Hey, McKittrick.”
Kit swiveled in her desk chair, raising an eyebrow at Basil “Baz” Constantine, her partner of four years. “You rang?”
Baz pointed to the double doors leading into the San Diego Police Department’s homicide division. “You got company.”
Kit turned in time to see the doors close behind familiar wide shoulders. Harlan McKittrick ambled toward her, his gait as smooth and his smile as wide as it had been for the nineteen years that she’d been privileged to know him.
“Pop!” She pushed away from her desk, walking into his outstretched arms. She still didn’t like to be touched, but she made exceptions for Mom and Pop McK. The contact seemed to make them happy.
Kit would do nearly anything to make those two happy.
“Kitty-Cat,” he said, tightening his arms until her ribs protested. He let her go when she grunted, his expression sheepish. “Sorry. Haven’t seen you in too long.”
“It’s been two weeks,” she said dryly, but leaned up to peck his cheek, her heart warming at his pleased look. “What brings you into the city?”
Because Harlan McKittrick hated the city. He was made for wide open spaces, not high-rises and traffic.
“We’re getting a new kid. Mom is meeting with the social worker and I thought I’d stop in and say hi.”
“Well, hi. Come and sit with me. I can take a short break.”
He looked around as he followed her back to her desk, curious as always. He was no stranger to the homicide division, having haunted its halls for years after they’d lost Wren. He’d kept the promise he’d made after Wren’s funeral, helping her search for the man who’d killed her sister. They’d been unsuccessful in finding the monster, but even after sixteen years they still searched.
She wondered if he’d come with a new lead. If so, it would be the first one in five years.
“Nope,” he said as he eased his six-foot-two frame into the chair next to her desk. “Nothing new.”
He’d always been able to read her mind. It had been maddening in her teenage years. He’d always known when she was ready to bolt or if she was telling anything less than the total truth. Now it was a comfort that someone knew her so well.
“Me either. So tell me about the new kid.”
“Thirteen-year-old girl.” His shoulders drooped. “She was scared of me.”
She squeezed his hand. “She’ll see that you’re different. They always do.”
One side of his mouth lifted. “You did.”
“I did, indeed.”
He sat quietly for a moment, then dug something from his pants pocket. Kit tensed, knowing what it would be even before the little carving appeared.
It was that time of year. Again.
Sixteen anniversaries of Wren’s murder and still no closure. But true to his word, Pop McK had never forgotten the little girl who’d been such a bright light.
He held out his offering on his flat palm, just as he always did, year after year. It was always a little bird. Kit had a special shelf in her bedroom for the birds, placed where she could see them when she opened her eyes each morning.
They were the only things in her home that she routinely dusted.
Except today it wasn’t a bird—or not just a bird. It was a cat with a bird perched on its head. The bird looked quizzical. The cat looked . . . content. Three inches long and an inch wide, it was intricate and detailed and beautiful.
“Pop,” she breathed. Gingerly, she took it from his hand. At one time, it had been because she was touch averse. Now it was because it looked like the little figurine would snap if she gripped it too firmly. “Thank you.”
“It won’t break,” he told her. “You can carry it in your pocket if you want to. For luck.”
“I will.” But she didn’t, not yet. She held the small carving up to the light, marveling at his skill as she always did. “It’s amazing.”
His smile was shy, an adorable look on a man as big as he was. He dug in his pocket once again, bringing out another carving. This one was just a bird. It was still beautifully done, but the bird sat alone on a twig.
“For your shelf.”
She took it from his palm. “Thank you, Pop.”
“You’re welcome, Kitty-Cat,” he murmured, running a hand over her hair. “I have something for you, Baz.”
Baz got up from his desk to sit on the corner of Kit’s. He hadn’t even been pretending not to listen. “Yes, please.”
Harlan produced a small carved horse, making both Kit and Baz frown. It wasn’t a bird. They both always got birds.
“It’s for Luna,” Harlan explained. “She saw me carving the last time you brought her out to the farm and asked if I’d make her one for her birthday.”
Baz’s face softened at the mention of his five-year-old granddaughter. “She’s going to love it, Harlan. Thank you.”
