Dancing in the Dark Read online

  She nodded again, seemingly incapable of anything but gestures. “I'll be waiting.”

  It seemed so basic, waiting for someone to come home. So connected. And some part of her, some long forgotten part, rejoiced at the knowledge that there just might be someone out there worth waiting for.

  Electronic flashes popped as the forensic team photographed the body, the bright light only serving to make a gruesome sight more horrific. The victim was tied to a chair in her kitchen.

  The woman had been stabbed repeatedly, her body twisted awkwardly as if she had been trying to escape the blade. Blood covered the body and what remained of her scalp. Whatever hair she'd had had been removed. And from the looks of it, in something less than a surgical manner.

  “We got an I.D.?” Eric turned his attention to a uniform standing off to one side. Although he was valiantly trying not to show his reaction, his face gave him away.

  “She's a social worker.” The officer pulled out a notepad, swallowing convulsively, an obvious effort to keep his stomach contents firmly in place. “Allison Moore. Twenty-six, according to her driver's license. We talked to the next-door neighbor, and got a little bit more information. She's lived here about three years, alone. She kept to herself, but was friendly in a guarded kind of way.”

  “Any sign of someone in the house?”

  “Nothing. Place was neater than a pin. Only thing I found was this.” He held up the body of a doll—Barbie from the looks of it. The head was missing.

  “Where was it?”

  “In the hall. Couldn't find the head. But there are more dolls in the bedroom. Neighbor said she collected them.”

  “Put that one in an evidence bag. We'll have the lab examine it. Any sign of forced entry?”

  “Nope. Place was locked up tighter than a drum. No security system, but there were double locks on the doors.”

  “So she knew the killer.” Eric narrowed his eyes, trying to assimilate the facts.

  “Yes, sir. Or at least thought she could trust him enough to let him inside.”

  “Neighbors call it in?” If so, maybe they'd seen more than they were admitting to.

  The kid shook his head. “No. But we're running a check to see where the call originated.”

  “How about a weapon?” He already knew the answer, but he still had to ask the question.

  “Not so far, but the forensic people are looking. You want me to canvass the rest of the neighborhood? Maybe there's someone out there who saw something.” What he wanted was to get out of the room.

  And, frankly, Eric didn't blame him. “Yeah, take someone with you.”

  Steeling himself, he turned back to Allison Moore. Claire Dennison was examining the body, her movements calculated not to disturb anything that might be evidence.

  Eric walked over to crouch at her side. The body was slumped forward, bound hands the only thing keeping it in place. The eyes, though fixed and dilated, still reflected terror. Allison Moore's last minutes on earth had not been pretty ones.

  There were still strands of hair on the floor, silent testament to what had occurred here. He'd read about scalping, of course. Seen it alluded to in countless Westerns, but he'd never actually witnessed the results firsthand. The reality was beyond anything he could possibly have imagined. There truly weren't words.

  “Unfuckingbelievable.” Or maybe there were. Tony ambled over to the body, his pace at odds with the grim expression on his face. “This bastard should be strung up by his balls.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  Tony held up a compact disk, gloved fingers only touching the edges. “Found it near the back door, along with a boom box.”

  “Frank Sinatra?”

  “Yeah. Homemade, just like the others. Tech says it's a song called ‘I Could Make You Care.’”

  Eric stood up, suddenly feeling tired. “Wishful thinking from the looks of it.”

  “Yeah, but no question it's our guy.”

  “So why her?” He gestured toward the body. “She's obviously not a prostitute.” A new thought worked its way front and center. He looked over at Claire. “Any sign she was raped?”

  “Nothing conclusive. Her panties are missing.” Claire lifted the woman's skirt to underscore the fact. “But there's no visible bruising, and I haven't seen anything to indicate fluid. Although the last is consistent with what we've found at the other scenes.”

  “You find anything around the body that could have been used as a phallus?”

