At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(35)

“I can’t believe I got sucked in,” said Verraday.

“James, you had no way of knowing. He fooled all of us. So far. But we will get him. I can find out where the text originated by having Destiny’s phone signal triangulated, but my guess is that it won’t be from the kill site or the dump site.”

“No,” agreed Verraday. “This guy’s much too clever to do that. Wouldn’t surprise me if he purposely sent it from near her home address, if he knew it.”

“We haven’t found her purse, phone, or any ID for that matter,” said Maclean. “He probably knew where she lived from her driver’s license.”

“How did you know who she was?”

“The screenshots you sent over.”

They stopped speaking for a moment as the waiter returned with the drinks. Verraday noticed that like the waitress at the Trabant, this waiter seemed to be aware that his arrival at their table caused a lull in the conversation. But unlike the young woman at the Trabant, their waiter just gave them a friendly, confident smile and told them to enjoy their drinks. Then he returned to the bar to polish the pint glasses with a cloth, humming contentedly. Why did some people react so differently to identical stimuli, wondered Verraday? How much was nature and how much was nurture? It was the eternal question that vexed psychologists. It certainly vexed him.

He took a sip of his dark ale. It was deep and rich, with just enough bitterness from the hops to balance the sweetness of the malt. He savored it and felt himself relaxing slightly. Maclean took a healthy sip of her vodka and soda.

“Are you willing to come back to the case?” she asked.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” responded Verraday. He was still smarting though. “But are you going to trust me from now on?”

Maclean took another sip of her drink before replying.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” she said, shifting slightly in the wingback chair.

Verraday was surprised by how uncomfortable Maclean suddenly looked. It was the first time he’d seen anything other than self-assurance in her manner. He hadn’t intended to rake her over the coals for being wrong about Whitney. It wouldn’t serve either of them, so he moved the conversation back to the case.

“Was there any escalation in the level of violence?”

Maclean nodded her head slowly. “Yes.”

She toyed with the ice in her glass for a moment before looking up.

“This son of a bitch really went to town on her. She’s got marks on her back that might be burns. Take a look.”

Maclean took a folder out of her briefcase and handed it across to Verraday. He slipped the eight-by-ten crime scene photo out and held it so that the fireplace light allowed him to get a better view of it.

“Christ almighty.”

Verraday had seen a lot in the course of his work, but the pairs of dotted burn marks down the spine and up the inner thighs of the girl known only as “Destiny” were new to him. It was a level of sadism he’d only read about from political death squads or inquisitional torturers. The pain must have been prolonged and excruciating.

“I haven’t seen anything like this before,” said Maclean. “We’re waiting for forensics, but I’m guessing it was done with a cattle prod.”

“What about Whitney? What did you find out?” asked Verraday.

“You were right about him. At least it looks like it so far. He claims he only hired Alana Carmichael and Rachel Friesen as booth bunnies for The Victorian Closet at fetish nights where he was promoting the store.”

“Strange that neither one of them appear in any of his Facebook albums.”

“He says he was afraid it would be bad for his business if it got out that two of his models had been murdered. So he deleted every image of them from the store’s site and his personal page before the press could get hold of them. I’m still having forensics check out his shop and backroom, but he’s got an airtight alibi on this latest murder: he was in a holding cell down at the station when it happened.”

“Do you have any idea who Destiny really is?”

“Not yet. There are no recent missing persons reports that match. That cell phone you texted was prepaid and unregistered. Whoever Destiny really is, she was probably afraid of being stalked. For good reason. So she made sure her phone was untraceable. As for the body, our killer didn’t miss a beat there either. The coroner says the corpse had been washed with great care. No trace of anything on it, not even soap residue.”

“So what’s our next move?”

“We caught one break. That escort service site you found her on is based in Seattle. I’ll pay a visit to their office tomorrow morning. You want to come along?”

“Yeah.”

Verraday still had more than half a pint of ale left in his glass, and Maclean had slowed down on her vodka and soda too. He began to wonder why she had asked him out for a drink instead of just giving him the information when she had called him. She gazed down contemplatively, then turned to look directly at him.

“Listen, there’s something else.”

“Yes?”

“That cop that you say ran the red light and hit your family’s car when you were a kid.”

“Robson, yeah.”

“I overheard two of the old timers talking today. Uniform cops from the traffic division. He’s dead.”