Kit went straight to her desk and opened the drawer, cursing quietly when she found it empty. She’d forgotten to refill her stash.
Bracing her hands on the desk, she hung her head and closed her eyes. Then flinched when something landed in front of her.
Opening her eyes, she found a king-sized Snickers bar. Raising her gaze, she saw her boss leaning against the corner of her desk, his expression sympathetic.
“Rough one?” Navarro asked.
She nodded, ripping the wrapper from the candy bar and taking a generous bite. Lowering herself into her chair, she let the chocolate, caramel, and peanuts work their magic on her frazzled nerves.
“Jaelyn Watts’s parents got home from their vacation this afternoon,” she finally said after chewing and swallowing.
“They were in Africa, yes?”
“Yes, on a photo safari in Tanzania. It was a gift from the rest of their children, for their anniversary. It was also the first time they’d left town since Jaelyn was taken—which took a lot of convincing by their surviving kids. They just knew that as soon as they left the area, there’d be news.”
“Parental intuition?” Navarro murmured. “Or just wishful thinking?”
She shrugged. “Either way, they were right.” Eyeing the rest of the candy bar wistfully, she set it aside and met her boss’s eyes. “Mrs. Watts was certain we were wrong, that it couldn’t be Jaelyn. She and her husband rushed back, but it was still a long trip after they made it back to the nearest airport.”
“But you had the dental comparison.”
The surviving siblings had cooperated fully, desperate for closure of some kind. “It’s Jaelyn, no doubt. But Mrs. Watts wouldn’t believe us, not until she saw the body.”
Navarro sighed. “Unfortunately, I get it.”
“So do I.” Kit had insisted on identifying Wren’s body, after all. “The ME didn’t do a full reveal, of course. Jaelyn had a birthmark on her leg and a scar on her elbow. There was enough left for the parents to ID her based on those. Mrs. Watts . . . well, she was as you’d expect. Devastated. Weeping. Her husband was stoic until we’d left the morgue, then he collapsed, too.”
It always brought back the memories of Harlan McKittrick’s sobs in the barn that night, whenever she saw a big man cry like his heart was breaking.
Because Harlan’s had been. So had Jaelyn’s father’s.
She took another bite of chocolatey goodness, trying to rid herself of the acrid taste of fury at what had come next. “And then we were ambushed by Tamsin Kavanaugh outside the morgue.”
Kit had good relationships with several of San Diego’s reporters, but not Tamsin Kavanaugh. The woman was a thorn in her side, going out of her way to get Kit’s statement on every case. Kit said “no comment” ninety-nine percent of the time, but Kavanaugh was undeterred.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Navarro muttered. “How did she know you were there?”
“She followed me. She does that sometimes, when she’s hard up for a story. Usually I can lose her, but I was distracted today.”
“Parents’ grief will do that,” he said gently.
“Yeah, but my distraction meant she put her microphone in their faces. I wanted to hit her.”
“Please tell me you didn’t.”
“I didn’t, but it was close. ‘Why are you here? What did you see? Who did you lose? How do you feel?’ ” she said, her tone mocking. “How the hell did she think they felt? They were coming out of the morgue, for fuck’s sake. They were crying and she badgered them and it was so cruel. Luckily Baz kept his head and distracted her while I got the Wattses into our car.”
“Where’s Baz now?” Navarro asked.
“He went home. I told him to go,” she added when Navarro frowned. “They’re having his granddaughter’s birthday party tonight. I escorted the Wattses home and made sure they weren’t alone. Their other children were there, waiting for them. They’d already accepted Jaelyn’s death.”
“So what’s next?”
“This morning, we finally tracked down the Good Samaritan who found the second victim thirteen years ago. The only one who saw the pink handcuffs. He’s dead. Has been for ten years. His wife said that she knew something was wrong, but he never told her specifically.”
Navarro’s brows shot up. “Define ‘specifically.’ ”
“She thought he was having an affair because his behavior had changed so radically. He told her that he’d found a body and couldn’t get it out of his head. He gave her the name of Detective Hammond so that she could verify.”
“Hammond retired, what, eleven years ago?”
“Twelve, sir. She called him and he verified that her husband was telling the truth. That’s all she needed to know. She said she never bugged her husband about it again. I called Hammond and he confirmed that she’d called him.”
“So the only civilian who knew about the pink handcuffs didn’t spill the beans.”
“And he was dead by the time the last three of five victims were found.” She nibbled the corner of the candy bar. Not enough to fill her mouth, but enough to let the chocolate coat her tongue. “He wasn’t able to sleep after finding that body. His wife said that his doctor cautioned him about his stress levels. She thought it accelerated his heart attack—which was what killed him.”
