The White Carnation (7 page)

A technician walked over and spoke quietly to her, and Mira excused herself and followed the woman back to the coroner's van.

Rob bent down to look at the body before they bagged it. Knowing the Harvester had struck again made him regret the two ounces of whiskey now burning in his gut. He knew better than to drink on an empty stomach. Like the other three victims, she lay on her back, her hands folded one over the other on her abdomen. Her wet nightgown hid nothing from prying eyes. Her dark hair—dyed or natural, he wouldn't know until the ME finished—was held off her face with a pale blue headband that matched the blanket in which she'd been wrapped. He never got used to this, to what one person's greed, envy, hatred, or insanity could do to another. He'd get this bastard. He'd make it his life mission if he had to.

This woman was the youngest so far. She couldn't be any more than twenty-five. Pretty, not drop-dead gorgeous but with something about her that invited a second look, she touched a chord in him. Suddenly, his stomach heaved, and he couldn't blame it on the cheap whiskey. This was what had been nagging at him all these months. He'd known the Harvester had a preferred type, and while the women all looked alike, what he'd missed stood out vividly now. The victims looked like Faye.

He'd worked so hard to forget her, he'd failed to notice the resemblance. He stepped back quickly, almost knocking Mira to the ground.

“What do you want me to do with the tarp? It isn't really part of the evidence, is it?” she asked, coming back to the body.

“No, Pierce covered her to keep the gawkers in check. I can take it.” He reached for the blue plastic sheet.

“Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“I'm fine,” he said, unwilling to share his discovery with her. He had to think about this. “Just tired. It's been a long day. I'll see Pierce gets this back. It's the third time it's come in handy. Pray to God he won't have to use it again.”

“Catch this bastard, and he won't.”

Rob nodded and tucked the folded tarp under his arm. “In spite of the circumstances, it was nice seeing you again.”

“Come by and meet the princess some time,” she said, handing him a business card. “My home number's on the back. We're not too far away. We can have a barbecue. If you see Faye, tell her I said hi. It's a damn shame you guys didn't work out.” After hugging him once more, she turned and walked back to her vehicle.

His stomach in knots and feeling as if he might disgrace himself at any moment, Rob retraced his steps to his car. With his hands shaking, he pulled out his cell phone and called his partner.

“Adams.”

“Tom, it's me. I'm on my way back.”

“Is it him?”

“Yeah, same clothes, hair held back with a headband, wrapped in a blue blanket. Pierce managed to cover her with a tarp before anyone snapped a picture.”

“Will the FBI bring the BAU in full-time now?”

“Probably. Pierce didn't say, but his techs are crawling all over the scene. This makes four—we need some help here. The papers are going to have a field day.”

Rob ended the call and checked the time. It was almost eleven. Faye was probably asleep, and he didn't want to wake her, but God, after realizing what he'd been missing these last few months, he needed to know she was okay. He'd meant to call Cambridge PD and ask for increased patrols in her area because of the Green case, but now … He shuddered. Tonight's victim was a dead ringer for Faye. Mary resembled her, too. They'd joked about it last year in New York. Mary pregnant and missing, her mother murdered, and now a fourth victim? Coincidence?

He didn't believe in coincidence.

Against his better judgment, knowing how pissed she'd be if he woke her, Rob dialed Faye's home number and cursed when the automated voice said the number was no longer in service. Knowing Faye, she hadn't listened to him when he'd told her to turn off her cell phone, so he dialed the number. No answer.

• • •

Tom tossed the last of the take-out containers into the garbage can and sighed.

“Thanks for the grub. I guess we'd better get back to work. The techs finished with the Green apartment, but I doubt they'll find anything useful. They've bagged and tagged it all, and it was priority for tomorrow, but now with a new Harvester victim, it'll get put on the back burner.” He stood. “Oh, I almost forgot. The O'Halloran's hoodie is a bust; no way to track it unless Faye can identify the guy. The restaurant's closed. Has been for two weeks. They're redoing the place. Whoever Faye saw, it wasn't a delivery guy, and God knows where the take-out bag came from. The lab techs found the bag stuffed with paper towels, the kind you get at a gas station. I hope this guy left a print or DNA or something—otherwise we'll have a bitch of a time solving it. No one saw anyone.”