  “Nothing protruding. And nothing on the floor. But, hell, Eric, this is a kitchen.” She waved toward a counter covered with appliances and cooking utensils. “We'll know more after we get an autopsy.”

  Eric nodded, blowing out a slow breath, turning back to Tony. “How come the music wasn't playing when we got here?”

  “One of the uniforms turned it off. Not exactly a fan of the classics.” Tony grinned as they walked into the living room.

  “So the guy's moved uptown.”

  “Or our girl had a connection with prostitutes.”

  Eric frowned. “Moonlighting from her day job?”

  “Right. Allie does Austin.” Tony's laugh held no amusement. “Jesus, Eric. Think. The woman was a social worker. Social workers help the downtrodden. Maybe Allison here was working with one of our girls.”

  “So, what, she was killed because she knew the wrong people?”

  “I don't know.” Tony's frustration carried with every word. “I just figure there's got to be logic here. These guys always have a pattern. No matter how obscure it seems, it's there.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Eric ran a hand through his hair. “I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just that I feel like he's taunting us.”

  “Maybe he is.” Claire walked into the room, holding a plastic bag containing a knife. “My tech found this in the dishwasher. It's still hot.”

  “He washed the dishes?” Tony's remark was off the cuff, his tone flippant, but it was only a second before the significance registered. “Oh, Christ, you're saying he washed the murder weapon.”

  “Looks like a definite possibility. The blade width matches the length of the stab wounds, and at least a cursory examination shows serration that could match the pattern of injury. We'll know for certain after we run some tests.”

  “Arrogant bastard.” Eric's fought the urge to hit something. The man was playing them like a well-strung guitar. “What the hell does he think he's doing?”

  “Yanking our chain, if I had to call it.” Tony shrugged. “But you got to give the sick son of a bitch points for creativity.”

  “Give me five minutes alone in a room with him …”

  “I'll be right there with you.” Tony's smile was tight. “But we've got to find him first.”

  “Right.” Eric rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So we've got a change in M.O., but he's still overkilling and amputating.”

  “I don't know if that” Tony nodded toward the kitchen, “is considered an amputation.”

  “Maybe not per se, but whatever's driving this bastard to cut them up is still in play.”

  “Escalating, if I had to call it,” Claire said.

  “Meaning what?” Eric frowned.

  “The victim was alive when he scalped her.” Claire's eyebrows drew together to form a grim line. “That's why there's so much blood. The others were dead when he cut them.”

  “Which means it was either an afterthought—”

  “Or a conscious effort to spare them pain.” Eric finished Tony's thought.

  “I vote for the first one,” Tony said. “He wasn't concerned with anyone's pain.”

  “I'll buy that. But I don't think the amputations were an afterthought.” Claire crossed her arms, her gaze encompassing them both. “If anything, it's part of the reason he's doing this. And if that's the case, then the violence is definitely increasing.”

  “Something's pissing him off.” Tony dropped the CD into an evidence bag.

  “Maybe. But there's no way I
can know that for sure. My job's with the scene. I extract what it's got to tell me and pass it on to you. I can tell you what. But you've got to figure out why.”

  “Which means we've got our work cut out for us.” Tony exchanged a glance with Eric. “We can canvass her office in the morning. Someone there might be able to connect her to one of the other victims. Which would go a long way toward giving us a link between the murders.”

  “One thing's for certain,” Claire said, peeling off her gloves. “This is going to scare the hell out of the city. There's no safety zone when the vic is white-collar. Unless you find your connection fast, every woman in Austin is going to feel like a target.”

  “When will Garcia do the autopsy?”

  Claire's smile was tired. “As soon as they get the body back to the lab. Mayor's in on this one, and he wants answers fast.”

  “He's not the only one.” Tony nodded toward the reporters camped out at the door. “Word spread pretty damn fast.”

  “It'll be impossible to contain this one, boys.” Claire shrugged. “It's too soon after the other one. This guy is on a roll, and he's not likely to let up anytime soon.”

