Randy lifted his coffee to inhale the rich aroma and noticed Becca did the same thing from the edge of her seat. A braided silver band on her pinky finger, the only jewellery of any kind he’d seen her wear, glinted in the sun. From what he could tell she wasn’t seeing anyone special.
A sign hung in the flower shop window: Gone to Lunch. His watch read ten minutes to twelve, giving them a little time to sit in the sun and enjoy a cup of java.
“You know, if this is another dead-end, maybe we need to look at the growers nearby. There are a few nurseries outside the city limits.”
Becca nodded. “I agree. Somebody has to know something. I’m realizing you’re average home gardener wouldn’t have the resources to grow these types of flowers.”
The jingle of keys stole their attention. The store owner stood at the door to her shop.
“Excuse me, miss. Could we have a minute of your time?” Randy jogged across the parking lot with Becca on his heels.
He introduced them, dropping the guise of planning a wedding.
Unfortunately, it didn’t take long to realize they’d hit another brick wall.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” the proprietor stated.
Randy’s pager buzzed, and he raised a finger. “I’ll be right back.” He walked away, taking his cell phone out and keying in the precinct number.
“Randy,
“Do you want us to meet you there, Chief?”
“How is Becca holding up?”
“She’s doing okay.” He opened his notebook and scribbled down the address the chief rattled off.
Becca crossed the distance between them, a genuine smile on her face as she waved a piece of paper in the air.
“The owner thinks we need to visit a Professor Olsen Davies. He’s a professor of horticulture. If anyone has the answers, it will be him.” She stopped short and looked sideways at him. “Is there something going on I should know about?”
“He struck again. Chief Thomson wants us on the scene right away.”
The unpleasant bitterness churning in her stomach increased tenfold with the putrid stench of death coming from the house. She squatted and drew in a shaky breath.
Randy crouched beside her and spoke discreetly. “Are you okay?”
Becca pressed her lips together firmly and gave him a definitive nod. “Let’s do it.” She straightened her stance and gave her professional persona full rein, a mastered trait garnered over twenty years living on the
Once inside, an eerie silence settled upon the room like a blanket of fog. The coroner kneeled beside the latest victim, a man. His eyes remained wide open, and blood caked the flawlessly aligned holes where the needle had pushed through his lips. A perfect hole in the center of his forehead looked like the killer had painted it on. The man clasped the long stem of a fuchsia azalea in his bound hands.
Chief Thomson stepped out of the kitchen and padded across the room to join them.
“Detectives,” he said, stone-faced. “Jeffery Dunn, thirty-eight years old, computer tech.”
“Did you find anything that might link him to any of the others?” Randy let his gaze wander the room.
Their boss shook his head. “Not that we can see.”
Becca frowned. “I don’t see a box.”
“That’s because there isn’t one. None of the other crime scenes had one either. This guy does a thorough cleaning before he leaves.”
“How did he get in this time?” she asked.
The chief shrugged. “No sign of forced entry or a scuffle of any kind. There is one difference to this case, though.”
“And that would be?”
“The neighbour called the cops after seeing a motorcycle leave the driveway. The old gal has lived in this neighborhood for years and never once saw a bike at the victim’s house. In fact, he rarely had visitors. When she phoned over and didn’t get an answer, she called 911.”
“A motorcycle? The press is going to have a field day with this, bad-assed bikers and all,” Randy folded his arms across his broad chest.
“Did anyone see a motorcycle at the other houses? A delivery truck maybe?” asked Becca.
“That’s a good question. There is no report of a delivery truck or a strange car out front.”
“I bet nobody even thought to mention a bike,” Becca added.
“I’ll get somebody on that right now.” Chief Thomson strode out to his car.
Becca moved robotically. It was like she’d flipped a switch to transform the confident, self-assured woman he was falling for into a stone-faced, no-nonsense cop.
While she talked with the coroner and one of the crime-scene techs, Randy took the opportunity to call the professor. A woman named Mable answered and scheduled them a visit the following morning.
Hopefully Becca would agree to take the rest of the evening off, giving him time to research Professor Davies.
The motorcycle added an interesting twist to the case. Unfortunately the press would undoubtedly blow the
By the time they were ready to leave the crime scene, the sun had begun its decent, lighting the horizon ablaze in shades of orange and pink.
“Why don’t you go home and take it easy for the rest of the night? It’s been a long day, and I think you could use a good night’s sleep.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll go home and take a long soak in the tub.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Sometimes you act more like a father than a partner.”
He moved in close enough to feel her breath on his face. “Trust me, Red. I have no desire to be your father. How about I share that bubble bath with you and remind you how good we are together?”
Becca pressed her palm against his chest and pushed him back a step. “Trust me, I don’t need a reminder.”
“Is that a no?” Randy trailed a finger down the hollow of her neck. Her shiver had him grinning sheepishly.
“How about you ask me again
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
Randy insisted following her home and seeing her to the door.
“This really isn’t necessary. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a cop. I know how to take care of myself.”
“Humor me. I’ll be back here by nine bells. Try to get some sleep.” He turned on his heel and descended the porch steps.
“If I’m a good girl, can we stop for ice cream tomorrow?”
He chuckled to himself on the way back to his bike.
Chapter Seven
For the first time since Susan’s death, Becca slept through the night without a nightmare. Dare she feel hopeful about their visit with the professor in just a little while?
She sifted through pictures of the different flowers The Florist left in his victims’ hands. How were these beautiful images connected to the strange items he left in their mouths? It was more than his signature, something
