“I’m sure your boss will take care ofthat, Mr. King. You just focus on what we can do for Naomi right now. Is that whenyou turned around and came back?”
“Yeah, I came right back.”
“How long would you say you were away?”
Nate shrugged. “Not even five minutes.”His faced creased suddenly, a line deepening between his brows as his lipstrembled. “How could someone do all this in five minutes?”
“Just a couple more questions, Mr. King.I know this is really hard.”
“I was knocking and knocking and shedidn’t come to the door. I tried calling her and I heard her phone. Then Ilooked through the letterbox and I—I just saw her. First the blood, and then Ileaned down more and I could see her—her face. Oh, god. She was just lyingthere…”
“That’s when you called nine-one-one?”
“Yeah. And while I was talking I heardthis noise, someone running on the other side of the fence. Next thing I knowthis guy jumps over it and pushes right past me and runs down the street.”
“Did you get a good look at his face?”
Zoe leaned in, only half-conscious thatshe was doing it. This was it—the big moment. If he could give them adescription…
“Not really,” Nate said, shrugging hisshoulders up and down as his face crumpled again. “It was so fast. He had thislong black coat. Down to, like, mid-thigh, I guess. He was white. I think hishair was dark, and cut short. That’s it. That’s all I could see.”
“You’ve done really well, Nate. Thankyou.” Shelley fished a business card out of her pocket, ready to hand it over.Zoe was already beginning to turn away toward the house. “If you rememberanything else, give us a call. We’re going to give you some space, let you gohome. Do you have someone who can stay with you tonight? You’ve had a bigshock.”
Shelley’s voice faded out behind her asZoe moved forward, heading past the caution tape and the line of local LAPDcops keeping the street clear of bystanders, and into the house. The situationwas immediately apparent, almost shockingly so. The house was small and thecorridor even more so, and it ran straight through the house to the back door.There was no avoiding the body, or the blood soaked across the hardwood floorsaround it.
Zoe flashed her badge at the CSI techsworking around the body and crouched next to it. She slipped a pair of gloves,official FBI issue, out of her pocket and onto her hands. The crime scenephotographs had already been taken. She was free to reach out and inch up thevictim’s sleeve, moving the loose material out of the way until she could seewhat she was looking for.
The tattoo, which she had seen pokingout of the end of the sleeve. A floral vine that made its way from elbow to wrist.She couldn’t identify the flowers, but there it was. A sign. A sign that shewas going in the right direction.
It had to be about the tattoos.
The deceased girl was lying on her back,and it wasn’t hard for Zoe to lift up her other arm and push up the sleeve—thenboth of her legs, moving the fabric of loose sweatpants out of the way to lookfor a serial number. After checking the torso, she felt relatively certain thatthere was no serial number tattoo. Why would there be one on her back, or in aplace that couldn’t be seen? Callie had hers displayed prominently, right thereon her arm.
There was one more tattoo, on the lowerleg. No numbers there, either. Zoe stood back for a moment, taking in thescene. The victim’s hair had fanned out behind her as she fell, her arms goingout to either side, where Zoe had carefully replaced them after her inspection.She looked like a depiction of a fallen angel.
More interesting than that was what the linestold her. She had been slashed from behind, just like the others, a diagonalline that spoke of a guessed strike. He had been unsure, rushed. The girl hadfought back, perhaps tried to get away. Yes—away: the mark on the wall at theleft side where her elbow had scuffed the paint slightly, corresponding withthe bruise that had formed there in the moments just before and after herdeath.
But those numbers barely matteredanymore. Aside from guessing height, weight, all the other factors that a crimescene could tell her about a perpetrator, Zoe was uninterested in it all. Sheregistered them as if from far away, putting them out of her mind for now. Whatshe was looking for was nothing to do with the killer.
She wanted to know why this victim. Whythis girl, and why now. What did she have that marked her out as a target?
If she could understand that, she couldunderstand the motive behind it all. And maybe, just maybe, that would allowher to stop the next one.
The victim, she remembered hearing onthe radio, was a twenty-three-year-old. That number again. Could it be…?
She reached out and rolled the sleeveback up, took in the flowering vine once more. There were five flowers on thevine, each of them with a different number of petals, which seemed strange. Ifit was based on a real plant, it was likely that the same number of petalswould be found on each blossom. There were patterns in nature, not randomhappenstance.
And if the tattoo was an imagineddrawing, the natural human tendency was toward symmetry and balance, too. Anartist would be expected to create flowers with the same number of petals,whether out of knowledge for how the natural world worked or out of a desirefor a pattern that made sense, that looked pleasing.
Zoe counted the petals. Four, six, five,three, then five again. You didn’t need to have synesthesia to do the math.
They all added up to twenty-three.
She had it.
But what did it mean?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Zoe walked back into their temporaryinvestigation room and grabbed the nearest file, ready to get to work.
“Z, are you sure you don’t want to goand get some sleep before we look at this?” Shelley asked, trailing after herwith a reluctant
