and to prove it with sweat, not words. Tommy had done this with gusto.

We sleep together three or four times a month. I'm busy, he's busy, it's comfortable. The perfect arrangement, for now. I answer the phone. 'Hey, Tommy.'

'Hey. Thought I'd call you. Not too late, is it?'

Tommy gives new meaning to the word laconic. It's not that he's uncomfortable talking to people, or lacks a vocabulary. It's his way. He prefers to listen.

'Nope. I just got in, actually. I got called out to a scene.'

'I thought you had time off. Packing and stuff.'

Tommy knew what I was doing this weekend, and knew that he needed to stay away while I was doing it. His ability to understand this kind of thing was just another hint of the depth beneath his stoicism. 'I did, but there was a girl at the scene. She had a gun to her head and was asking to see me. I had to go.'

'Turned out okay?'

'It was bad, but the girl lived.'

'Good.' A long pause. 'I knew what you were doing today. Didn't want to intrude, but wanted to see how you were doing.'

Yes, I think, how are you doing?

I sigh. 'I'm doing crappy. Can you come over?'

'On my way.'

He hangs up.

Action, not words, Tommy's way.

Tommy knocks on the door and I let him in. He takes a look at me and leads me over to the couch without saying a word. He sits us down and gathers me up in his arms, and I sigh and lean into him. There's no hair stroking or words of comfort with Tommy. Instead, there's strength and certainty, as if he's saying, Whatever you need, even if it's just this.

I stay there, head against his chest, and wonder at the feel of him. It's like lying against a rock encased in velvet. Tommy is somewhere in between rugged and pretty, a dark-haired Latin man with the lithe muscled body of a dancer and the rough hands of a killer. He's the male version of Callie; women are drawn to him like lemmings to a cliff, yearning to jump off into those dark and guarded eyes. He's no model--he has a large scar at his left temple, an imperfection that only adds to his appeal--but he is handsome to the bone. He pushes me away, gentle.

'Want to tell me about it?'

I tell him. About the morning and afternoon and Sarah and the gutted bodies of Dean and Laurel Kingsley, the tub full of blood, the murders of Vargas and his as-yet-unknown companion.

'Gross,' he offers.

'Yeah. It got to me.'

He nods toward the notepad pages on the coffee table. 'That about the case?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Mind if I look?'

'Go ahead.'

He picks up and scans each page. Puts them all back down and shakes his head.

'Sounds complicated,' he observes.

'It always starts out that way.' I look at him, smile. 'Thanks for coming over. I feel better. A little.'

'No problem.' He looks around. 'So . . . where's Bonnie?'

'She's at Alan and Elaina's for the night.'