“Well.” Harlan cleared his throat gruffly. “You’ve been there for us more times than I can count. So thank you.” He held out a fourth carving. A bird. “For you.”
Harlan had started giving Baz and Kit carvings at the same time. Kit, so that she could remember Wren. Baz, so that he wouldn’t forget about the victim whose murder he’d never solved.
Baz didn’t try to aw-shucks his way out of the gratitude. He’d been the detective who’d worked Wren’s case and was not as callous as fifteen-year-old Kit had assumed.
Wren’s murder had been Baz’s very first homicide case. It had shaken him, and his attempts to distance himself from their grief so that he could do his job had come off as cold and unfeeling. He’d been anything but, having helped them track down every lead ever since.
That they hadn’t found Wren’s killer was not from lack of trying.
Baz slipped the carvings into his own pocket. “I’ll make a video when we give Luna’s to her. Be prepared for squeals that could break glass.”
A door opened behind them and their lieutenant’s voice cut through the bullpen noise. “Constantine, McKittrick. With me. Now.”
A chorus of ooooh came from their fellow detectives, like they were all in middle school. Which wasn’t far off for many of them—behaviorally speaking—despite being mostly middle-aged men. It was how they coped.
“Gotta go,” Kit said. “Sorry, Pop.”
“I need to pick up your mom and our new kid. Wish me luck.”
“You won’t need it,” she said. “I give the kid a week before she’s calling you Pop.”
“Unless she’s like you,” he teased. “Then it’ll be four years.”
“I was a little stubborn,” she admitted.
Baz snorted. “A little?”
“Shut up,” she told him without heat. “Pop, I’ll be there on Sunday for dinner.”
Harlan gave her another rib-crushing hug. “See that you are. Your mother worries.”
Betsy McKittrick did worry about her. She and Harlan had been the only ones who ever had.
“I’ll be there.” She started walking backward toward her lieutenant’s office, not turning until Harlan had passed through the double doors.
Straightening her spine, she slid both carvings into her pocket before opening the lieutenant’s door. “What’s up, boss?”
Reynaldo Navarro gestured to the chairs across from his desk, handing them each a sheet of paper. “Transcript of an incoming call. Audio’s been sent to your email for your listening pleasure.”
Kit scanned the transcript before looking up with a frown. “He mentioned me?”
“In particular,” Navarro said. “Listen.” He hit a button on his computer and the voice of a very nervous-sounding man filled the air.
“Hi. This message is for homicide detective Kit McKittrick. I have reason to believe you’ll find the victim of a murder in Longview Park at the following coordinates.” He rattled off a string of numbers and the call ended.
Kit tried to place the voice but came up empty. “I don’t think I’ve ever met him before.”
Navarro shrugged. “Well, if he hasn’t met you, he at least knows of you. I want you two to check it out. Report back. Baz, you can go. Kit, stay.”
Damn. Kit had a feeling she knew what was coming.
When Baz was gone, Navarro sighed. “You skipped your appointment. Again.”
Yep, this was what she’d expected. “I thought it was optional.”
Navarro gave her his I’m-disappointed-in-you look. She was almost immune to it. “You promised,” he said. “That’s why I made it optional.”
She had promised. “I’m sorry. I just hate going.”
“None of us likes going to the department shrink, Kit, but we’ve talked about this every year for the past four. Every one of your bosses before me has talked to you about it, too. This time of year, you work yourself into near exhaustion and we all know why.”
Well, yeah. That she’d lost Wren this time of year wasn’t a secret. Especially in the homicide department.
“Working helps. And I can handle it.”
“Maybe this year you can. Maybe next year, too. But sooner or later, it will become too much. Your performance will drop. You’ll lose your edge.”
She ground her teeth. He knew her too well, because losing her edge was one of the things she feared most.
“Go to your appointments, Kit. You might be surprised. Dr. Scott may actually be able to help you.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“You mean if you don’t want to tell him anything personal?”
“Yes.” Because she didn’t. She didn’t dislike Dr. Scott. She just didn’t want to bare her soul. Like any normal person wouldn’t.
“Then you can sit and talk about your cases for an hour. It’s one hour a week, Kit. It’s not going to kill you.” He dropped his gaze to the paperwork in front of him, effectively dismissing her.