“No one sees the Harvester, either. Hell of a thing when the invisible man's on a murder rampage,” Rob said snidely.

Tom chuckled. “Hey, don't be bitter. There's nothing we can do about it. I'll just finish up some of the preliminary paperwork. I've asked New York to check out Mary Green's place. Someone was supposed to have a look tonight. I'll probably head home in about an hour. You should, too. We've been here since eight this morning, or rather yesterday morning. I'm so tired I can't see straight, and after that little heart problem last year, my wife will have my head if I don't get at least six hours of shut-eye.”

Rob nodded. “I'll finish up here and take off. I have to pick up Faye at nine. I should at least smell clean when I do.”

“How did it go? I didn't want to ask earlier.”

“About as well as I expected, maybe even a little worse. We didn't part on good terms, and it seems like the lady may still be holding a grudge.” He rubbed the scar on his chin.

Tom's desk phone rang, preventing any additional questions. “I hope that's NYPD.

“So do I. Let me look at the Green file, and then I'll sign off on it.”

“Good idea.” Tom reached for the file on his desk and handed it to Rob, then picked up the receiver. “Homicide, Adams speaking.”

Rob turned away, opened the file folder, and spread the Green murder scene photos on his desk. He'd been in and out of there pretty quickly, thanks to Faye, but it looked more or less the way he remembered. The forensic photographer had been thorough. Faye's purse lay in the puddle of blood. That peacock-blue bag had cost her a week's salary and was on sale at that exorbitant price. He'd thought she was nuts the day she bought it, but she'd loved that bag almost as much as she'd loved the Camaro. Now, they were both gone. No doubt she wouldn't want it or anything that had fallen out of the bag. It was a good thing she tended to carry her cell phone and keys on her.

He stared at a bloodied carnation in the picture and scowled. Where the hell had that come from? He hadn't noticed it when he'd been in the apartment. He checked the other pictures but didn't see any more of them. Faye loved carnations. Could she have brought it with her? Maybe the killer had brought it as a way into the apartment. He shook his head. Most likely, the damn flower had been on the table and had been knocked to the floor in the ensuing search. It probably didn't mean a thing, but he'd ask Faye about it in the morning ... leave no stone unturned and all that crap.

He pulled out the yellow folder, the one marked Mary Green, and set it on his desk. Tom had placed it inside the Green murder folder, but there was no proof her mother's murder was connected to her disappearance. Right now, Mary Green's missing person's case was the responsibility of NYPD and he hoped it would stay that way, but somehow he doubted it. He was pretty damn sure he'd soon inherit that folder, too.

Children did murder their parents, but he couldn't see Mary slitting her mother's throat like that. He wasn't a coroner, but he'd seen more than enough of these pictures. The person who'd cut her had been taller than Mrs. Green; the angle of the cut proved it. At five-foot-two, weighing a buck fifty, Mary wouldn't have been able to slice down that way. No, this had been a brutal act of violence, and the amount of strength it took to slice someone like that was a hell of a lot more than Mary had.

Frustrated, he initialed the report and shut the Green murder folder, leaving Mary's file separate and moving on to the thick Harvester file containing the information on the first three victims. There wasn't anything but his sketchy report on the fourth. Once they identified her, they'd add more information to the pile they had. Hell of a thing when you had four bodies and not one damn lead.

After they'd found the second of the Harvester's victims, a BAU analyst had speculated on the ritual aspects of the crimes, and the theories ranged from simply a thorough way to ensure no evidence was left behind to human sacrifice. Satanism, cults, you name it, they'd discussed it, but without more evidence … They still didn't have a clue, but victims number three and now four appeared to have been treated the same way.

