THIRTEEN

CARINA GREETED HER BROTHER with a hug, then sat down across from him in the booth. “Sorry we’re late,” she said.

He waved off the apology. “I only just got here myself.”

“We really appreciate you doing this off the clock.” Though Dillon was a freelance forensic consultant for the District Attorney’s Office and often worked with the police department on complex cases, he was rarely called in before a suspect was in custody. He also maintained a private practice.

Dillon looked more like their Irish-American dad than any of the seven Kincaid children. While Carina shared the darker complexion of her Cuban-born mother, Dillon had the fair skin and red-brown hair of their father. He was built more like a lean football player than a shrink, which made sense since he’d played college ball and had intended to go into sports medicine before being diverted into criminal psychiatry.

Carina let her partner fill Dillon in on the details of Angie’s life, as they knew it, and her death. Dillon looked through the crime file while Will spoke.

“The DA doesn’t think we have enough to prosecute Thomas,” Will said. “That’s why we came to you. Carina and I are leaning toward him as the killer, but there’s no hard evidence. It’s all circumstantial.”

“And you think he’s guilty because she put a restraining order on him.”

“That and she ridiculed him in public,” Will said. “Through the online journal. He lied to us at least twice.”

“In addition to Thomas, we have a missing boyfriend, a small-time drug dealer named Doug Masterson,” Carina added.

“Are you certain the killer is somehow connected to her sex journal?” Dillon asked.

Carina glanced at Will. “We’re not certain about anything at this point. But because the murder was sexual and her body defaced with profanity, it was the logical place to start.”

Dillon agreed. “After reviewing the autopsy report Will sent over, I think it’s personal as well. She knew her killer.”

That had been Carina’s gut reaction as well. “Someone like Steve Thomas. Ex-boyfriend.” Carina stopped speaking when she sensed someone watching them.

Sheriff Nick Thomas crossed the length of the burger joint, hat in hand. He wasn’t rushed, but ambled over with a steadfast stride. She was struck again by his quiet confidence. He didn’t exude arrogance like so many cops she worked with. Instead, Nick Thomas had an aura that bespoke competence, intelligence, focus.

And he was nice on the eyes. Very nice on the eyes.

“My Mama always said you can catch more flies with honey.”

One conversation with Sheriff Thomas the day before and she was already eager to listen to him again. His voice was even sexier than his firm body. She picked up her iced tea and sipped. The temperature in the room felt like it had risen at least ten degrees.

“I’m sorry to bother you at lunch,” Nick Thomas said matter-of-factly, “but I was hoping you might have a few moments to discuss the Vance case.”

Carina’s first instinct was to dismiss him. Set up something for later. He was the brother of a suspect. But Nick knew about serial killers, had caught one in his own jurisdiction. And he was a cop first, she had known that the minute she had laid eyes on him yesterday.

She glanced at Will and he gave her a half shrug. Her call. She nodded, and Will said, “Sheriff, we’re talking about the case now. Your input may prove valuable, in light of your knowledge about your brother and your experience with sexual predators.”

Carina watched something intense flash behind Nick’s blue eyes, then disappear. He didn’t so much as move a muscle, but his entire body gave off a warning vibe.

“But,” Will continued, “how do we know you won’t take something from our conversation and screw with our investigation?”

Slowly he said, “You only have my word.”

No one said anything for a long minute. Carina was still torn-she didn’t want to jeopardize a conviction for anything. But what Nick had said yesterday had stayed with her. If Steve is guilty, I’ll be the one to throw away the key.

“All right,” Carina said. “Your word is good with us.”

Nick slid into the booth, extending his hand to Dillon as Carina introduced them. “Dr. Dillon Kincaid-yes, he’s my brother-is a forensic psychiatrist. We’re talking informally right now, trying to get a handle on the situation.”

She filled Nick in on the manner of Angie’s murder. When she was done, Nick said, “You think you have a serial killer on your hands.”

“We don’t know enough of anything,” Will said, “except that the crime seems both ritualistic, like a serial killer, and personal, like she knew her attacker.”

“It doesn’t sound like a crime of passion,” Nick said carefully. “Too carefully planned. Premeditated. Generally crimes of passion are sudden, unplanned attacks fueled by some perceived wrong.”

Dillon leaned forward, nodding. “I agree.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t an elaborate setup. To make the murder look like something it’s not,” Will said.

“Anything’s possible these days. But I’m just saying, in my experience, Angie’s killer enjoyed it.”

“This is unofficial, right?” Dillon asked, looking at Carina.

“Completely off the record,” she said, realizing that Nick was right. Whether the killer had attacked Angie for lust or anger or power, he’d enjoyed it. And when he stopped having his fun, he killed her.

“We need a little direction,” Will said. “If there’s a better than fifty-fifty chance that the killer is our suspect, we’ll work hard to find the evidence to prove it. If we’re barking up the wrong tree, we need to learn the identity of each and every man the victim wrote about on her website, then everyone who posted comments. That’ll take weeks, months, and I don’t see the chief giving us any more help on this one.”

Carina concurred. She hated it, but that was the politics of working in a big-city police department. Angie’s murder wasn’t high-profile enough.

“Your chief will give you the resources when the killer strikes again,” Nick said.

Dillon concurred. “Nick’s right.”

Carina’s stomach sank. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“A crime of passion might have some elaborate cover-up to make it look like something else,” Dillon explained, “but I don’t see that here. The killer glued her mouth shut before he killed her, and according to Dr. Chen, before he raped her. You might think it’s a variation on a gag, but it’s more than that. A gag can be removed. Glue might be seen as a permanent seal. The killer was essentially telling her to be quiet forever. He didn’t want to hear anything she might have to say.”

“Could that be some sort of grotesque punishment for what she wrote online?” Will asked.

“Possibly. Something she wrote may have set him off.”

“So we’re looking for someone she wrote about. That’s one of at least eight men, all of whom are identified only by their initials.”

Carina commented, “Her friends might be able to identify some of them. We know of Steve Thomas and Doug Masterson. There must be others they’ve met.” She jotted down a note to remind herself.

Dillon put up his hand. “While it may be someone she was intimate with, I’m more inclined to think it was a lurker, someone reading her journal, becoming excited by her comments, and hating himself for it. If he already has an unhealthy fantasy life, her blatant sexuality may have spurred him to action.

“But I’m undecided on that point,” he continued. “I’ve read the coroner’s report in detail. Because she was repeatedly raped with foreign objects, including a capped beer bottle, the damage to her body was extensive. However, piecing together the evidence, Dr. Chen believes she was initially raped by the killer, then he used a beer bottle and other devices on her.”