She wasted no time leaving his office.
“This anonymous guy sounds like a kook,” she grumbled to Baz when she was back at their desks. “We’ve got better things to do than chase after anonymous tips all day.”
“No, we’ve got a mountain of reports to write. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s go check it out and then we can grab some lunch.”
“It’s always a beautiful day. It’s freaking San Diego.”
“Stop whining, McKittrick. I’ve got a craving for Vietnamese.”
Rolling her eyes, Kit followed him out. “Waste of time.”
Luckily, she liked Vietnamese food.
Longview Park, San Diego, California
Monday, April 4, 5:30 p.m.
Kit pulled the handkerchief across her nose and mouth as she watched the two CSU techs meticulously uncovering what was, indeed, a grave. Based on the odor, the body had been there awhile.
They’d arrived at the mystery caller’s coordinates to find that the ground had settled somewhat, creating a slight depression that measured five and a half by two and a half feet.
Ground-penetrating radar had shown a body.
The victim had been small.
Kit slipped her hand into her pocket, finding the little cat-bird figurine. Stroking it with her thumb. Please don’t be a child.
“I hope it’s not a kid,” Baz murmured, echoing her thoughts.
All homicides were difficult. Even drug dealers murdered on the street had been loved by someone. Were missed by someone.
But the child homicides were a completely different level of hell.
She looked away from the grave to where Sergeant Ryland, the CSU leader, was making a plaster cast of the only footprint they’d found in the area. It was a man’s shoe, size eleven.
“You got anything for us, Ryland?” she called.
“I just might.”
She and Baz walked from the grave site to where someone had stepped off the asphalt path, leaving the single footprint in the strip of ground between the path and the field of grass.
Ryland finished pouring the plaster over the footprint, smoothed it out, then set the timer on his phone. “Thirty minutes for the plaster to set. Come see the photos I took of the print while I wait.” He retrieved his camera and beckoned them closer. “There was lettering on the sole of the shoe—likely a brand name. I can’t quite make it out in the photo, but I’m hoping to get detail from the plaster cast.”
“So it’ll be seventy-two hours or so,” Baz said and Ryland nodded.
Kit leaned closer to the screen. “Can you zoom in on it?”
Ryland did, handing the camera to Kit. “I can make out what looks like a Y at the end of the brand name, but—”
“Sperry,” Kit said. “Sorry to interrupt, Sergeant. I recognize the logo. They’re Sperry Top-Siders.” She gave him back his camera. “My sister runs a charter fishing business and sometimes I first mate for her on my days off. A lot of her customers wear them.”
Ryland studied the photo. “You could be right.”
She was, Kit was certain. “Trouble is, that’s a popular shoe. I’ve even got a pair.”
“So do I,” Baz said. “Tracking those will be nearly impossible.”
Kit shrugged. “But when we find the guy who owns these shoes, we can put him at the scene. Any way to get a weight estimate on the wearer?”
Ryland shook his head. “Ground’s too hard. Barely enough sinkage to get the plaster cast. I’ll let you know when I have something definite.”
“Detectives?” one of the techs at the grave called, his tone urgent. “Something over here you need to see.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Kit said, then approached the grave alongside Baz, schooling her expression. If it was a child’s grave, she would maintain her professionalism. She’d let herself react later, when she was alone.
“Victim’s a postpubescent female,” the tech said when they were graveside. “The ME will be able to give you a better age than I can, but I’m guessing somewhere between fourteen and eighteen.”
Feeling Baz’s eyes on her, Kit reassured him with a quick glance. She was fine.
He always worried about her reaction when the victim was the same age that Wren had been when she’d been murdered, but after four years as a homicide detective, Kit had seen far too many victims who’d been Wren’s age. It never got easier.
She hoped that it never would.
But at least she no longer wondered if it was the same guy who’d done it. That had been her first thought earlier in her career. She’d never stop looking for Wren’s killer, but she’d made her peace with the fact that she might never find him.
The CSU techs had uncovered the victim’s head and torso. The remains were badly decomposed, but some of the girl’s basic features were identifiable. She’d been Caucasian with shoulder-length blond hair.
She was clothed in a pink T-shirt and jeans, the waistband of which was just visible with her lower body still covered by dirt.