Each body had been washed in bleach, the same concentration used to clean their apartments, removing every trace of evidence. They'd been given manicures and pedicures, and previously two of the three had their hair colored and styled—the third had been a natural brunette. The victims had been dressed in pristine white cotton nightdresses and wrapped in a handwoven blanket, either blue or pink. The operative theory was that the color of the blanket indicated the sex of the child the woman had borne, but so far, without the infants, they were just guessing.

Find the children, and we'll find the answers.

Each victim had been left near a school or playground where she'd be found quickly, and there was little danger of scavengers attacking the bodies. It was almost as if he didn't want anything to desecrate his creations. O'Connor, the BAU analyst, thought the women were posed to look like angelic statues. Even their skin, thanks to the cyanide, had the same shade as pink Italian marble. The investigation into the blankets and headbands showed they were pure wool, handwoven, impossible to trace. Similarly, the nightgowns had been handmade from good quality cotton. He'd spoken to a few dressmakers, and they hadn't been able to give him any more information other than to say each of the three nightgowns he'd shown them had been made by someone different, not a professional dressmaker. The feet were bare.

Tom hung up the phone, and from the look on his face and the speed of his walk, Rob knew whatever he'd learned wasn't good news.

“It's been confirmed. Mary Green was pregnant—near the end of her second trimester. She took a leave of absence from her job in New York last month. The police questioned her neighbor, who said Mary packed up her car and her dog about three weeks ago and told her she was going home for a while. Apparently, Ms. Green was a loner, rarely left home or had visitors, and the neighbor”—he checked the notes he'd made—“had been more than a little surprised when the baby bump had appeared. Lucy Green filed a missing person's report last week.”

“I wonder why she waited so long. I assume the local LEOs checked her apartment?”

“They gave it a quick once-over when Mrs. Green reported her missing, looking for signs of foul play. Someone had noted the apartment was very clean. I asked them to have another look.” Tom's frowned deepened. “Here's where things get eerie. The apartment's been cleaned alright, the fridge emptied, and everything either turned off or unplugged. There's no sign she was planning to come back with a baby. The rent's been pre-paid for the rest of the year.”

“Son of a bitch.” Rob stood and began to pace. Since he'd left Beverly, his mind had flitted from one insane theory to another, some so fantastic no one would believe him. Hell, they were his ideas, and he had trouble accepting them. He forced himself to concentrate on Tom's voice.

“Every alarm in my head went off when I heard that,” Tom said, rubbing his chin nervously. “Talk about déjà vu. Considering what we found at the Harvester's victims' apartments, I've asked them to send in a forensic team. If they find what I hope they don't, we'll have our first break. I sure as hell hope I'm wrong. The police have put out an APB on her car, a late-model Toyota, and on her dog. It's a purebred English bulldog registered with the American Kennel Club.”

“Are you sending NYPD what we have?”

Tom shrugged. “Send them what? We don't have anything; Mary's disappearance isn't even our case. Before we jump the gun and send out information related to the Harvester, we should run this by Pierce. He is the FBI liaison. Let's see if the bleach concentration and the rest of it fits. If it does, we'll know our killer has a live one, and we can go from there.”

Rob ran his hand through his hair, unable to keep what he'd learned tonight to himself any longer. “Let's assume we're right, and the bleach matches. Fifteen months without a lead and now, bam! Within four hours we have another victim, a second murder, Lucy Green, and a missing woman who's vanished under the same circumstances as the Harvester's victims.” Excitement filled him as he voiced his thoughts, and his heart hammered. “Someone screwed up, Tom. That's the only thing that makes sense. Whoever killed Lucy Green just handed us the brass ring.”

And I'll make damn sure he doesn't get it back.

Tom scratched his head and looked at him. “What brass ring? What are you talking about?”

“Faye. I'm talking about Faye. I learned something from her that's given me a whole new perspective on the case.” Rob pulled the forensic photographs of the three Harvester victims out of the folder and spread them on his desk. “Look at them. What do you see?”

Tom stared at the pictures. “Young, white women, slender, good skin tone, attractive … Throw me a bone here. What am I looking for?”