  “Thanks for the ride.” Sara leaned down to look in the window of Nate's old Crown Victoria.

  “Not a problem. Guess that's one of the disadvantages of dating a cop.” He smiled up at her, his hands still on the steering wheel.

  “I guess. Considering it was only our first date, I'm not much of an expert.”

  “You going to see him again?” His tone was light, but there was a hint of something resembling worry in his eyes.

  “I honestly don't know. You got a problem with it?”

  “No.” He held up his hands. “Of course not. I just worry that getting involved with a detective comes with its own set of problems. Long-term relationships don't seem to be congruent with the job.”

  “What about Tony and Bess?”

  “Okay,” Nate shrugged, “so they're the exception. But Eric already has a strike against him. He's divorced.”

  “So are a huge percentage of adult Americans. Come on, Nate. Life is about taking chances. Besides, you're jumping the gun a little. I've only been out with him once. And I didn't even get to complete that.”

  “There you go.” He tapped the steering wheel for emphasis. “Exactly what I was talking about. That's going to happen a lot.”

  “Where's all this coming from?” She leaned down for a better view of his eyes.

  He shifted uncomfortably on the seat. “Nothing about Eric D'Angelo, if that's what you mean. I just don't want to see you get hurt.”

  She reached over to cover his hand with hers. “Stop worrying. I'm not committing to the man for life. I'm just testing the waters. Okay?”

  “Okay.” He smiled sheepishly. “You want me to walk you to the door?”

  “Nah. I've got my keys right here. Besides, you know you're dying to follow up on whatever it was that called Eric and Tony away.”

  “So I'm predictable.” He grinned, then reached down to turn the key in the ignition. “I'll talk to you later.”

  “Tomorrow. And, Nate,” she leaned in to kiss his cheek, “thanks for caring.”

  Beet red, he put the car in reverse and backed out the driveway. She stood watching until he was out of sight, his words still ringing in her ears. She'd lied, of course, when she'd said she could take care of herself.

  At least where Eric D'Angelo was concerned. She'd never met anyone like him, his strength of character at once comforting and daunting. She was fairly certain, if she'd let him, he'd turn her soul inside out. He was the kind of man who demanded all or nothing.

  And just at the moment all might be more than she had to give.

  Chapter 12

  The photographs were haunting, and not because they were particularly well-done or because the subject had led a tragic life, but because Lydia Wallace was dead. All hope extinguished in an instant.

  Her choices in life might have been limited, but she still had a life, and someone had taken that life away. Sara picked up a picture, remembering the vibrance and laughter captured there. For one isolated moment, Lydia Wallace could have been any other teenager. Endless possibilities stretching out in front of her.

  Sara tossed the photo on the table with the others, leaning back in the chair, her mind turning to Eric. Her stomach tightened at just the thought of him, and she pushed away from the table, crossing to the wine bottle on the bar. After pouring a glass, she walked to the sofa, sinking down on the cushions, closing her eyes.

  Frank Sinatra crooned from the stereo. Probably macabre, considering the circumstances, but Tom had loved his music, and by playing it, somehow she always felt closer to him. But sitting here now, listening to a song about dancing in the dark, it wasn't Tom she saw in her mind's eye. It was Eric.

  Longing tangled with logic and guilt, emotions twisting together to leave her confused and conflicted. She had loved Tom so very much, and the idea that some other man could occupy his place was an abomination.

  Yet, Eric made her heart sing in ways she'd never even imagined. It was almost as if there were two of her: one living firmly in the past, holding on to Charlie and Tom, clinging to what had been. The other wanting only to move forward, to live life again. To find happiness—and perhaps even love.

  She gripped the stem of her glass, the feel of the cool crystal grounding her in the present. The past was behind her, the future only a dream. It was today that mattered. The decisions she made now affecting everything.

  She sipped her wine, the liquid warming her from the inside out. Intellectually she knew that being with Eric wasn't a betrayal of Tom. But her heart wasn't as certain.