Big gold hoop earrings shone against the dirt, her earlobes having decomposed long before. There was a necklace around her neck, a thick ring hanging from the chain. A class ring of some kind.
High school or college? she wondered.
A second later Baz gasped. He was staring at the remains, his eyes wide behind his bifocals, so she looked back.
And abruptly understood her partner’s shock.
“Fucking hell,” she whispered.
The victim’s wrists were restrained with a pair of pink handcuffs that still managed to sparkle despite the coating of dirt.
“Pink,” Baz said hoarsely.
Kit swallowed hard. “Sparkly pink.”
The tech was masked and goggled, but his eyes still showed grim recognition.
His much younger assistant did not understand, however. She looked up from where she was removing the lower-body dirt with a small brush. “What am I missing?” she asked hesitantly.
“Old serial killer case,” her supervisor said quietly. “Always left the bodies cuffed with pink handcuffs. The last body found was five years ago. The first was found fifteen years ago, and two were found in between. This could be the fifth victim.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh. Shit.”
Indeed. “The pink handcuffs detail was not released to the press.” Kit met the young tech’s eyes, silently warning her to keep her mouth shut.
“I won’t say a word,” the younger woman promised. “Holy cow. So it’s not likely to be a copycat.”
Baz exhaled, a frustrated sound. “That’s what we have to find out.”
Kit tilted her head toward their vehicle. “We need to call the boss.”
Baz grimaced. “Rock, paper, scissors. Loser makes the call.”
Kit rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous. I’ll make the call.” She waited until they were both in the car with the doors closed before dialing Navarro and putting him on speaker.
“It’s Kit and Baz,” she said when he answered. “Is anyone with you?”
“No,” Navarro replied slowly. “Why?”
“Because the victim was buried with pink handcuffs.”
There was a beat of silence. “Motherfucker,” Navarro growled. “Not again.”
“Yeah,” Baz agreed. “That was our reaction, too. She fits the profile—young, blond, and petite. She’s been in the ground a year or two based on decomp. ME’ll give us a range for time of death, but she’s wearing a class ring on a chain. Hopefully that’ll help narrow things down and maybe even ID her.”
“Any evidence of the doer?”
“A footprint,” Baz said. “Either the doer or the caller or both, if he called it in himself for the attention. But it’s probably a Top-Sider. Kit recognized the logo.”
“Hell, even I have a pair of those,” Navarro muttered. “That’s no help.”
“Not to trace him, no,” Kit agreed. “We’re going to pull missing-person reports for teenage blondes over the last few years and get IT to trace the anonymous call. What we wanted from you is direction on the pink handcuffs. Keep it confidential?”
“Absolutely. Last thing we need is for the press to get their hands on this. It’ll go viral and we’ll have copycats and fake sightings and . . . hell. ID the victim and trace the caller. Then we’ll go from there.”
“Yes, sir,” Kit said. “We’re heading back now.” She ended the call and looked at Baz, who was driving this week. “I don’t feel much like eating.” They’d missed lunch and it was now dinnertime, but she still wasn’t hungry.
Baz started the car. “Now that I’m not downwind from a body, my stomach is growling. We can order something back at the office.” He shot her an arch look. “You will eat.”
She didn’t argue because Baz was right. Plus he’d tell on her to Mom McK. “Fine.”
Accepting his victory with a smirk, he handed Kit his phone. “Text Marian, please. Tell her I’ll be late tonight.”
Kit did so, grateful that she didn’t have a spouse to disappoint with her late nights. “She says you owe her ‘stuff.’ She used quotes. Do I want to know?”
He chuckled, a rich sound that normally made Kit happy, but at this moment, it was TMI. “No, Kit. You do not want to know.”
“Old-people sex,” she teased with an exaggerated shudder. “Let me get Snickerdoodle settled for the night.”
She texted her sister Akiko: Caught a case. Can u keep Snick tonite? Her standard poodle Snickerdoodle would need to be walked long before she got home.
Akiko responded immediately. Will do. You okay?
Just fine. It’s going to be a busy night, that’s all.
