Hide and Seek (Criminal Profiler #1)(69)

“That’s why you’ve been asking around about her.”

“Yes. I keep hoping I’ll hear that she’s fine and good and that my brain just has a crazy way of processing information.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? What does that mean?”

“Every time you dream, I want to know about it.”

“Why?”

“So I can help you figure this out. Who knows? Your subconscious might be on to something.”

She scratched the side of her head. “I feel like I’m on the bus to crazy town.”

A smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “We all have shit, Macy.”

For whatever reason, that made her laugh, something she’d not done for a long time. “Jesus, Nevada. I don’t get you.”

“I’m pretty simple. You have an issue that’s troubling you, and I want to help.”

“Why would you want to get messed up with my semideranged self?”

He brushed his finger along her jawline. “I have no idea.”

Again she laughed. “No, seriously. Why?”

“Because I don’t think you’re crazy. You suffered a brain injury, and because you’re so damn tough, you came back from it. Maybe your neurons do process differently now, but that doesn’t mean they’re not effective.”

“You make it sound reasonable.”

He tugged her forward and kissed her on the lips. She felt herself melting. This time when they made love, it was a slower and steadier pace. She allowed him to explore her body more, and she rediscovered his.

She felt at peace, almost floating, when she lay curled in his arms, and she hoped the outside world would let her be for just a little while longer.

Nevada’s phone rang.

He groaned and, turning toward his nightstand, reached for the cell. “Sheriff Nevada.”

As a muffled voice on the other end of the line spoke, his expression hardened. Both knew their reprieve was over. She moved to get out of the bed and dress, but he sat straighter and wrapped long, rough fingers around her wrist.

“Yes, I’ll notify Agent Crow, and we’ll be right there,” he said.

When he ended the call, she asked, “What?”

“A dead body was found on the side of Route 12. The woman has been strangled.”

She thought about the house where Debbie lived. One-story house. Located off the beaten path. Items missing from her house.

It fit the profile of the rapist who’d crossed over into murder. Debbie had been located but not her roommate. “Send Bennett over to Debbie’s house to find out where her roommate is now.”





CHAPTER TWENTY

Wednesday, November 20, 6:30 a.m.

When Macy and Nevada rolled up on the scene, emergency lights from local and state cop cars lit up the night sky. Bands of morning sun nudged against the darkness as they slowly warmed the frigid air.

Macy burrowed her hands in her coat pockets, hoping forensic arrived soon to cover the body with a tent and protect it from the heat and any possible news helicopters filming from above.

She focused on the flap of the crime scene tape encircling the body of a woman who lay a couple of feet from a turnaround. The victim, wearing only an oversize T-shirt, was left on her back with legs and arms bound by red ropes. Her long dark hair splayed out behind her as if it were staged.

After removing latex gloves from her backpack, Macy slowly worked her fingers into them as she moved toward the victim. She’d never gotten used to moments like this.

She crossed the graveled road to the tape, ducked under it, and gingerly knelt by the body. Her leg moaned in protest, but she used her discomfort as a reminder that she was alive.

Nevada came up beside her, his ball cap hiding his expression as he, too, cataloged the scene’s details.

Macy keyed in on the woman’s neck, ringed in black-and-blue bruises in various stages of healing and discoloration. The killer had used his hands to strangle the victim multiple times, over what Macy estimated were several days.

The victim’s wrists and ankles were discolored with bruises, likely caused by restraints during the assault.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Choking someone to death was a very personal form of murder. Using a gun or even a motor vehicle were both profoundly effective forms of killing, but neither required the touch and eye contact of strangulation.

Macy leaned forward, studying the body’s position. The manner of death, a body’s final positioning, also said something about the killer. Killers in a rushed panic left remains in a dumpster or field, a shallow grave, or even a hay chute.

More methodical killers took the time to display their bodies. In the case she’d worked in Denver, the murdered sex workers had been left naked and spread eagle with their right breast removed. The killer had wanted to humiliate them.

“What do you think?” Nevada asked.

As tempting as it was to link this case to Tobi’s, she paused. “Locked-in thinking has sidelined too many investigations.”

“I want your assessment.”

At the risk of repeating last night’s mistake, she stuck with her gut. “It’s the guy we’re looking for.” A quiet breeze fluttered through the ends of the victim’s long hair.

“Why leave her body out here?” Nevada asked. “He hid Tobi’s body.”