He’d nearly cried even as he’d savored the taste of her strawberry lip balm . . .
Ash stilled. Lip balm. Why was there a warning voice whispering at the back of his fuzzy brain? Maybe he was going crazy. What the hell did her lips have to do with anything? He frowned, telling himself to turn away.
He’d done what he came there to do. What was the point of gawking at Remi as if he hoped she would suddenly open her eyes? It was time to go.
But his feet refused to budge. He knew Jax was staring at him in confusion, and that the technician was starting to shift from one foot to another, but still he continued to run his gaze over Remi’s pale face.
Something was nagging at him. But what?
Then his gaze returned to her mouth, and he realized what his unconscious mind was trying to tell him.
She was wearing lipstick. A bright-red shade. And more than that, there was makeup plastered on her skin and what looked like false lashes stuck to her lids. The harsh lighting had washed everything to a dull shade of ash, which was why he hadn’t noticed it the minute the cover had been pulled back.
“That’s not her,” he breathed.
“Ash.” Jax’s arm tightened around his shoulder. “I know this is tough, but—”
“It’s not her,” Ash interrupted, his heart returning to sluggish life.
How had he been so blind? Remi never wore makeup. Not even when her mother insisted on dragging her to some fancy-ass party. She claimed that it made her skin itch, plus she didn’t feel the need to slap paint on herself to try to impress other people. If they didn’t like her face, they didn’t have to look at it.
Her down-to-earth attitude was one of the things he’d loved about her.
Of course, as far as he was concerned, she was gorgeous. She didn’t need anything artificial to make his palms sweat and his pulse race.
“How can you be sure?” Jax demanded, his voice revealing his fear that Ash had gone over the edge. “Like you said, it’s been five years. She could have changed in that time. Unless there’s something you haven’t told me?”
Ash jutted his chin. He wasn’t going to explain about the makeup. Jax would tell him a woman might very well alter her opinion about cosmetics as she started to age. Or perhaps she had a boyfriend who wanted her to plaster her face with the gunk. Besides, now that he was looking at the dead woman with his brain and not his heart, he could start to detect physical differences. The nose was just a tad too long. Her brow not quite wide enough. And her jaw too blunt.
“I’m sure.” His voice was strong. Confident. “It’s not her.”
“He’s right.” A new voice cut through the air, echoing eerily through the racks of dead bodies. “I just got back the results from the fingerprints.”
They all turned to watch as Dr. Jack Feldman, one of the city’s top medical examiners, stepped out of the shadows. A short man with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard, he was wearing a white lab coat that didn’t hide the start of an impressive potbelly. He’d been a good friend of Gage Walsh, and had extended that friendship to Ash when he’d become Gage’s partner.
He’d also adored Remi, treating her like she was his own child. It must have been a hideous shock to have a woman who looked so much like her show up in his morgue.
“Feldman,” Ash murmured, stepping away from his brother so he could pull the older man into a rough hug.
They shared a silent moment of tangled emotions, then the doctor slapped him on the back and pulled away to study him with a sympathetic gaze.
“Good to see you, Ash, although not under these circumstances.”
Ash cleared his throat, his attention moving toward the electronic pad clutched in Feldman’s hand. “Did you get an ID?”
Feldman held up a hand before he glanced toward the silent technician.
“I’ll take it from here, Jimmy,” he told the young man. They waited until Jimmy turned and left the room before Feldman led them to a distant corner. His dark gaze rested on Ash’s face. “I shouldn’t be talking to you, but I’m pretty sure you’ll get the information one way or another. Plus, you’re one of us, even if you did jump ship for a while. Eventually you’ll come back where you belong.”
They were words he’d heard from a dozen different lawmen when he’d announced his decision to leave the Chicago Police Department and take a job teaching. And in truth, a part of him had secretly agreed.
Being a detective was in his blood.
He shook away the thought, nodding toward the electronic pad. “Who is she?”
Feldman lifted the pad and touched the screen to call up a file. “Her name is Angel Conway. She’s a twenty-five-year-old white female. Five feet, six inches tall. One hundred thirty pounds.”
Ash frowned. “Is she local?”
“No.” Feldman brushed his finger over the screen. “Her address is Bailey, Illinois. A small town fifty miles south of the city.”
Ash glanced toward Jax, who gave a shake of his head. He’d never heard of the town.
“Do you have any other info?”
Feldman was silent as he read through the short report. Ash knew Feldman must have shouted and bullied and called in every favor owed him to get any information so quickly. The Chicago coroner’s department was notoriously understaffed and overworked. It was only because of their dedicated staff that they weren’t completely overwhelmed.
“It looks like she worked at a convenience store and has a rap sheet for petty crimes,” Feldman murmured. “Mostly stealing and one count of prostitution.”
Ash tried to process what he was being told. Not easy when his brain was still foggy from the extreme emotions that had battered him. Fear. Shock. Grief. Soul-shaking relief.
He did, however, tuck away the information so he could pull it out later and truly consider what it all meant. “Where did they find her?”
“Jameson Park,” Feldman said.
Ash lifted his brows in surprise. Jameson Park was built along the shores of Lake Michigan, and popular enough to be crowded this time of year despite the frigid weather. Plus, it would have a regular patrol officer who would do sweeps through the area.
A dangerous place to do a dump.
“That doesn’t fit the pattern,” he said.
“No. But everything else does,” Feldman told him, turning around the pad so Ash could see the photos taken of Angel Conway’s naked body.
For a second his stomach rolled in protest. It’d been a while since he’d seen death up close and personal. And the violence one person could inflict on another. Then he sucked in a slow, deep breath.
Shutting down his emotions, he studied the picture with a professional attention to detail. He’d learned as a detective it was too easy to be overwhelmed by death. He had to break it down to small, individual pieces to keep himself focused on what was important.
Leaning forward, he studied the cut that marred the slender throat. It was thin and smooth and just deep enough to slice through the carotid artery. There were no hesitation marks, no ragged edges to indicate nerves or anger. It was a precision kill that seemed to be oddly lacking in emotion.
Next, his gaze moved to the small wound on the woman’s upper breast. It was carved into a neat crescent shape. This was the one detail they’d never revealed to the public.