Lies We Bury(55)

“How’s that, Lou? You were saying she’s not our murderer. Who is, if not Gia Silva?” Peugeot crosses meaty forearms.

I slide my hands into my pockets, place my weight on my heels. “I’ve just been reading the news reports and trying to wrap my head around it all. The police obviously know more than I do.”

He doesn’t say anything but continues sizing me up. Then he turns and walks back into the bakery.

Oz bumps up against my elbow, startling me. “Just finished interviewing the deputy chief. They got fingerprints off a pair of dog tags the victim was wearing.”

I release a breath, feeling my pulse throb in my neck. Why suggest any kind of theory that contradicts the police? Drawing attention to myself outside of being a crime photographer will only cast suspicion on me, exactly as Rosemary worried.

I rub my jaw. “Dog tags? Was he military?”

Oz seems to dance, shifting his feet in excitement. “No, the ones you buy for five ninety-nine at an accessories shop. Nothing unique about them, except a fingerprint that doesn’t match the victim’s—or the fingerprints found on the other bodies.” Oz widens his stance. “Apparently, none of the prints found on the three victims matches the other crime scenes, and there’s no record for any of them in the database.”

“Not even a misdemeanor? No prior infractions?”

Oz shrugs, looking almost gleeful. “It’s not often that criminals surprise me, but this one—these criminals—did. I think it’s a coordinated gang. Plus, don’t forget juvenile records are sealed. It’s possible these guys did break the law, but we just don’t have visibility.”

“Ah, yeah. I hadn’t thought of that.” I have, in fact, been thinking of that my whole life, ever since I became an adult and left the dark years behind me—legally, anyway.

However, the rest of Oz’s logic doesn’t add up. “Though, just because these people don’t have a police record and the fingerprints are inconsistent doesn’t mean there’s some network of bad guys out there. Maybe this guy knew enough not to leave prints.”

He scoffs. “I thought you wanted to intern with me, Claire?”

“Oh, c’mon, I—”

“No, no. If you feel like you have a better grasp on crime scenes—this being, what, your third—please enlighten me on this criminal’s profile.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Your theory is possible. I’ll give you that.”

“I accept your apology.”

“Well, what else did the deputy chief say? Does this third body have anything in common with the others?”

The first was a stripper; the second was an insurance salesman who also sold original paintings. If this latest victim knew either of them, there might be some pattern.

Oz scratches his stubbled chin. “The victims all seem distinct. No obvious link among them. I’m just glad the police are finally looking somewhere besides a street kid.”

Something shifts in Oz’s frame. Emerald eyes half close, augmenting the bedroom stare he seems unable to switch off with women. A dog walker with short, wavy hair sashays past us, momentarily distracting Oz before he resumes his seduction. “What are you doing later?”

“Why?”

He licks his lower lip. A smile spreads across his pointed jaw, and he could be straight off a red carpet somewhere or in a candlelit restaurant on a date. “You see, Claire, that reply is exactly why I’m intrigued. It’s not just the no-nonsense attitude I enjoy or the schoolmarm way you think leaving two buttons undone on your shirt is casual. It’s that fire that says you want a proper welcome to Portland as much as I want to give it to you.”

“Wow, Oz. Sexual harassment went out of style in the nineties.”

He laughs a big, confident chuckle, self-assurance still intact. “When are you going to let me take you out? I’ve tried to be subtle, but I think you’ll notice it’s not my strong—”

I lift a hand to stop him. With Chet’s release Monday, my thoughts have been a mass of distractions. I don’t have the time or energy to deal with Oz’s lack of boundaries. Attractive or no.

“Rain check. Maybe we can invite Pauline, then.”

Oz grabs my hand as I turn to leave. “If you change your mind, I’ll be hanging out at Beijing Suzy’s later.”

I nod, recognizing the name of the bar I explored in Chinatown with the trapdoor. His touch is calloused, warm against the brisk morning air, like he runs hot. This close to him, my stomach tenses. The appealing sensation moves lower to curl around my thighs.

His thumb strokes the back of my hand before I pull away. “Good to know,” I say.

As I walk back to my car, clearing my head of Oz’s pheromones, my phone rings. Jenessa scrolls across the screen.

“Hey,” I answer, dodging a teenage couple. “What’s up?”

“Marissa, have you seen it?” Her voice is taut with panic. Hairs on my neck stand alert.

“No, what is it?”

“I sent you the link via text. It’s bad. It’s going viral right now. You need to see it.”

I switch her to speakerphone with shaky fingers and open our text messages. We haven’t exchanged more than ten since I got home. Tapping the link is easier than it should be for what I fear awaits. YouTube pops up in my browser, and the video’s headline stops my breath: Missy Mo: Pissed and All Grown Up.