before moving on. Something about the tree drew her. It had figured in the dream last night, although the details were fuzzy. Its two largest branches had grown into an X, and it stood directly to the east of the cement pad. The closest vegetation to the fire, it was still far enough away to have escaped unscathed. She wondered if that were by chance or planning.
Although she hesitated to draw conclusions unsubstantiated by facts, she had a feeling that the offender left very little to chance.
Leaning against the tree’s massive trunk, she stared at the blackened cement pad that had held the human carnage. The vantage point placed her directly beneath the juncture where the tree’s branches bisected, like a sentinel with crossed fingers. A mental snippet from the dream flashed across her mind. Of the way moonlight had paved a watery glow through the fork of those branches . . . a diffused spotlight for the horror being played out in the night shadows.
But the moon hadn’t been out last night, had it? She frowned a bit, trying to recall. When she’d gone to bed after midnight, the sky had been a dark smear that had blocked out both stars and moon. The cloudiness continued today, when sun would have bumped up the temperature a few welcome degrees.
An all too familiar chill trickled down her spine. Spread icy fingers over her skin. Slowly, she tilted her head back to squint upward at that fork in the branches.
“Tillman. Mitchell. Over here.”
Crouched on his haunches, Nate waited for the two techs to amble over to him. He pointed to the rim of white he’d spied peeking between blades of tall grass. “Looks like ID.”
Quinn Tillman bent over and set down a plastic evidence marker before straightening to aim the digital camera. “That it does. Which is both good and bad news.”
“Bastard’s definitely targeting cops,” muttered Hank Mitchell. He pulled the pad out of his coat pocket he’d been using to sketch the overall scene and placement of evidence. He quickly added to the sketch, pinpointing the ID’s location from the spot where the body had been found.
When the two men were finished, Nate carefully picked up the ID by taking a corner in his gloved fingers. It was Philadelphia Police Department issued, a close duplicate to the one he had in his own wallet. “Patrick Christiansen.” The name meant nothing to him, but with nearly seven thousand policemen in the city, that wasn’t unusual.
The circumstances of these deaths were.
He looked questioningly at each of the men, but they both shook their heads. So they didn’t recognize the name either. Tillman produced a plastic baggie and Nate dropped the ID inside. While the man sealed and labeled it, Mitchell shoved the pad back in his coat pocket. It was rare to see the big man’s ebony face without its perpetual smile. His visage was grim. “So what do we have? A torch with a hard-on against cops? One who blames his sucky pathetic life on anyone with a badge?”
“You’ll have to ask my companion. Apparently profiling perps is her deal.”
“Detective McGuire isn’t a believer.”
Nate jerked around. He hadn’t realized she’d come up behind him. Some detective that made him. But the woman was quiet as a cat.
She shrugged, as if his attitude was no big deal. And it probably wasn’t to her. She’d made no bones about her reluctance to be here. He still couldn’t figure out what had made her change her mind and come along.
“Anyone think to bring a portable ladder?”
“Why, you got an urge to climb some trees?”
Her expression remained unsmiling. “I’d like a closer look at one, anyway.” She pointed at the one several yards to the right of the concrete pad. “You’re done with that area, right?”
Glancing back toward the two CSU techs, he saw that they both looked as mystified as he felt. “Yeah, we finished that grid,” he responded finally.
“I’ve got a twelve-foot Quikstep sitting outside the police tape,” Tillman offered, pointing at the briefcase-sized foldable ladder unit.
“Thanks.”
As she headed toward it, Nate just shrugged at the two men’s questioning looks. The workings of the female mind were enough of a mystery when he knew the female in question. He’d been around Marisa Chandler for less than an hour, and he didn’t know anything about her. Except that she’d once been a Philadelphia police detective.
And that the slim-fitting pants didn’t do a thing to disguise her mile-long legs.
A belated thought occurred. “Don’t touch anything,”