Chapter Three

Rebecca's studio was in a modest business park six miles west of the town proper, a little less than halfway to Seattle from Redmond. The building was cordoned off by police tape and watched by a half-dozen officers, a rather hefty amount of cavalry for the suburban neighborhood.

The officers greeted the three agents with bored expressions. The senior officer, a grizzled sergeant who looked closer to sixty than fifty, pointed them inside to a short, thin woman with severe features and sharp gray eyes.

The woman greeted the agents with a curt nod. "Detective Wanda Simonich, Redmond PD. You guys got here fast."

"Our Boss is very good at making sure we're wherever he's not," Michael quipped. "I see bloodstains but no body. I'm assuming M.E. picked her up?"

Wanda frowned at Michael, clearly disapproving of his casual behavior. She kept her opinion to herself though and only nodded. "The coroner picked her up seven hours ago. He promised an autopsy to us by the end of the day, so you'll probably have preliminary results from that by the time you're finished here."

Turk approached the largest of the bloodstains, a sticky pool about three feet wide that still hadn't dried. Wanda's frown deepened as he began to carefully sniff the area, but once more, she kept her disapproval to herself.

"Who called it in?" Faith asked.

"A vagrant named Barry Everett. He panhandles on Conch Avenue about a mile from here and usually sleeps behind one of the businesses at night."

"Did he see the killer?"

"No. He woke up because he heard dogs barking and decided to move on because he thought one of the business owners was looking for him."

"Why did he think one of the business owners was looking for him?"

"Vagrancy and loitering. He told us he's been chased off by dogs before, but he didn't want to do it again. He walked past and saw Rebecca's arm through the window, then called us."

"How did he call you?"

"Cell phone. Believe it or not, most homeless people have them."

"I believe it," Faith said. "Where is Mr. Everett now?"

"He's at the precinct. He's gotten three free meals out of this, and I'm guessing he's going to try to barter a night in jail so he'll have a roof over his head."

"Can't say I blame him," Michael said.

"Me either," Wanda admitted. "I'd do the same thing. In any case, we weren't able to get much out of him. He didn't find the body until two o'clock, and she'd been dead for an hour by then. We didn't really suspect him, but he has an alibi. Most of the buildings around here have security cameras, and he's on all of them up until he reaches this one an hour after Rebecca dies. No chance he could have been here when she was killed."

"Anything notable about the scene?" Faith asked.

"She died quickly," Wanda said.

"Is that notable?" Michael asked.

"In my experience, yes. Stab victims usually bleed out over several minutes. Wanda was out in less than one. She was stabbed here."

She pointed a few yards behind the big bloodstain. Blood spatter had sprayed in a fine mist on the counter to what would have been Rebecca's right and the wall to her left. Arterial spray. Faith anticipated to hear from the M.E. that her carotid was, in fact, severed.

"She walked three or four steps," Wanda continued, showing them drops of blood that would have fallen from her throat to the floor. "Then she fell here and died." She pointed at the big bloodstain. "Judging by fabric remnants left on the ground, she reached out with her arm and then stilled. Out like a light in less than a minute."

Turk finished examining the bloodstain and trotted deeper into the studio. Wanda lifted her eyebrow questioningly, and Faith explained, "He's going to look for clues. If he picked up the killer's scent, he'll be able to tell us where he came from."

"How did the killer get inside?" Michael asked.

"We're still trying to figure that part out," Wanda said. "There's no sign of forced entry. We don't know if anyone else had a key to the studio. She worked alone, so it's difficult to tell if anyone else could have gotten in here without breaking in. It's possible she forgot to lock the door, but I find that unlikely. My preliminary hypothesis is that this was someone she knew and trusted."

"What's the connection to the violinist?"

Wanda chuckled. "That would be Maria Gonzalez. Yeah, the M.O. looks the same. Stabbed in the neck, died quickly, no evidence. We don't know yet. But if they are connected, that would throw a wrench in the hypothesis that this was someone Rebecca knew. There's no connection between the two of them.

"Maria didn't work with Rebecca in the past?"

"No, she was exclusive to Sony records. Bethel was a subsidiary of EMI."

"Got it."

Turk trotted back to Faith and barked once. He hadn't found anything either.

"We'll go visit the Medical Examiner now," Faith said. "Has my boss spoken to you about a car?"

"Not me. That would go through the precinct. I'll give you a ride there. The M.E.'s office is attached, so you can talk to him while the officer in charge figures out the car. The FBI doesn't do rental vehicles?"

"They do, but I'd rather not hear the Boss bitch about the expense," Michael replied. "Budgets are about the only thing that matters to him anymore."

Wanda barked a short laugh. "Tell me about it. They pin brass on a person's shoulder, and it becomes about the bottom line, not the job. Well, I'll get you to the precinct, and we'll either find you a cruiser or call your boss and tell him you're renting a Cadillac. Or whatever rich people drive nowadays."

***

The Redmond Police West Precinct was about half the size of the Philadelphia FBI Field Office and supported about one fourth the staff, which made it plenty big enough and roomy enough for Faith and Michael to use as a base of operations. Redmond was a fairly low crime suburb, and the officers there were far less frazzled than those at other locales the three of them had visited.

