The Dollmaker(The Forgotten Files #2)(27)

Logical. He’d proved himself to be a good cop, and he’d helped close the Shark case last month. Still, Andrews liked protocol. “What’s the case he wants us to review?”

“His half sister’s. A dozen years ago, she went missing from her college campus and five days later was found dead. The medical examiner ruled it an overdose.”

Sharp’s emotions would understandably be running high on this case. “A tragic case, but how does it relate to us?”

“I’m not sure it does. And if it weren’t Sharp, I’d have said no.”

“What do you have?”

“Sharp received case files from the former police chief who originally investigated the case. I said we’d go through the files.”

“There’s a high probability I’ll confirm his sister made a terrible mistake that killed her.”

“Maybe, but I’d still like you to work your magic.”

“Not magic. Science.”

A smile warmed Bowman’s face. “Have a look at the case.”

Andrews was still not convinced the files deserved a second look. “The original plan for the cold cases was for me to work closely with the submitting law enforcement officer. Not possible this time. Sharp’s objectivity is compromised.”

“Exactly why he wants us to look at the case. Is that a problem?”

“No. Not a problem. But as you might have noticed, I’m not the best at dealing with emotional messes.”

Bowman arched a brow. “Really? I’d always pegged you as the warm and fuzzy type.”

That almost prompted a smile. “You have a skewed sense of warm and fuzzy.”

“You might be the perfect person to handle this for Sharp. He’ll need someone who’s completely detached and sees the facts for what they are.”

“Assuming there’s any new evidence to be found.”

“Are you telling me you aren’t up to the job?”

A tactical challenge lurked behind the comment. Management 101. Despite recognizing this classic maneuver, he wasn’t immune to the ploy. Challenges and puzzles kept his mind engaged on the present and away from troubling replays of the past. “I’m very capable and willing.”

“Good.”

A half hour later, pasta in his belly and a double espresso in hand, Andrews returned to his office to find four dusty boxes on his desk. Sipping his coffee, Andrews moved to the first box and flipped off the lid. He’d barely thumbed through the first box, filled with handwritten notes of the police chief’s interviews, when Bowman reappeared.

Without turning, Andrews set down his cup and said, “No filing system, only clumps of papers, some of which are rumpled and stained with what looks like pizza sauce. No organization. No patterns established.”

“Making sense out of chaos is what you do best.”

Absently, Andrews scratched fingertips over well-mapped rough scars on his left hand. “I do.”

“If you need any assistance, ask,” Bowman said. “I want this case resolved as soon as possible.”

“I’ll get started on this straightaway.”

“Great.”

Alone, Andrews opened the next box and found stacks of photos. Some had been identified on the back and others left blank. As he shifted through the pictures, he found an image of four young girls dressed in jeans and sweaters in front of what looked like a college dorm. They all grinned, and interlocked arms suggested they were close. On the back there were four scrawled names. Diane, Kara, Tessa, Elena.

He dug deeper into the files and found an image of a much younger Sharp with the girl who closely resembled him. He wasn’t more than early twenties, and she must have been about twelve. He was young and slim, and the smile on his face exhibited an exuberance Andrews suspected had long since been tempered by life.

The remaining boxes were filled with an odd mix of police files, which he suspected had been copied without permission. Cops made duplicates of case files that mattered, and clearly the case had meant something to the former police chief.

Andrews’s first order of business was to sort all the papers into stacks. Organization would need to be forged from the chaos. He began to work, grateful to let time pass and the outside world fade.




The Dollmaker sat in the dimly lit basement room, staring at the pictures he had taken of Destiny in the very early hours of the morning. Then he scrolled back more frames to pictures snapped in this room. He’d posed her in a variety of ways. Sitting. Lying down. Poised on the bed in a seductive manner.

Remembering their time together, he scrolled through the snapshots, stopping on one that captured her perfect face. He’d not used his flash for this picture, and moody shadows crossed her high cheekbones. But her eyes had been closed, and he’d felt cheated that she couldn’t see him.

“Still, such a pretty girl, Destiny. I already miss you.” He enlarged the picture and studied the fine detailing around her eyes and her mouth.

He’d worked hard to perfect his art, practicing first on himself, marking up his thighs until they were covered in ink, and then on the random whores who worked the streets. They’d been easy to drug, easy to keep for days because no one missed them. No one cared about them.

Some of the whores he dumped back onto the street, drugged and dazed. Others he’d practiced on too long and ruined their faces. Letting them go would have brought the wrong kind of attention to himself, so it had been easy to overdose each with a lethal hit of heroine before disposing of their bodies.