something out of a movie.
But the tint on the TV mounted in the corner of the diner was on the fritz. The Channel 11 reporter’s pinched face looked green.
He swilled back the last dregs of coffee from the stained mug, before pushing it across the Formica-topped table, next to the chipped plate. He hadn’t finished the eggs and bacon, the grease already congealing and opaque across the strips of fatty pork. A fly landed on a triangle of toast. He watched it suck at the cold butter before his eyes went back to the TV.
“Homicide detectives responded to the scene just after one a.m. Police spokesperson Sergeant Richard Contel confirmed later this morning that the fire claimed the life of a young woman. Further details have not been released …”
The footage from last night showed two men in white coveralls as they picked their way out of the wreckage, balancing a litter between them. The black body bag glistened in the rain.
Valerie Regester . It hadn’t taken much to find the girl. Even less to actually snatch her. Everything like clockwork.
It was a job, he’d tried to remind himself last night, sitting behind the wheel of his Buick as she crossed the college lot. Taking care of loose ends. He hadn’t expected the thrill he’d felt as she’d tried to turn over the engine. And when she’d gotten out of the shitbox car of hers, and he’d stepped from his, he’d felt alive for the first time in months. And when she’d turned to look at him, he’d loved how her eyes had narrowed with suspicion. But his smile had eased her concern. It always did.
Then the drive through the city—nerve-jangling, but exhilarating. Her thin, mewling sounds from the backseat had bubbled up old desires. And the need reemerged, like a cockroach clawing from its spent shell, mutating into a stronger, indestructible state. The final metamorphosis.
But it wasn’t until he’d finally had her throat in his hands, until he’d felt her life pulse—potent and desperate—against his palms, that he’d been struck by the unexpected jolt of arousal. He thought the fucking Zoloft had killed all that. He would’ve liked to have spent more time with her. Regretted that he hadn’t made arrangements.
Still, there’d been enough time to go back to the car for his knife. And now, as he cleaned his hands with a paper napkin, he was warmed by the memory of that pleasure, the rage of blood in his ears, the thundering of his heart as he’d emptied himself onto her.
On the TV, the camera followed two detectives, the bulge of their suit jackets barely concealing the nine-millimeters clipped to their belts. The camera zoomed in. And his heart fluttered.
She looked different from the grainy, black-and-white photo from the Sun, taken after Bernard had finished with her. The photo he’d cut out and saved, of her face all battered and bloodied beyond recognition. But it was her.
Detective Kay Delaney.
13
PAST THE WINDSHIELD and through the haze of afternoon heat, the steep sides of the State Pen’s old fort-style turrets loomed over the Madison Street entrance, the granite darkened by more than a century of grime. It was the second-oldest penitentiary in the country, and an unmistakable landmark on the eastern bank of the Jones Falls. An 1800s fortress that could never be confused for anything but a prison.
And Eales was in there. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, chain-link, and razor wire.
She’d toyed with the notion all day, and an hour ago— standing under the pounding water of her shower at home—Kay had at last made the decision: she needed to talk to the one person who had the most to gain from Valley’s death. Now though, with the lobby doors less than fifty yards from the nose of the Lumina, her courage was sapped, and the questions she’d so carefully rehearsed scattered.
Exhaustion played a role. It had been a long afternoon with Finn. A walk through the burned Canton warehouse offered nothing.
But the tint on the TV mounted in the corner of the diner was on the fritz. The Channel 11 reporter’s pinched face looked green.
He swilled back the last dregs of coffee from the stained mug, before pushing it across the Formica-topped table, next to the chipped plate. He hadn’t finished the eggs and bacon, the grease already congealing and opaque across the strips of fatty pork. A fly landed on a triangle of toast. He watched it suck at the cold butter before his eyes went back to the TV.
“Homicide detectives responded to the scene just after one a.m. Police spokesperson Sergeant Richard Contel confirmed later this morning that the fire claimed the life of a young woman. Further details have not been released …”
The footage from last night showed two men in white coveralls as they picked their way out of the wreckage, balancing a litter between them. The black body bag glistened in the rain.
Valerie Regester . It hadn’t taken much to find the girl. Even less to actually snatch her. Everything like clockwork.
It was a job, he’d tried to remind himself last night, sitting behind the wheel of his Buick as she crossed the college lot. Taking care of loose ends. He hadn’t expected the thrill he’d felt as she’d tried to turn over the engine. And when she’d gotten out of the shitbox car of hers, and he’d stepped from his, he’d felt alive for the first time in months. And when she’d turned to look at him, he’d loved how her eyes had narrowed with suspicion. But his smile had eased her concern. It always did.
Then the drive through the city—nerve-jangling, but exhilarating. Her thin, mewling sounds from the backseat had bubbled up old desires. And the need reemerged, like a cockroach clawing from its spent shell, mutating into a stronger, indestructible state. The final metamorphosis.
But it wasn’t until he’d finally had her throat in his hands, until he’d felt her life pulse—potent and desperate—against his palms, that he’d been struck by the unexpected jolt of arousal. He thought the fucking Zoloft had killed all that. He would’ve liked to have spent more time with her. Regretted that he hadn’t made arrangements.
Still, there’d been enough time to go back to the car for his knife. And now, as he cleaned his hands with a paper napkin, he was warmed by the memory of that pleasure, the rage of blood in his ears, the thundering of his heart as he’d emptied himself onto her.
On the TV, the camera followed two detectives, the bulge of their suit jackets barely concealing the nine-millimeters clipped to their belts. The camera zoomed in. And his heart fluttered.
She looked different from the grainy, black-and-white photo from the Sun, taken after Bernard had finished with her. The photo he’d cut out and saved, of her face all battered and bloodied beyond recognition. But it was her.
Detective Kay Delaney.
13
PAST THE WINDSHIELD and through the haze of afternoon heat, the steep sides of the State Pen’s old fort-style turrets loomed over the Madison Street entrance, the granite darkened by more than a century of grime. It was the second-oldest penitentiary in the country, and an unmistakable landmark on the eastern bank of the Jones Falls. An 1800s fortress that could never be confused for anything but a prison.
And Eales was in there. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, chain-link, and razor wire.
She’d toyed with the notion all day, and an hour ago— standing under the pounding water of her shower at home—Kay had at last made the decision: she needed to talk to the one person who had the most to gain from Valley’s death. Now though, with the lobby doors less than fifty yards from the nose of the Lumina, her courage was sapped, and the questions she’d so carefully rehearsed scattered.
Exhaustion played a role. It had been a long afternoon with Finn. A walk through the burned Canton warehouse offered nothing.
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