I See You (Criminal Profiler, #2)(17)

Zoe and Vaughan arrived at the Alexandria Heights apartment complex where Marsha Prince’s body had been found. The brick entryway pillars were under construction, and the siding on the west side was covered in scaffolding. Several sets of windows on the top floor still bore the manufacturer’s sticker.

“The building’s undergoing a major renovation,” he said.

“I do not envy the residents. I’m considering a renovation of my place, and I’m not looking forward to it.”

“Why not just sell? The location alone is worth a fortune,” he replied.

“I’m not ready.”

“We’re at the top of the real estate market, so you must be sentimental,” he said.

She shrugged. “It happens to the best of us. I’m sure it will pass.”

“Were you close to your uncle?”

“Jimmy wasn’t actually my uncle. He was my late husband’s uncle,” she said.

Vaughan rattled the keys in his hands. “I didn’t realize you’d been married.”

“Jeff died several years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Every time she heard the words, they fell short of doing anything other than filling the silence. At least these days they did not make her angry. “Thanks. He was young, and it was so unexpected; it’s still not easy to talk about.”

He cleared his throat. “Let me show you the storage unit.”

“I understand Alexandria PD still has it closed off.”

“We were waiting for identification. I’ll lead the way,” he said.

As they entered the lobby, the sounds of children laughing echoed over the tiled floors. There were three elevators, and all appeared to be in use. A man on a cell phone stepped off the center one, glanced at them, and then kept going.

Vaughan circumvented the elevators, choosing a set of stairs to the right. She followed him down two flights until they were on the garage level. In the distance, a car door opened and closed, and two people were having a heated discussion about where to have dinner.

He crossed the garage and led her toward a dimly lit corner. He unlocked the door and flipped on a light. Immediately, she spotted the strip of yellow tape wrapped around the third caged unit.

“Whoever stashed Marsha Prince here must have known Ms. Saunders,” she said. “He or she would have known she barely used the unit. I wonder if we can identify that great-nephew Ms. McDonald mentioned.”

“We tried. We went through her phone records and financials and found no consistent caller. No distant relative or con man. Nothing.”

Her heels clicked as she walked up to the cage door, turned the latch, and swung it open.

“There were twenty-eight boxes in here of all shapes and sizes,” Vaughan said. “We searched them all. But we didn’t find any more human remains, and there was no connection to the Prince family.”

She ran her finger over the dusty edge of the back window. “Did you ever hear of any theories from the cops that worked the case about who killed Marsha Prince?”

“There was never one person in their sights, but they all made several big bets that she knew her killer.”

“Most women do,” she said.

“I’ll put in a request for the old case files.”

She imagined the attention and paperwork a case like this generated. It would take Vaughan weeks to dig through the old files. “I don’t spend six weeks re-creating a woman’s face without becoming invested. I’d like to help.”

He leaned against the side of the cage. “I never say no to help.”

“Good.”

“Seeing as we’re going to be partners, want to grab dinner?” he asked.

“I’m starving, and we could talk about the case.” It was a ritual she had shared with her late husband. Dinner had always involved a cold beer, maybe a steak, and discussion of a case. They had both loved the intellectual challenge, the sparring, and the lovemaking afterward.

“I know a place.”

“Lead the way.”

He drove them to a small diner surrounded by a cluster of fast-food restaurants near the interstate. When she shot him a questioning look, he held up a hand. “Trust me.”

“I’m holding you to a good meal, Detective Vaughan.”

He opened the door, held it, and waited for her to pass. The hostess called out his name; he waved and headed toward what had to be a favorite booth. Men, she noted, were creatures of habit and liked routine.

She slid across the red vinyl seat of the corner booth. From this vantage, they both had a clear view of the front and back exits. Like all cops, he probably wanted to know who was coming and going while he ate.

She reached for a laminated menu and opened it. “So, how many nights a week did you and Nate come here?”

“At least three. He never gets tired of the cheeseburgers and fries.”

The idea of a burger and fries did tempt, but too many years of eating lean had left her unable to deviate from her strict diet. When the waitress appeared with two ice waters, she ordered a salad with grilled chicken. Vaughan got the cheeseburger and a soda.

She took a long drink of her water.

“The last time I saw you, you were on the hunt for a killer in Nashville,” he said.

“South Broadway Shooter, according to the media.” This serial killer had shot couples as they strolled along the Cumberland River near Lower Broadway and the very popular tourist and entertainment strip. When she’d arrived, the shooter had killed six people in the span of one month. Local law enforcement had called her in to create a profile of the killer as well as a sketch based on scattered eyewitness testimonies. Two days after the media had telecast her sketch, he had been captured.