"See, this would be a nice place to retire to," Michael said as the three of them took the elevator downstairs to the Medical Examiner's office. "You still have enough work to keep busy, but it's light work, and murders are few and far between. And if you get one, you can just throw your hands up in the air and make it the FBI's problem."

"Sounds lovely," Faith said drily.

Michael shrugged. "I'm just glad we're not dealing with ego trips or nervous Nellies."

She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Nervous Nellies?"

"That's Ellie's term for worry warts."

"Does she call me a nervous Nellie?"

"You don't want to know what she calls you."

Faith winced. "Fair enough."

For a short time, Faith had suspected that Ellie might be the Copycat Killer. Needless to say, that had soured their relationship, and both of them were content to keep their distance. It didn't really make anything easier that Michael and Faith were partners and best friends, but things had worked out so far in spite of that misunderstanding.

The M.E.'s office was of similarly modest but useful size as the precinct. The examiner himself was a barrel-chested, balding man of forty-four or -five who greeted the agents with what he probably thought was a smile but looked a lot more like a sneer.

Still, he was polite enough when he explained his findings.

"She was stabbed by something thin and sharp," he said. "Double-edged too. Went in clean from the right side, severed both carotid arteries along with the right jugular vein and sliced her voice box in two."

"Ouch. Killed the singer's voice."

"Literally. Of course, the rest of her died within thirty seconds of that, so that's a small worry, all things considered."

"Any other wounds?"

"None. No defensive wounds, no other stab wounds, no bruising, no ligature marks. The killer stepped in, jabbed the blade through her neck, and then left her to die. No fingerprints, no spittle, no DNA of any kind. Honestly, this looks like a professional hit."

"A professional hit? Who'd want to hire someone to kill a no-name singer?"

"I'm not saying it was a professional hit, just that it looked like one. Our killer was good. Is good."

"Anything that tells you how tall the killer is?" Faith asked. "Or how strong?"

"I'm afraid not," the doctor said. "The implement was sharp enough that it wouldn't have taken much strength. The angle was almost straight through, but that could be accomplished by lunging. About all I can say is the killer is probably not shorter than Rebecca Wells, but since she was only five-foot-one, that's not ruling many people out."

"Tell me about Maria Gonzalez," Michael said. "How does this murder compare?"

"Ah yes," the M.E. said. "I remember that one. The same wound. Precisely the same. Sharp, thin, double-edged blade severed the voice box and both carotids. No jugular vein damaged the last time, but that only means our killer was standing slightly in front of Rebecca and was directly to the side of Maria."

Faith lifted an eyebrow. That explained why the police connected the two. "How did the killer get the same angle on both victims?" she asked.

The M.E. shrugged. "That's outside of my wheelhouse. I just know that both of them died from exsanguinating in less than a minute. About the only way to kill someone faster than that is to sever the brainstem or pierce the heart."

"Any sign of sexual assault," Faith asked.

"None. No sign of the killer at all."

"Gloves?"

"Maybe, but not the kind that leaves residue. Honestly, our guy knew what he was doing. At least it looked like he did. Not that that means anything these days. Anyone can do an internet search and learn how to kill someone and leave no evidence these days. It's a fucked-up world we live in."

"Yes," Faith agreed. "It is."

The three of them left the office and headed upstairs to pick up their car. On the way up, Michael said, "I'm thinking we go visit Maria Gonzalez's crime scene. What do you think?"

"A year later? There won't be anything left. She was killed in her home, and someone else will be living there now."

"Yes, but if the neighbors saw anything, it might be useful. Call it a hunch."

Faith shrugged. "I'll bite. We don't have anything concrete to go on. I want contact information for Rebecca's former employers too. Even if she left amicably, that doesn't mean someone didn't hold a grudge or become obsessed."

"Fair enough." He gave Faith a slight grin. "And so it begins."

She looked sideways at him. "It's creepy when you smile like that."

He lifted his hands. "Excuse me for trying to enjoy my job and stave off the depression that kills most people in our profession."

"Good point."

They got the information they needed from Wanda, along with the keys to a new Ford Police Interceptor. When Michael learned this model had a nearly five hundred horsepower V-8, he snatched the keys from Faith. "I'll drive. The last thing we need is you crashing us into a wall at one hundred and ten."

"When have I ever gotten us into an accident?" she said, "and since when have I argued over who gets to drive? Just admit you want to drive the cool new car."

"I want to drive it nice and slow and comfortable. Slow and steady wins the race."

"Slow and steady means another cold case," Faith countered. "And this trail's already getting cold. I want answers fast, or this guy's going to slip into the ether again."

"I won't argue with you there."

They started toward the neighborhood where thirteen months ago Maria Gonzalez had breathed her last. Faith had been bantering with Michael, but she meant what she said. Their killer really wanted to be unseen, and he was disturbingly good at making that happen. If they didn't find a lead soon, he'd disappear.

And just because he waited a year between his first two victims didn't mean he'd give the third victim the same courtesy.