Blind Alley - Iris Johansen
ONE
Calhoun, Georgia
Joe watched the body wrapped in a dark green tarp being carefully lifted from the grave by the forensic team.
“Thanks for coming, Quinn.” Detective Christy Lollack was walking toward him. “I know it's not your case but I needed you. This is a weird one.”
“What's weird about it?”
“Look at her.” She moved toward the stretcher where the corpse had been placed. “The kids who found her nearly threw up.”
He followed her and watched as she drew back the tarp.
There was no face. Only a skull remained. Yet from the neck down the cadaver was only slightly decayed and intact.
“It appears someone didn't want her identified.” He looked down at her hands. “He bungled it. He should have taken the hands. We'll be able to get a fingerprint match right away. DNA will take longer, but that will—”
“Look closer. Her fingertips are burned,” Christy interrupted. “No prints. Trevor warned me there might not be any.”
“Who?”
“Some Scotland Yard inspector. Mark Trevor. He sent an e-mail to the department after he read about the Dorothy Millbruk case in Birmingham and the captain dumped it in my lap. He stated he sent the same e-mail to most of the cities in the Southeast warning them that the perpetrator might be heading into their jurisdictions.”
Millbruk . . . It had been a sensational homicide of a prostitute that had taken place four months ago. Joe mentally went over the details he remembered. “The Millbruk case was no connection. It didn't have the same MO. The woman was burned to death and left in a trash disposal.”
“But she didn't have a face by the time the fire got through with her.”
“No attempt was made to keep the Birmingham police from finding out who she was. They were still able to check prints.” He shook his head. “Not the same killer, Christy.”
“I'm glad you're so sure,” she said sarcastically. “Because I'm not. I don't like this. What if he didn't want us to make a connection? What if he peeled her face off to slow us down so that we wouldn't know he'd moved into the area?”
“Possible.” His gaze narrowed on her face. “What do you want from me, Christy? It's not like you to ask for help.”
“As soon as forensics gets through with her, I want you to take the skull to Eve to find out what that woman looked like. I don't want to wait until I find out who she is.”
It was the answer he'd expected. It wasn't the first time he'd been asked to be an intermediary between the department and Eve. She was probably the best forensic sculptor in the world and the captain wasn't about to ignore a valuable asset. He shook his head. “No way. She's backlogged and working her ass off right now. I'm not loading anything else on her.”
“We need to know, Joe.”
“And I don't want her wearing herself out.”
“For God's sake, do you think I'd ask you to do this if I didn't think it was urgent? I like Eve. I've known her and Jane for almost as long as I've known you. I'm scared. It's necessary, dammit.”
“Because of some nebulous tip from Scotland Yard? What the hell do they have to do with this?”
“Two cases in London. One in Liverpool. One in Brighton. They never caught the killer and they believe he moved from the U.K. to the U.S. three years ago.”
“Then they can wait for ID or Eve to get out from under.”
Christy shook her head. “Come back to my car and I'll pull up Trevor's e-mail.”
“It's not going to change my mind.”
“It might.” She headed for her car.
He hesitated and then followed her. She opened her laptop and accessed the e-mail.
“There it is. Read it and do what you like.” She turned away. “I've got work to finish up here.”
He scanned the letter and report and then flipped to the victim's page.
He stiffened with shock. “Holy shit!”
Lake Cottage
Atlanta, Georgia
She couldn't breathe.
No!
She would not die, she thought fiercely. She hadn't come this far to lie forever in darkness. She was too young. She had too many things to do and see and be.
Another turn and still no light at the end of the tunnel.
Maybe there was no end.
Maybe this was the end.
It was so hot and there was no air.
She could feel a scream of panic rising in her throat.
Don't give in. Panic was for cowards and she'd never been a coward.
But dear God, it was hot. She couldn't bear—
“Jane.” She was being shaken. “For