“Can you please speak up?”

“Okay. I just don’t want anyone to hear me.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“Yes. It is. I think it qualifies. It’s about a murder.”

“All right. Can you be more specific?”

“The dead lady at Anderson Point. I know the guy who did it.”

“Who is this? Where are you calling from?”

“I’m not saying. And don’t try to catch me. This phone’s about out of minutes, and I’ll just get another from the gas station.”

“All right. Who are you talking about?”

“The dead lady.”

“Yes, I know that. I mean, who is the guy you’ve alluded to?”

“I’m not saying.” The woman paused, as if she hadn’t contemplated that she’d be asked such a simple question. “I can’t. But I want you to know that he’s not a monster.”

Jamie knew enough from the newspaper and the Sheriff’s Office scuttlebutt that the caller was wrong. The man who had murdered and dumped Jane Doe in the frigid waters of Puget Sound was nothing less than a monster.

“You need to talk to someone, provided you really do know something.”

“I do. I do.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. You called for a reason.”

“I was feeling sorry for the dead woman. She didn’t deserve to die. Not in the way she did.”

Jamie pressed the caller. She had a way of pulling up just a touch of sarcasm to make someone spit out what they had to say.

What she needed them to say.

“Is that so? Tell me something we don’t know.”

There was a silence for a second, and Jamie wondered if she’d pushed the caller too hard. “The dead girl has a small crescent-shaped scar above her right knee.”

In case the information was accurate, Jamie pushed a little harder. “Where is he?”

“I’ve already said too much.”

“You’ve just got started. You don’t make a call like this and then just drop it. Who is he? This man who did this?”

“I’m not saying.”

“Who is he to you?”

“This call isn’t about me.”

Jamie took a breath. She wanted this woman to do the right thing. It was, after all, the reason she called in. Or was it? They had their share of crazies phoning 911. One man called at least once a week with the tale that he was sure a young girl was being tortured in the apartment above his. The police were routinely dispatched for the sole reason of making sure they were not at risk in any potential lawsuit-in case there really was a girl being tortured on the third floor of the Marina Apartments.

“How do we find him?” Jamie asked.

A slight hesitation, some kind of a tapping sound. “You won’t.”

“How do you know? Do you know him?”

“I love him, and I serve him.”

Jamie felt the air suck out of the room.

“Please hold the line, will you? I think you’ll want to talk to one of the sheriff’s detectives. Hang on. Okay?”

There was no answer. She heard a door slam and some muffled sounds.

“Are you there?”

Still nothing.

A man’s voice cut on to the line. “My bitch is done talking to you.” The voice was deep, cold, unforgettable.

Sal looked up from a computer screen, where he had just logged in the basics of his latest call. “What was that?”

“Some woman, first. Some man at the end. Says she knows who killed the woman out on Anderson Point. It sounded like she knew something. The man shut her up.”

“Get the number? Location?”

“Disposable cell phone, she says.”

“God, we hate those.”

Jamie sighed. “Yeah, we do.”

“Think she was for real?”

“I’ll forward it to the Sheriff’s Office. That’s their job. Ours is to answer the calls.” She turned her attention to the call light flashing from her console. “God, here comes another.”

Jamie pushed the button on her handset.

“9-1-1. How can I help you?”

The caller was inquiring about the neighborhood block watch program. Jamie politely reminded him that those types of inquiries were not an emergency.

“Try back tomorrow. Use the help line. This is for emergencies only,” she said.

She rolled her eyes in Sal’s direction, and he, too, was handling a call.

Jamie wrote up a brief note on what the caller had said about the corpse on the shore at Anderson Point and forwarded it to her floor supervisor. She’d noted the call log accession number, which would allow investigators the ability to pull the recording of the call so they could listen to what was said-and how it was said.

Jamie Lyndon had a pretty good feeling that this particular call would lure some ears sooner than later. And she was right.

The next morning, Kendall Stark looked at the CENCOM report about the nighttime caller and the chilling message that she’d relayed to the operator. It was only two paragraphs long, but it provided a crucial piece of information.

She looked up at Josh as he strode into his office, coffee in hand and a smile on his face as if he was going to tell a joke.

“What’s with you?” he said. “It’s too early for this to be a crappy day already.”

She indicated the report with a tap of her finger. She had also downloaded an audio file of the call.

“One of our operators took a call last night. If it’s genuine, and I have no reason to believe it is…” She let her words trail off.

“Yeah?” he said, sliding into a chair.

“This is a theory,” she said, “and I’d like to tell you, but…”

“But what?” He looked impatiently at her and took a swig from his dirty mug.

“I don’t want to read about this in the paper. Okay?”

“I thought we were beyond that, Kendall.”

“I hope so,” she said. “And because I need you on this case, I’m willing to give you my trust just one more time.”

Josh didn’t offer up a quick retort; instead, he just nodded.

“The so-called Kitsap Cutter isn’t acting alone,” she said.

“You mean like Bianchi and Buono?”

He was referring to the Hillside Stranglers, who’d raped and murdered ten women in California in the 1970s. The crimes were notorious for many reasons, one of which dealt with how the two acted in tandem. They shared a psychopathology that entwined them in such a way that enabled them to act out on their fantasies together, each stoking the sick desires of the other.

“Not exactly.”

She played the recording.

“I love him, and I serve him.”

Josh stared at Kendall as the audio concluded.

“More like Bianchi and Betty,” she said.

“The Cutter’s accomplice is a female?”

Kendall nodded. “It fits the evidence. The cleaned-up victims, the hesitation in some of the cuts, the way he’s been able to lure victims without tipping them off.”

“They weren’t afraid,” Josh said.

“That’s right. Because she,” Kendall indicated the report once more, “the caller, was there too.”

Chapter Thirty-four

October 16, 9 a.m.

Port Orchard

Kitsap County Sheriff Jim McCray, a stern presence who rose up through the ranks when he won a neck-and-neck election two years prior, called Kendall and Josh into his office. It was just after 9 A.M., and the day felt like trouble already. Jim McCray was a hulking figure at six-foot-five and two hundred and fifty pounds. He had deep-set brown eyes, which seemed to penetrate more than stare.

“Look,” he said, as the pair took chairs opposite a desk loaded with paperwork that needed tending, “you two are great detectives.”

Josh glanced at Kendall. “I have a feeling we’re getting an award,” he said, his tone sardonic and a little resentful.

“Or about to be fired,” she said.

Jim McCray allowed a rare smile.

“Neither. But the fact is we need some help here. The FBI is going to assign some resources out of the Seattle field office. Mason County and Pierce County are going to put a guy-or gal-on the team, too.”

The gal reference was a nod at Kendall, and it wasn’t meant to be sexist, just a correction from a man who was still working on his human resources skills.