But even worse . . . The locket was missing. The moment rushed back, stealing his breath. It had been when the blonde had grabbed for a hold on his coat, right before she’d kneed him in the nuts.
“Bitch.” She’d be so sorry she’d done that. Once he got his hands on her . . . He fantasized her on her knees, begging his forgiveness. She’d tell him she was sorry. They always said they were sorry. Eventually.
More pressing was the likelihood that the police would find his fingerprints on the locket. He’d caught himself rubbing the silver heart from time to time since taking it from his last victim. But he’d worn gloves tonight, so hopefully his prints had been rubbed off.
Either way, they’d have to catch him first before using the physical evidence against him. He wouldn’t be popping up in any of their databases. I just won’t get caught. Simple enough.
He started the shower and stepped under the spray, wishing he weren’t on duty for the next few days. Otherwise he’d smoke some weed and calm down. But there was always a chance that he’d be chosen for a random drug test, which would pick that shit up.
He ran his hands over the scratches at the base of his throat, hoping whatever they’d scrape from under the bitch’s nails wouldn’t be too damning. He needed to figure out how much the cops knew.
He was edgy. Too jumpy. He needed to calm the fuck down. He needed a woman in the basement bed. Now he wished he hadn’t dispatched the last one so quickly. He normally kept them alive for a long time, using them to slake his rage, but Miriam had made him so furious. So get yourself another houseguest. That he could do.
Tomorrow. After work. You can hunt tomorrow. Take off the edge. And then his mind would be clear and he’d figure out how to eliminate the blonde.
He’d been operating under the radar for years. He wasn’t about to allow a loose end to jeopardize that now.
Tonight, he needed to sleep. He left the basement, taking the stairs two at a time. Hopefully, a run would tire him out enough to sleep.
He opened the back door and clucked his tongue. “Mutt,” he called softly. “Come here, boy.” The Airedale mix trotted in from the backyard, dropping to sit just inside the kitchen door, lifting his paws, one at a time, so that they could be dried off. Mutt was very smart. He’d learned that trick within days of being brought home.
He wondered if Mutt’s previous owner had done the same. It was a possibility. Seattle was known for its rain and the woman who’d been walking him had seemed the fastidious type. Janice Fiddler had been her name. He’d been unable to transport Janice to his basement guest room, finishing her off in her own basement instead, but she’d provided him with the best of souvenirs.
Mutt was good company.
TWO
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 10:30 P.M.
Gideon found Rafe Sokolov leaning against the wall outside one of the SacPD interview rooms, waiting for him. Big and blond with a relaxed air that made him appear far younger than he really was, Rafe always looked more like a surfing frat boy than a cop. But few cops were as smart and there was no one on the planet Gideon trusted more.
Rafe gave him a considering look. “Did you talk to Mercy?”
“Yeah. Right after I hung up with you.”
“Figured as much. She okay?”
Gideon shrugged. “As okay as she can be.”
Rafe opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head.
“What?” Gideon snapped, but felt instant remorse. None of this was Rafe’s fault. The man had been there for him when everything had gone to shit. Had helped him pick up the pieces. “Sorry. It’s . . .”
“It’s okay,” Rafe said quietly. “Talking to Mercy messes you up. I get it. I was just going to say that the two of you would benefit from counseling, but I knew you’d say no, so I edited myself.”
Gideon nodded, because that was exactly what he would have said. “Where is Miss Dawson?”
Rafe gestured to the closed door. “In there with Erin.”
Erin Rhee had been Rafe’s partner for the past year. She seemed sharp. Most importantly, she had Rafe’s back. “So you two took the case?” Gideon asked.
“Yes.”
Gideon eyed him sharply. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
Rafe eyed him right back. “Because?” he challenged.
“Because she’s ‘like a sister’? Your words, not mine.”
Rafe waved his hand vaguely. “She’s an old family friend.”
“That’s what you’re going with? What about the fact that you’re her landlord?”
Rafe scowled. “I was first on the scene.”
“Because she called you, didn’t she?”
Rafe’s scowl deepened. “Right now we’re calling it an attempted abduction and assault with a weapon,” he said, ignoring Gideon’s question, which was answer enough. “We’ll investigate the reference to other victims and see what turns up. I wanted you to see this first.” He pulled a small evidence bag from his pocket. Inside was the silver locket, and Gideon’s questions about Daisy Dawson evaporated. Rafe’s eyes softened, his expression concerned, and Gideon realized the real reason for Rafe’s insistence.
To protect me. Because he knows this is going to hurt me. Gratitude welled, leaving Gideon without words, but Rafe clearly understood.
“Daisy pulled this off her attacker’s neck,” Rafe murmured.
Gideon took the small bag and held it up to the light, clenching his jaw against the sudden wave of nausea that swept over him. Yes, he knew this locket. Well, not this exact locket, but . . . Yeah. He’d seen more than his fair share of them. He’d hated them all once he’d grown old enough to understand what they’d represented. Slavery. Possession. Their wearers pawns in a chess game they didn’t fully understand until it was too late.
“It’s the same design, isn’t it? The same one you had tattooed right here?” Rafe tapped his left pectoral. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen it, I wasn’t sure.”
Yeah, it was the same design. With the exception of the number of branches on the olive tree. The tree on the locket had twelve branches. The tree on his tattoo had thirteen.
It made him want to throw up.
“Gid?” Rafe softly prompted.
Gideon made himself speak, grateful Rafe had allowed him to see the locket in relative privacy. “Yeah.” His voice was rough. Rusty. “It’s the same.” From his pocket he pulled the photograph he’d taken from the wooden box in his living room. Two teenaged boys, one golden, one dark, both shirtless, arms slung over the other’s shoulders, grinning happily. The tattoo on Gideon’s chest could be clearly seen.