We on for Saturday? Saturdays were Akiko’s busiest day, with fishing charters scheduled for morning and afternoon. This time of year, her guest roster was always packed. Kit gave her a hand whenever she could. It was a win-win. Akiko got the help and Kit got a day on the water to unwind, catching fish instead of murderers.
And Snickerdoodle got head scritches from the guests. Everyone was happy.
Yes for now. May change. Will let you know.
A thumbs-up emoji was Akiko’s answer.
Baz headed out of the park, nodding to the officers who’d cordoned off the crime scene. “Snickerdoodle taken care of?”
“Yep. Akiko’s got her. Snick gets spoiled at her place, so she’ll be happy.”
Baz snorted. “She gets spoiled at your place, too. Don’t front.”
“I spoil her with attention. Akiko spoils her with cheese.”
Baz frowned. “I thought Akiko was vegan. Is she giving her vegan cheese?”
Kit chuckled. “Akiko is not vegan, just a pescatarian who’s lactose intolerant. She buys cheese especially for Snickerdoodle.” She looked into her side mirror, watching the crime scene disappear from view. “She was young.”
Baz nodded, rolling with the subject change. “I hope someone reported her missing.”
Kit hoped so. While it would have been hell on the girl’s family to lose her, Kit hoped someone had genuinely loved the girl before she’d been killed. “Her T-shirt was from an Ariana Grande concert, three or four years ago. If we can’t ID her from either her fingerprints or from the ring around her neck, we can search missing-person reports for what she was last wearing.”
“He didn’t take her jewelry.”
“No.” Which was kind of unusual. “Were the other victims found with jewelry?”
“At least two of them were,” Baz said. “One of them—the third one—was even ID’d through a necklace with her name on it. That was Ricki Emerson. The first victim was wearing a cross on a chain.”
“She was never identified.”
Baz sighed. “No. We canvassed the area where she was found for miles, but no one remembered seeing her.”
“She’d also been dead a good while longer.”
“True. At least two years, the ME said. Maybe as many as five. The neighborhood where she was found had a number of Coronado families.”
“High turnover,” Kit murmured. The naval base on Coronado Island housed more than thirty thousand personnel and their families. Transient by definition.
“Yep. Most of the residents we talked to hadn’t lived there two years before.”
“Maybe we’ll be lucky with this girl and somebody will remember seeing her and who she was with before she disappeared. And if we are supremely lucky, we can trace that call and work the case from both ends.”
Baz held up crossed fingers. “Which ID do you want? The vic or the caller?”
“Since he specifically asked for me, I’ll take the caller.”
And when she found him, he’d better have some very good answers to a lot of very hard questions.
Shelter Island Marina, San Diego, California
Monday, April 4, 11:45 p.m.
Kit pulled into her parking place, exhausted. It had been a very long day and all she wanted was to curl up with a cup of tea and snuggle her dog. Unfortunately, Snickerdoodle was with her sister on the other side of town. Akiko would be asleep by now, and Kit wouldn’t wake her. Her sister had a full fishing charter tomorrow and needed her rest.
The IT guys had given Kit bad news. The call had come in on a burner phone and there was no way to trace it. So that was a dead end.
Frustrated, Kit had joined Baz’s search for the victim. They’d hoped that the high school class ring the girl had worn on the chain around her neck would allow for a quick ID, but that hadn’t panned out. No young women had disappeared from that high school, and they’d have to wait until morning to trace the ring itself, so they’d printed up the missing-person reports for young women—blond, petite—who’d gone missing between one and two years ago.
It had been a tragically big stack. Most had been labeled as runaways. Which, of course, brought back memories of Wren. The cops had initially said she’d run away, too, because she’d had a “history” of it.
A history of one fucking time. Wren and Kit had run from their foster home when they’d been twelve years old. Before Kit had arrived in the home, Wren had been too scared to run alone. Then they’d landed in McKittrick House, and there had been no reason for either of them to run ever again.
After reviewing the missing-person reports, she and Baz had ID’d the victim in the grave in the park by the Ariana Grande T-shirt she’d been wearing when last seen. Jaelyn Watts, age sixteen. Her family had been frantic when she’d disappeared. But she’d recently snuck off to Los Angeles with her friends to try out for a sitcom in an open casting call and had, therefore, been labeled a runaway, the investigation going cold. Kit would make sure to call the officer who’d taken the report to tell him that she’d been found in an unmarked grave. She hoped it would make him think twice in the future about dismissing a missing child as a runaway.
