The detective skimmed through the pages again. “I admit the similarities are interesting. Could Landis have known about this guy and intentionally copied him?”
“I don’t see how. The FBI wasn’t even onto the guy at that point.”
Baronick rubbed his clean-shaven lip. Pete could almost see the wheels turning inside his head. Baronick lowered his hand to the pages on the desk. “I need copies of these.”
“Nancy can make them for you.”
“I’m going to Brunswick to speak with Landis. I want to look him in the eye as he tells his story.”
The jingling of the bells on the front door carried back to them.
“I’m going to work on tracking down everyone who testified in the first trial. We’ll want to re-interview them,” Pete said. “And I’ll call Franklin Marshall. Hopefully, he’ll be more coherent than he was for you.”
Baronick stood, gathering the crumpled pages. “I’ll stop at the front and ask Nancy to copy these. Then I’ll check in with you this afternoon.”
At the doorway, the detective nearly collided with a young woman wearing a dark suit.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said with his usual slightly flirtatious lilt.
She didn’t react. Didn’t crack a smile. “Special Agent Felicia Graley.” The woman drew her coat aside to reveal a badge. “FBI. I’m here to see Chief Pete Adams.”
He rose and circled his desk. “That would be me.” As she shook his hand—damn, she had a hell of a grip—Pete tipped his head at Baronick and introduced him. “You’re here about the serial killer case?”
“The Deserted Lot Killer. Yes.”
“I didn’t realize you’d named him.”
Graley shrugged. “I didn’t.”
Baronick cleared his throat. “I’m gonna go talk to Landis. Nice meeting you, Special Agent.”
Once the detective left, Pete offered the now-empty guest chair to Graley and reclaimed his seat behind his desk. The FBI agent wore her brunette hair in a tight, all-business bun giving her a harsh schoolmarm air. Her stern expression didn’t help. But Pete suspected if the petite young woman let her hair down—literally—she’d be a stunner.
He had a feeling she was silently sizing him up at the same time.
She retrieved a notebook and pen from her coat pocket. “Special Agent McCoy asked me to speak with you.” Her tone hinted that she was doing McCoy a huge favor. “He mentioned you might have a murder weapon in evidence that could’ve been used by DLK.”
“DL—” Deserted Lot Killer. Right. All of law enforcement loved their acronyms, but the FBI took it to a whole other level. “That’s partially right.” Pete gave her a brief rundown of the Landis case. “The gun used to kill his wife is still in evidence in Brunswick. Not here.”
“I’ll need to see it and any other evidence on this homicide. I understand you were first on the scene?”
“I was.”
Graley touched the pen to the page. “Take me through it.”
A frigid rain fell as Zoe made her way from the parking lot into the Marshall Funeral Home. She almost wished it would turn to snow. Until she realized her wedding was only ten days away. Whose brilliant idea was it to get married on Valentine’s Day when the odds were good the weather would be horrible?
If there was a bright spot, it was the trip to Florida for their honeymoon. Ten days until the wedding. Eleven days until she and Pete stepped off a plane into sunshine and warmth.
Zoe entered through the rear basement door, her regular practice to avoid the most potent of the floral arrangement aromas. She’d gotten used to the stench of autopsy. But the smell of funeral flowers affected her on a more visceral level, sending her back to losing her dad. Nearly thirty years later, she still couldn’t shake it.
Paulette waited for her just inside, hands folded, a strained look on her round face.
“What’s wrong?” Zoe’s mind leaped to the obvious. “Oh my God. Franklin?”
Paulette’s eyes widened. “No. Gosh, no. He’s fine.” She shot a look toward the stairs leading to the main level. “You have someone waiting to see you.”
Zoe’s mind continued filling in the gaps. Loretta again? Or Dr. Davis? “Who?”
“Julia Wagner. Gina Wagner’s mother.”
Zoe’s stomach lurched. One thing she hadn’t had to deal with as a paramedic—at least not much—was bereaved family members. “Where is she now?”
“In my office upstairs.”
“Tell her I’ll be right there.”
Paulette scurried away, leaving Zoe to gather her wits. She entered Franklin’s office and slipped out of her coat, which she hung in the closet. Tugging her sweater down over the waist of her dark jeans, Zoe headed into the hall and up the staircase.
A slump-shouldered woman waited alone in the small office Paulette usually occupied.
“Mrs. Wagner,” Zoe said from the doorway.
The woman lifted her head and stood.
Zoe gently clasped her hand, gestured for her to reclaim her seat, then circled the desk to take Paulette’s chair. “How can I help you?”
“What can you tell me about my daughter’s case?” Mrs. Wagner asked, her voice little more than a squeak.
Zoe squirmed. Should she reply she’d been present at the autopsy and wrote up the notes from it? Or was that too clinical, too harsh? What mother wants to think about her child laid open in the morgue?
“Can you tell me anything about what happened? Why she…died?”
Zoe lowered her eyes to her hands clasped on the desk. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much.” She met the mother’s gaze. “Yet. About all we’ve discovered is what didn’t cause her death. We hope the lab can give us some more definitive answers.”
“The lab?”
“Bloodwork.” Zoe studied Mrs. Wagner’s face. She appeared puzzled. “Did Gina take any medication that you’re aware of?”
“No. I mean, she took a vitamin every morning. And an occasional Tylenol or over-the-counter cold medicine. But she didn’t have any prescriptions.”
The mention
