Into the Light (The Light, #1)(32)

“I’ll do it.”

“I recognized the man with you today. I know he’s a detective with the homicide and narcotics unit of DPD.”

I nodded.

“I’ve seen him in the lab before. What I haven’t seen before is Detective Richards holding someone’s hand, supporting them. He’s usually a hard-ass.”

I sat up straight. “Detective Richards and I are dating.”

“It’s none of my business, but don’t you see that as a conflict of interest?”

“You’re right, it’s not any of your business.”

Tracy persisted. “Well, what I mean is that you’re an investigative journalist and he works for the people who try to keep all of this shit covered up.”

I sucked my lower lip between my teeth and contemplated my response. “Tracy, you work for Wayne County. Do you believe they handle cases differently than the Detroit Police Department?”

“Unfortunately, no. I don’t blame you for thinking what I said was a dis on your boyfriend. It really wasn’t. It’s this whole city. No city wants to be known for its crime. The mayor, the chamber of commerce, they’re constantly harping about revitalization. They’re bidding on businesses, improved infrastructure, human capital, and social programs. They don’t want to acknowledge that we have a real problem, a new real problem.”

“New? You said you have data going back ten years.”

“I do,” Tracy admitted. “But ten years is new, new for all the revitalization that’s been happening.”

She was right. It was. If we had some pattern of random women being kidnapped and killed, no company would want to invest in Detroit. “So you’re saying that it’s the system, or systems. No one in authority wants to admit this is happening.”

“Yes. And I’d rather you don’t say anything to Detective Richards. If you do, please don’t say it was me that started you on this quest for answers.”

“Don’t worry. Dylan and I keep work out of our private lives. Professional courtesy,” I added.

“Thank you, Stella. If I’m wasting your time, I’m sorry. I just feel like we have something significant occurring, and everyone is turning a blind eye.”



Hours later I turned away from the computer screen, wishing I could unsee what I’d seen. The information that Tracy had compiled was compelling and sickening. The women in Dr. Howell’s files didn’t seem to have one common denominator other than being dead. Even the injuries they’d sustained varied: some showed signs of only recent trauma, others patterns of ongoing abuse.

I rubbed my throbbing temples and forced myself to walk away from my computer. It was nearly midnight, and all I’d managed to do was scan the collection of pictures, autopsy results, and police reports. Just enough to turn my stomach. My goal had been to get an overview of what Tracy was trying to tell me. As a woman, I’d hoped that the crazy things on television or in books were fiction, only fiction. As an investigative journalist, I knew they weren’t. Yet before tonight I’d never seen information compiled so succinctly about crimes against women taking place in my own city.

In an effort to clear my head, I wandered through my apartment and checked my phone. Dylan never texted me back after I let him know that I wouldn’t be coming over. It didn’t bother me. This relationship was relatively new. While I appreciated his having met me at the morgue, I needed space. I’d been on my own for too long to suddenly jump into anything serious. Staying at his house was nice—more than nice. But I wasn’t ready to leave a change of clothes or a toothbrush.

It would take more than hot, steamy sex and salmon on the grill to prompt me to move Fred’s fishbowl. Joint custody of a fish was more domesticated than I wanted to do right now. Besides, I had my own washing machine.

I needed to go to bed. It’d been a long day. Yet at the same time, I couldn’t stop thinking about the last profile I’d read on Dr. Howell’s memory drive. The picture the victim’s parents had given to the police showed two daughters: two beautiful twenty-year-old coeds with their entire lives before them, smiling for the camera. Unfortunately, no one had realized how short a time their entire lives would be.

The victim named in the profile was twenty-year-old Elisa Ortiz. Even postmortem, her attractiveness was obvious. She was tall, five feet nine inches, and fit, 135 pounds, with vibrant red hair and striking green eyes. The image was permanently etched behind my lids.

I poured myself a glass of wine and contemplated her unusual case.

In some ways Elisa Ortiz could be considered a lucky one. She’d been identified. As I thought about the Rosemonts and Mindy, I knew in my heart that closure was important.

Collapsing on the couch, I sipped my wine. The thing nagging at me about the Elisa case was that she wasn’t the only Ortiz daughter to have gone missing seven years ago. Elisa had an identical twin sister, Emma. Making the investigative leap, I pulled up the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System and learned that, even now, Emma Ortiz was considered missing.

According to the information in Dr. Howell’s report, the two sisters had been close and lived together in a small apartment near the campus of Wayne State University. There was no evidence of risky or suspicious behavior in either of their background checks. According to testimonials, the two sisters were inseparable college students with good GPAs. Interviews with Wayne State professors and students unanimously produced stories of friendly, yet quiet, young women. No one recalled seeing either woman with a young man, much less partying. By all accounts the two spent most of their time at school, at the library, in the gym, or in their apartment. Their parents confirmed these descriptions and added that their daughters were never in trouble, never had serious boyfriends, and were actively involved in their church in their hometown.