Sighing, she gathered her things and locked her Subaru. Parking wasn’t cheap in the marina, but it was one of the few expenses she had, so she’d paid extra for a spot close to her boat. It helped when she got called to a crime scene in the middle of the night.
She frowned as she approached her boat. There was a light burning in the portlight window. Akiko must have left it on when she picked up Snickerdoodle that afternoon.
Kit couldn’t complain about the wasted electricity, though. Not when Akiko was nice enough to take care of her dog.
She did a visual check of the deck as she boarded, making sure everything was where it was supposed to be. The marina had excellent security, but this was her older brother Arthur’s sailboat and she would be a good tenant.
She heard the music as soon as she opened the cabin door. Faint at first, the sound of twanging guitars grew louder as she descended. Country music.
Akiko was here. Which meant Snickerdoodle was, too.
Kit felt instantly calmer.
One thing about living on a thirty-eight-foot boat was that everything was within sight. Akiko was sitting on the bed, reading a book. She gave Kit a wave as Snickerdoodle bounded off the bed, coming to meet her with tail-wagging joy, just as she did every day.
Kit knelt on one knee to hug her, absorbing the welcome. “What are you guys doing here?” she asked, giving Snick a scratch behind the ears where she liked it best.
Akiko followed Snickerdoodle into the main cabin. “I had a cancellation tomorrow, so I figured I’d bring Snick back and wait for you.”
Kit rose, frowning. Tomorrow’s trip was an all-day charter. “How rude to cancel on you last minute like that. I hope they don’t get their money back.” Because Akiko had too many expenses to lose so much cash.
“They won’t, and they didn’t fight me over it. It was a bachelor party, but the groom caught the bride in bed with her ex and . . .” She shrugged. “The best man is taking care of canceling everything because the groom is in shock. I told the best man that when the groom feels better, they can rebook at a discount.”
Her sister had a soft heart. “It’s a wonder you make a profit at all,” Kit grumbled.
“Being kind gets me return customers. The best man’s already booked a spot on one of my regular fishing cruises.”
“Okay.” Kit inhaled and her stomach growled loudly. Something smelled good. “Did you cook?”
“I did. I grilled up some of yesterday’s catch at my place and brought it over. You want me to zap it for you?”
“Do you mind?”
“Of course not. Sit down, Kit. You look tired.”
“I am.” She sank onto the sofa, patting her lap. Snickerdoodle jumped up and cuddled, instantly making her feel a little better.
Within minutes, she had a plate filled with bluefin tuna, buttery potatoes, and fresh snap peas. The potatoes and peas had come from Harlan and Betsy’s farm, so they’d be delicious.
Akiko curled up on the sofa beside her, cradling a cup of tea. She waited silently as Kit ate, knowing it wasn’t worth asking questions until the plate was clean.
Kit swallowed the last bite and sighed. “Thank you. I was so hungry and dreading a microwave meal.” The microwave oven had been one of the few appliances she’d added since moving onto the boat two years before. It worked well here in the marina with the electrical hookup. It was harder to power when she took the boat out on the open water, so those days she ate sandwiches.
Arthur had taken most of his meals at the naval base when he’d lived here, as had Kit when she’d been with the Coast Guard. Unfortunately, her schedule as a detective didn’t always mesh with take-out places, so she depended on that microwave at the end of a long day.
“I told you that I’d cook for you,” Akiko said mildly. “I’m cooking for myself anyway, and I don’t mind doubling up for you.”
Kit got up to wash her dishes. It was an old argument. Akiko always offered, but Kit never wanted to put her out. “I hate to put you to the trouble.”
Akiko shook her head. “I like to cook, unlike you. I don’t mind, Kitty-Cat. I really don’t. In fact, I think I’m going to take the decision out of your hands. From here on out, I will double whatever dinners I make and just bring them out to you. I’ll send you a bill for your share of the groceries at the end of the month.”
Kit smiled over at her. “You’re too good to me.”
Akiko smirked. “I know.”
