The Dollmaker(The Forgotten Files #2)(63)

“Heard about Terrance Dillon, the kid stabbed and dumped north of the city?” Sharp asked.

“I did. Word is he was a good kid with no record. What does this alley have to do with him?”

Sharp reached in his pocket and pulled out latex gloves. “According to Terrance’s father, the kid came to this alley to make a delivery.”

She arched a brow as she also fished out gloves. “You mean drugs?”

“I do.”

“Drug deals go bad all the time,” Vargas challenged.

“According to the kid’s father, the drug in question might have been propofol stolen from a doctor’s office.”

“The kid’s father set up the deal?”

“He did.”

“Keep it in the family. Nice.”

“Jimmy said the drugs were enough to keep a person out for weeks.”

Her frown deepening, she shifted her gaze to the alley. “A month. That’s about the amount of time Diane Richardson’s killer needed to keep her immobilized.”

Sharp clicked on his light, which cast an infrared beam. Hunters used this light to track the blood trail of shot game. He was hunting for human blood. “I asked Dr. McGowan to test the foreign DNA found on Richardson’s and Dillon’s bodies.”

“You think they could be a match?”

“Right now, I wouldn’t bet against it.”

Sharp slowly moved into the alley, inspecting the worn cobblestones. At first, he saw only the gray. “If this deal occurred last Sunday, then the drugs wouldn’t have been for Diane. The work on her was already done at that point.”

“You think this guy is planning to take someone else? Maybe someone like Elena?”

“I’d like to be wrong.” If Elena was in danger, that meant Tessa could be as well. Sharp kept his gaze on the cobblestones. “There was no blood at the spot where we found the kid’s body. His stab wound did maximum damage, and Kincaid thinks he bled out quickly.”

“So wherever he died, he bled.”

“Yes.”

“It hasn’t rained since Monday, so we have a good chance of finding it if it’s here.” Vargas cocked her head. “So this kid’s father might have been in touch with Diane’s killer?”

“He talked with a woman looking to sell prescription medications.”

She shook her head. “Does this lovely woman have a name?”

“Frances, he thinks.”

“That’s it?”

“Afraid so. But she most likely works out of one of the medical buildings off Route 360 near Mechanicsville. Based on what he told me, it won’t take long to find the building.”

Sharp was halfway into the alley when his light skimmed over a large dark patch. The air carried hints of a coppery scent. “Look.”

Vargas knelt and studied the stain. “I’ll be damned.”

Sharp fished a small blood-testing kit from his side pocket. It came with a cotton swab and a glass vial with chemicals that reacted to blood. He dabbed the stain and pushed the swab into the vial, breaking the seal and releasing a chemical. He shook the bottle. Within seconds the clear liquid changed to a bright blue. “The blood is human.”

She took the vial and held it up to the light. “So now we need to prove it belonged to Terrance and then find this mystery woman named Frances. She might have seen our killer.”

Sharp reached for his phone. “Let’s roll.”




Tessa relayed Sharp’s request to Dr. Kincaid, who ordered the tests on the blood samples taken from Terrance Dillon. After a brief discussion of the day’s pending cases, they moved to the autopsy suite. Their first case was a man in his fifties who’d suffered a massive heart attack last night while watching his favorite variety show on television. Next on deck was an autopsy of a sixty-five-year-old woman who’d consumed twice the legal limit of alcohol and stumbled down a flight of stairs. She’d hit her head at the bottom and broken her neck.

Dr. Kincaid shook her head. “Stay in shape, watch the booze and drugs, avoid dark alleys at night, and look both ways before you cross the street, and your chances of making it to a ripe old age increase exponentially.”

“The Diane Richardsons of the world are rare.”

“And thank God.”

When the cases had been cleared, Tessa stripped off her gown and grabbed her purse. She headed outside for some fresh air and a walk. As the sun warmed her face, she realized she was hungry. She’d not eaten much at Sharp’s last night, and now she was starving. She stopped at a taco truck parked on Main Street and ordered a burrito. As she moved back up toward her office and took a bite, her cell chimed with a text. Benson file on your desk.

Benson. Kara Benson. This morning she’d arrived early at work and, troubled by Holly’s mention of makeup on Kara’s body, requested the autopsy file. She’d asked the records clerk to text her when she found it, not expecting to see it for several days.

Her appetite for her burrito instantly vanished, and she hurried back to her office. A yellow interoffice envelope resting on her desk greeted her. Putting her purse in her bottom desk drawer, she opened the envelope to Kara’s old autopsy file. Her heart beat fast as she sat at her desk and pulled on her reading glasses. She slowly opened the file, wondering if she would ever be able to forget what was in it.