  The music crescendoed, and she let it surround her, the notes comfortable like old tennis shoes or a favorite blanket.

  The phone rang, the shrill sound startling her out of her thoughts. She reached for the receiver, then stopped, remembering Eric's admonition to let the machine get it. With a sigh, she walked into the study, listening as the machine clicked on, red light turning green in the process.

  “Sara? You there? It's Molly. Pick up.”

  She reached for the phone. “I'm here. I just wanted to see who it was.”

  “Well, I'm glad I rated an answer.” There was laughter in her voice. “I just thought I'd check on you.”

  “I'm fine. Just sitting here unwinding.”

  “Worrying is more like it.” Molly's voice was kind. “You hear anything from Eric?”

  “Not yet. He said he'd come by if it wasn't too late, but I'm having second thoughts about it.”

  “Why? He seems like a great guy.” She could hear a note of frustration in her friend's voice.

  “That's the problem, I think. He's too appealing.” Which sort of summed things up nicely. “When I agreed to go out with him, I wanted to test the waters, not jump into the deep end.”

  “Well, I think he's worth the risk.”

  “Then maybe you should go out with him.”

  “You mean it?” Enthusiasm colored Molly's voice, making her sound almost breathless.

  “No.” Sara was surprised at the fervor of her response. “Of course not.”

  “Gotcha.” The enthusiasm turned to laughter. “I knew you liked him.”

  “I never said I didn't. I'm just questioning the wisdom of following through on it.”

  “If you're already in the deep end, then I suspect you don't have a choice.”

  Which, of course, was exactly what she was afraid of. Sara hung the phone up with a smile. Molly might be a bit overbearing in her opinions, but her heart was in the right place. Except that she was wrong about choices.

  Eric had said he'd stop if there was a light. So, with a flip of a switch, Sara turned it off, and headed for bed.

  “Just got the autopsy report.” Lieutenant Brady walked into the conference room, throwing the white envelope onto the table.

  Eric picked it up, and pulled out the thin sheets. “Not much h
ere.”

  “There's enough. Keep reading.”

  He skimmed the first page, then turned to the second. “This guy's a real sicko.”

  “What's it say?” Tony peered over his shoulder, trying to read the tiny print.

  “Garcia found the missing Barbie head.”

  “Oh, shit, tell me it isn't what I'm thinking.” Tony took a step backward, as if by doing so he could distance himself from the brutal reality.

  “The head was inside the victim. Traces of vaginal fluid on the doll's body confirms that it was used to rape her.” He lowered the pages, his gaze meeting the lieutenant's. “Tell me they found something to identify this guy.”

  Brady shook his head. “Claire's people have a positive I.D. on the knife. It matches the victim's wounds. But other than that it didn't tell us a lot. The serration is different from what we found on the other wounds, and the knife was clean as a whistle, not even a trace of the guy. Bastard's probably at home right now having a good laugh.”

  “Allison Moore have any kin?”

  “Yeah,” Brady's lips tightened, “a mother and sister. They live in Abilene. They'll be here in the morning. I don't have to tell you the press is going to have a field day with this. How about the journalist's pictures? Anything come of that?”

  “Preliminary report turned up nothing. But I sent them over to the computer lab. If anyone can work a miracle, they can. We should know something tomorrow.”

  “Early would be good. In the meantime, go through the evidence again. Maybe with the additional victim something will shake out that wasn't apparent before.” Brady turned and strode through the door, leaving silence behind him.

  Eric was the first to break it. “Shall we start at the top?”

  “Works for me.” Tony pulled a photograph from a file and tacked it up on the white board. Allison Moore. The newest addition to the Sinatra club. “They're all so damn different.”

  “So that rules out look-alikes.” Eric narrowed his eyes, studying the wall. “We've got three Caucasian, and one African-American. And four different body parts. Ears, fingers, tongue, and hair.”