“Better answer it,” he said. “While you’re at it, let me see your latte. Your mother made mine skim again.”
I curled my latte defensively against my chest and answered the phone. “Detective Rosetti.”
“Rosetti, it’s the chief.”
“I gathered that from your number on my phone.”
“Watch it,” he growled. “I need you in my office. Now.”
“But—”
“Is Jones with you?”
“He’s always with me,” I said, glancing over at my partner who was currently frowning into his skim latte and digging around in his pocket, presumably for a few packs of contraband sugar.
“Let him handle it.”
“Sir, can I ask what this is about?”
“No.”
“Alright, then.”
“Where are you?”
“Just across the bridge.”
“Be in my office in five minutes.”
“It’ll take me ten to get back to the precinct.”
“See you in five,” he snapped. “And Rosetti, keep this quiet for now. I’m not...” He hesitated, considered his words. “I’m not sure what this all means yet. But I’m afraid it’s urgent.”
“Yes, sir. However, I believe the scene I’m on now may be a homicide masked as a suicide.”
“Brine can wait,” the chief said cryptically. “This can’t. You’ve got four minutes. Move it, detective.”
SEVEN MINUTES LATER I marched into the chief’s office at the TC Homicide Task Force headquarters down on West Seventh Street. Chief Rex Sturgeon’s regular office was at the downtown precinct, but when we’d set up a specific homicide task force based in St. Paul, he’d acquired an office there, too.
I marched into the bare space and stopped before a simple metal desk. On the surface was a cheap letter tray overflowing with papers and a huge monitor with a few dings from use along the sides. The walls were devoid of anything personal, save for a few recent clippings of the TC Task Force’s accomplishments.
Sturgeon’s eyes raised to meet mine. “You’re late.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Sturgeon reached for the stack of papers on his desk and removed a manila envelope from the top. He was sixty-something years old and, unlike Jimmy, was studiously ignoring the inquiries as to when he planned to retire. The chief and I were more alike than I cared to admit in some ways which probably contributed to the reason we occasionally butted heads. At the end of the day, however, he held my respect. And I think I had his—depending on the day.
The chief tipped the envelope sideways and emptied a stack of photos into his hand. He slid them across the desk and gestured for me to sit, all without speaking.
A somewhat ashen expression had taken over the chief’s face, which mystified me more than the blank envelope in his hand. In his tenure as chief, he’d seen the worst of the worst. And before that, he’d been a decorated homicide detective. Before that, a beat cop on the East side of St. Paul. There wasn’t anything the man hadn’t seen, and even less that rendered him speechless.
I sat down heavily on the chair across from him. The seat felt hard, a skeleton of metal and worn padding that’d seen better days decades ago. My fingers slid the photos the rest of the way toward me.
My throat went dry.
“Are these from...” I swallowed. “How old are these?”
“Fresh.” Sturgeon’s eyes landed directly on mine. “They came in this morning. An hour ago.”
“But Wilkes is in prison,” I said. “Life without parole.”
“He was.”
“Was?” My heart pounded against my chest. “Sir?”
“There was an escape.”
I closed my eyes. My pulse pounded as adrenaline raced through my veins. This couldn’t be happening. Ramone Wilkes was the famed murderer who’d rocked the Twin Cities on a killing spree. He’d been dubbed The Dentist by the newspapers thanks to his fondness for removing each of his victims’ teeth—while they were still alive.
It’d been a game to him, the killings. Wilkes had kept the teeth as souvenirs, wearing a necklace of them during our final confrontation. A confrontation that had landed me in the hospital for a week because, for some odd reason, Wilkes had taken a peculiar interest in me. His fascination had left me with a scar across my hip and a series of nightmares. It had been our first case on the TC Task Force. Some initiation.
“How could he have possibly escaped?” I tried to keep my voice steady. “He was in Texas, maximum security. Everyone knew how dangerous he was. He’s only been there for a year.”
Sturgeon gave a nod. “I don’t have all of the information yet, but I got a call this morning from the FBI requesting your presence in LaCrosse.”
“Wisconsin?”
“You say that as if it’s the Bermuda Triangle.”
I ignored the chief’s wry smile. “What’s Wilkes doing there?”
Sturgeon shook his head. “I’m not sure. But this man...” He paused, tapped the photos. “He was found this morning. All of his teeth missing—likely pulled perimortem.”
“His hands?”
“Fingerprints completely burned.”
“DNA?”
“We’re waiting for a hit to come back, but as you well know...”
I nodded. We still had one unidentified Jane Doe from Wilkes’s last spree. He’d killed three victims—two women, one man. He enjoyed the game, the thrill, the hunt. By removing teeth and fingerprints, it made identifying the bodies on our end that much more difficult. Without a missing persons report, there was the potential for Wilkes’s victims to remain nameless for an eternity. He’d smiled when he’d told me so.
“The agent who caught the case asked for you by name.”
“I see my reputation precedes me.” I rested a hand against my hip. The scar there seared. Hot and fierce, as if Wilkes’s blade had run across my stomach just yesterday.
Sturgeon’s eyes didn’t miss the movement. “I can tell them you’re busy.”
“I think...” I hesitated, on the verge of telling him that his suggestion might be best, but deep down I knew there was no option.
Wilkes was back. The man who had kicked off my career as detective... and just about broken my spirit. He’d returned north, and I suspected he had a reason why. He was drawing me out.
“It’s not your jurisdiction,” Sturgeon said. “The FBI will handle it.”
“Wilkes won’t be happy unless he sees I’m involved.”
Sturgeon nodded. “Again, not your problem. It’s probably safer for you to stay out of it.”
“Is that an order?”
He glanced down at the gruesome images, then rested wrinkled hands on his desk and surveyed me. “You’ve earned the right to make the call on this one.”
“LaCrosse,” I said. “Just over a two-hour drive.”
“The FBI asked for you as a consultant. You can take Jimmy with you.”
“Leave Jimmy out of this,” I said, standing. “Can I keep these?”