Dreaming Death (Krewe of Hunters #32) - Heather Graham Page 0,21

cat. Even a parakeet or a hamster,” she told herself. “Then I wouldn’t be talking to myself.”

But not tonight. It had been a long day. She wanted to shower and get in bed—and pray she could fall asleep quickly. She thought she had done okay on her first day in the field—even dealing with the hostility of her first Krewe partner. She supposed it was natural he’d want to work with someone he knew. An old friend. Someone he trusted in the field.

“He was still a jerk,” she told the bathroom mirror.

But Jackson Crow had been right about one thing: Keenan Wallace wasn’t a man you could miss. His height, of course, was enough. Because of his height he appeared lean, but he was solidly built. She had a feeling he frequented the agency gym. His eyes were the darkest shade of blue she had ever seen.

Why the hell was she remembering his eyes and the way they focused on someone?

She gave herself a shake. He was impressive in his appearance. Though he didn’t behave arrogantly—he didn’t have to. All he had to do was walk into someone’s view.

Still...some of his behavior could improve.

* * *

Twenty minutes later she’d showered, having washed her hair as well. She’d felt like she smelled of the morgue.

And then she went to bed. She needed to sleep. She could usually find a movie on cable she really wanted to see. That guaranteed she’d fall asleep in about twenty minutes.

Instead, she found herself searching for documentaries on Jack the Ripper.

She found several. She chose the one that looked to be the most scholarly, curled up with her pillow, and started to watch, certain she’d be asleep in minutes.

But they were discussing notes from the medical examiner on the first acknowledged Ripper murder, that of Mary Ann Nichols.

The murder had taken place right where she had been found.

“And a copycat would know that,” she said aloud. She groaned to herself.

Details of the Ripper killings kept coming. The victims—Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and Mary Kelly. On the double-murder night, he killed Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, apparently interrupted before disemboweling Stride and carrying out his grisly work just hours later, making good with his customary technique of mutilating Catherine Eddowes.

It wasn’t really bedtime fare. But somewhere in there, she did fall asleep.

And the next morning at 7:26, she went out to wait for Keenan Wallace, who somehow managed to arrive at exactly seven thirty.

* * *

The room was filled with people. Representatives from the DC police, the Maryland State Police, the Virginia State Police, and FBI agents from the DC bureau as well as the Krewe of Hunters had gathered into the large conference room.

Jackson spoke to the gathered officers, warning them the killings had sparked an atmosphere of fear that might necessitate them responding to dozens of calls, many of which would mean nothing, all of which must be addressed. He filled them in on what was known, which wasn’t much. He informed the assembled officers of the steps being taken, including investigations into the lives and activities of the younger victims and into everything regarding Billie Bingham and her business enterprises.

Detective Crandall spoke, telling the crowd his observations regarding the first and third murders. Detective Jean Channing from Alexandria spoke at length about the second victim. And then it was Keenan’s turn to go up. He expressed the various theories they were working on: they had a vicious, mentally disturbed individual on their hands who had admired the work of Jack the Ripper, or the killings were to hide the identity of someone who specifically wanted Billie Bingham out of the way.

Before he continued, he found himself looking across the room at his new partner. Stacey was standing next to Detective Channing. The two had met and spoken briefly at the top of the day. He noted, too, that Stacey knew several of the Krewe members here: when they had arrived, she’d been greeted with friendly smiles.

He’d realized she wasn’t just attractive, she was a beautiful young woman who downplayed her looks. She wasn’t attempting to be ugly, but she kept her raven-dark hair pulled tightly back and wore minimal makeup. She was dressed in a white cotton tailored shirt and a dark blue pantsuit—common apparel for an agent.

She wore it well.

Stacey was still, watching him, listening to him. He nodded slightly in her direction.

“Or...there’s the possibility we’re looking for something entirely different. Someone who isn’t depraved and doesn’t get