Kit finished the cleanup—there was no room in the galley for dirty dishes to pile up—and made herself a cup of tea. “Today sucked. And I can’t tell you much about it.”
“Well, I figured there was a murder,” Akiko said dryly as Kit reclaimed her place on the sofa. “Considering you’re Homicide and all.”
“Yeah,” Kit murmured, thinking of the body in Longview Park, buried in an unmarked grave, her hands restrained in sparkly pink handcuffs. Jaelyn Watts, on the cusp of starting her life. “We ID’d the vic. I hate it when they’re young.”
“How young?” Akiko asked, sympathy in her dark eyes.
Kit hesitated. The girl’s age wasn’t going to be a secret when the details were released. She could share that much. “Sixteen.”
“Oh.” There was a wealth of understanding in that single syllable.
Akiko had never known Wren, having come to live with the McKittricks shortly after the murder, but she knew all about it. She knew how much it had ripped Kit apart. She, along with Harlan and Betsy, had been responsible for stitching Kit back together.
In the years that followed, Akiko had become Kit’s very best friend.
“Yeah, oh.”
“You’ll find who did it,” Akiko said with unshakable confidence. “And if you don’t, no one else could’ve, either.”
Akiko always knew the right thing to say. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I just walked Snick before you got home, so she’s good for the night. Get to bed. If I know you, you’ll be back at the station first thing in the morning.”
That was the truth. “Stay tonight. I don’t like you driving home alone so late.”
Akiko laughed. “It’s only midnight, Kit, and I don’t turn into a pumpkin. I can take care of myself, you know. But I’ll stay, if for no other reason than to make you a decent breakfast before you head back.” She pointed an accusing finger. “I saw those Pop-Tarts in your cupboard.”
“Hey. They’re fortified with vitamins and minerals.”
Akiko snorted. “Right.”
“You don’t have to get up and make me breakfast. Sleep in on your day off.”
“I’ll go back to bed after you have some nutrition, then I’ll take Snick and go to Mom and Pop’s. I don’t get a day off very often, and I think I’ll spend it weeding.”
While the McKittricks never asked for help, the majority of their former fosters regularly returned to the farm to assist with the never-ending chores.
Kit hadn’t been out to the farm in too long, though. Not for a whole day. She’d been working, investigating cold cases when she’d closed the current ones.
Navarro was right. She did work nonstop this time of year. She figured that Harlan, Betsy, and the rest of the family understood, but maybe she shouldn’t expect them to.
She showered and changed into her pj’s, taking a moment to retrieve the carved figurines from her pocket before shoving the day’s clothes into a laundry bag. She held the little wooden cat-and-bird, studying the bird perched on the cat’s head.
Akiko, already on her side of the bed, took off her headphones. “Pop gave it to you.”
“Yeah. He came by today. He and Mom were picking up a new kid downtown. He said I could keep it in my pocket. For luck.”
“I saw it last Sunday at dinner. It’s different from your usual Wren carving.”
“He gave me one of those, too. And one to Baz.” She placed the other carving, the lone bird, on the shelf with the others. “I’m going to need a bigger shelf.”
Akiko didn’t say anything because there really wasn’t anything to say. Kit loved that about her. Her sister didn’t fill silences when she didn’t need to.
Kit locked up her gun and put the cat-and-bird on the table with her keys and wallet. It would go into her pocket tomorrow and every day thereafter. “Come on, Snick. Time for bed.”
The dog jumped up onto the bed, snuggling between her and Akiko. Kit set an alarm on her phone, then stared at the audio app she still had open. She’d been listening to the anonymous call off and on all day. She still didn’t recognize the voice. Slipping in her earbuds, she got under the covers and started the recording again, putting it on repeat.
Hi. This message is for homicide detective Kit McKittrick. I have reason to believe you’ll find the victim of a murder in Longview Park at the following coordinates.
He sounded nervous. And maybe scared, as well.
Who was he? Why did he pick me? Do I know him?
How did he know about the grave?
Could he be the killer?
Kit found herself not wanting him to be. He sounded . . . sincere.
Rookie mistake, assuming a person’s sincerity.
She petted Snick, long strokes over her curly cream-colored coat. And listened to the caller’s voice over and over until she finally fell asleep.
