Инстинкт Зла. Возрожденная. Марина Суржевская
smile was contagious. “Joe.” She stepped forward to give him a kiss on the cheek. “I haven’t seen you in months.”
“You look well, Mia.”
His kind dark brown eyes were warmly familiar, and Mia felt a clutch in her chest. She hadn’t seen Joe since Lena disappeared, when he’d so kindly offered to assist her with anything she needed to get through that time. The few times he’d checked on her, Mia had allowed his calls to go to voice mail and had never responded. She shifted a little at the memory, embarrassed at her own manners.
Gray watched the two of them, clearly impatient at the reunion. “What’s the lovefest about? You two work a case together?”
“I live a few buildings down from her sister,” D’Augostino replied. “Lived.” He shot Mia a glance.
She gave Gray a quick smile. “They were friendly. Joe joined me and Lena a few times for drinks in her apartment.”
“I met Lena in a local place. We used to grab our coffee at the same time every morning.”
“Fascinating.” Gray turned back to the apartment. “Maybe we should work.” He tossed a pair of latex gloves and paper booties to Mia. “Don’t move another inch before you put those on.”
She did as she was instructed, but not before shooting him a look. “All right. I’m suited up.”
“Her name is Katherine Haley,” D’Augostino said. “Twenty-three-year-old grad student at Boston University.”
Mia’s stomach tightened as the familiar scenario unfolded. “Do we know her course of study?”
“English. She’s a doctoral candidate.”
They entered the threshold of a small apartment with wood floors and bare white walls. A few members of CSU were still gathering evidence. Mia walked with the two detectives toward a small living area with a sagging love seat with a white slipcover, a wide brown wooden coffee table and a scarred leather chair. Gray picked up one of the thick volumes stacked on the coffee table. “Looks like some medieval crap.”
Mia lifted the book from his hands. “No, that’s Renaissance crap,” she deadpanned. “These playwrights are from the Jacobean era.” She returned the book to the table. “You disappoint me, Lieutenant. Every good detective should read Shakespeare.”
“Oh, really? And what should every good psychologist read?”
“Shakespeare. He was a tremendous study of human nature.” She pointed to the table. “That’s a pretty high stack of books. Were they like that when you arrived?”
“Nothing’s been touched,” Gray said. “We received the call earlier tonight. The vic was supposed to meet a friend at a bar on Boylston and she never showed. Then her friend tried calling, and when she didn’t get an answer, she came to the apartment. She said the door was open, but just barely, and the vic was gone. Then she saw... Well, I’ll show you.” Gray began the trek around the apartment. “Nothing was off in the sitting area, as you noticed. This is obviously a student apartment. Books everywhere, cheap furniture, posters in plastic frames hanging on the walls. Lots of things that could be easily knocked down or damaged in a struggle.”
“Lots of boxes,” Mia mused, pointing to a stack against the far wall. “And her name wasn’t beside the buzzer downstairs. Did she just move here?”
“Less than a month ago,” said D’Augostino. “She’s lived in the city for about a year, but this is a new apartment.”
“So there was no struggle,” Mia continued, talking to herself.
“You haven’t seen the kitchen. Watch your step,” Gray warned, pointing to an area on the floor. “CSU found some broken glass and water there. I think they got all the glass, but just be careful.”
He led her farther into the apartment, where she could see a white galley kitchen. And, Mia observed with a sinking stomach, blood. Smears on the white cabinets, a well-defined handprint on the floor. Slick, shiny puddles. Members of CSU were photographing and swabbing the scene. “That looks like arterial spatter,” Mia said, nodding at the thick spots and smears across the white refrigerator, microwave and toaster oven. “Are we sure she’s alive?”
“No,” Gray replied. “But we haven’t found her body yet.” At least he was honest.
This explained all of the cops and crime scene investigators for a missing-persons case. Mia reached up to massage her right temple, where a tension headache had started to gather. “Valentine usually drugs his victims,” she said. “He’s never left so much blood at a scene.”
To her left D’Augostino cleared his throat. “Well. There was your sister’s case.”
He looked almost ashamed that he’d said it, glancing down when she looked at him. Mia turned back to Gray and was troubled to see concern in his eyes. Pull yourself together, or he’s going to send you home.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said, working to keep her voice calm. “There was blood in my sister’s apartment, too. But nothing like this.”
Gray planted himself right at her side. “You think this is the work of the copycat?”
He was close. Close enough that she could look away and still know he was there, just from the heat rising from his body. “I couldn’t say. Not yet.”
Gray was dressed in plain clothes, jeans and a dark blue polo that suggested the chiseled body below, but the suggestion was enough. He might consider himself the “all work, no play” type, but he’d clearly been logging hours in the weight room. Mia’s heart scampered at the memory of their dance earlier that night. Now all she could think about was how strong his hand had felt in hers, and her mind wandered to thoughts of what it might feel like to touch other parts of him. His biceps. His shoulders.
She’d lived alone ever since she’d started graduate school, and she’d never considered herself in need of a man to protect her. She didn’t need a man now, either, but the thought of sleeping beside someone strong was a seductive one. Maybe she’d rest easy for a change and not wake at every creak and thud in the building.
“That reporter called him Valentine for a reason,” she said, partly to fill the silence in the room and partly to clear her mind of ridiculous thoughts. “It seems his victims invite him into their homes. There’s never an open window or a sign of forced entry, and when there’s blood, it’s usually minimal. Valentine doesn’t like a challenge.”
D’Augostino folded his arms across his chest. “How do you think he gets in? What would make a young woman invite a serial killer into her home?”
“That’s the question.” She continued to walk around the apartment, looking for subtle clues as to what had transpired hours before: dents in the wall, chips in the woodwork or maybe an overturned cup of pens. “We don’t have much to go on. All of the victims were young women, and all of them were graduate students at an area college or university.”
“Smart women,” Gray said. Mia felt his gaze following her around the unit. “But they still let him in. Must be a good-looking guy.”
Mia might have believed the same thing, but her sister had been engaged to a handsome, rich and well-connected man, and she knew Lena wasn’t the straying type. Neither would she have opened her door to any strange man, charming and attractive or otherwise. “Maybe, maybe not.”
They entered a dining area with a small wooden table and four matching chairs. “My theory is that he’s a person who seems innocuous. Someone who comes across as trustworthy, maybe because of his manner or maybe because of his job or position. The victims let him in not because he’s good-looking but because he’s harmless.” Aside from the blood in the kitchen, everything in that apartment was maddeningly neat.
“Position?” Gray was immediately behind her, keeping a close watch. “What are we talking about? A professor?”