“Ripples,” Navarro said quietly.
“Exactly.” The depraved actions of one killer affected so many other lives. “We may have ID’d one of the three remaining Jane Does, the one between Ricki Emerson and Jaelyn Watts.”
Navarro pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Smoothing it flat on her desk, Kit saw that it was the grid she’d prepared. It was already worn at the folds. Navarro had been consulting it often, it appeared. There were notes along the margins in his chicken-scratch handwriting.
He poised his pen next to the line for the fourth victim. Fourth known victim, anyway. “She was found five years ago and the ME estimated her age at fifteen,” he read from the grid. “Who do you think she was?”
“Miranda Crisp.” Kit handed him the missing-person report. “She matches the victim profile, and the date she went missing was consistent with the ME’s estimated time of death.”
“Seven years ago.”
“Yes, sir. She was blond, petite, and a cheerleader at a high school in Chula Vista. Also considered a runaway. She was a foster kid. Had run before.”
Navarro exhaled wearily. “We’ve done a shitty job with these so-called runaways. Laziness.”
Kit could only agree. The cops who’d taken Wren’s missing-person report had been equally dismissive. Just a runaway. She’ll come back.
Wren hadn’t and neither had Miranda. Or Ricki. Or Jaelyn.
“Her foster parents did all the right things,” Kit said. “They reported her missing the very night she didn’t come home from school and cooperated with the police. They were never suspects.”
Navarro scanned the report. “She wanted to go to L.A., to be in movies.”
“Yep, just like Ricki and Jaelyn.”
He looked up, a gleam in his eye. “So a legit pattern.”
“Yes. We still don’t know how it connects to their killer, but it’s more than we knew yesterday.”
“Good work, Kit.”
“Thank you, sir, but Baz found this one. I’m going to visit the family who reported her missing when I’m done here, to ask for anything they might have kept. It was a foster placement, so the chances that they kept anything of Miranda’s is low. She went missing nearly seven years ago. I’m sure they’ve had a lot of kids pass through in the meantime.”
“It’s worth a try.” He handed the report back to her and started for his office. “Call me if you learn anything new.”
“Will do. Thanks, boss,” she called.
He turned, a small smile on his face. “For what?”
“The candy bar. I needed it.”
“I know.”
“Is it from your personal stash? I’ll replace it.”
He chuckled. “No, it’s from my personnel stash. I keep something in there for every detective in the division. You’re not the only one who embraces chocolate when they’re having a rough day. If you want to replace it, fine, but it’ll sit there until you or someone else needs it. Maybe even me.”
“Well, thanks anyway. I—” She stopped when the landline on her desk rang. “This is Detective McKittrick,” she answered.
“Detective, this is the downstairs desk. A call came in for you. Caller wouldn’t give his name. You asked to be warned if it happened. Should I put him through?”
A shiver of anticipation raced down her spine.
“Boss,” she called. “This may be my caller.”
He was at her desk in two strides. “Put it on speaker.”
“Yes, please,” she told the clerk. “But first, what number is he calling from?” The clerk told her and she noted it. “Thank you. Please, put him through.” She activated the recorder, then exhaled quietly before answering. “This is Detective McKittrick. How can I help you?”
“Detective.” It was him. The voice she’d listened to dozens of times. “I have a tip for you.”
“Another one?”
“You got my previous message?”
“I did.”
“Did you find anything?”
Navarro shook his head, confirming the response she’d planned. “How can I help you, sir?”
The man huffed. “You can tell me if you found anything.”
She waited a beat, then repeated, “How can I help you, sir?”
He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse. “I want to report a possible threat to a student at Tomlinson High School. She’ll be blond and small. Plays lacrosse.”
Kit barely managed not to gasp. Quickly she pulled up the list of missing-person reports on her computer and motioned for Navarro to look.
Cecilia Sheppard had gone missing eight months ago. She was sixteen years old, blond, petite, and had played lacrosse at Tomlinson High.
“How do you know this young woman?” she asked calmly.
“Just . . . take care of her, okay?”
And then he ended the call.
“Dammit,” Kit hissed. “I wanted to keep him talking.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Navarro said, satisfaction in his tone. He’d been typing into his phone while she’d been talking. “The number he called from is a pay phone at the trolley station at the junction of I-8 and I-15.”
“I’ll get surveillance tapes of the area,” Kit said, excited once more. “What is this guy’s game? Cecilia Sheppard went missing eight months ago. Why would he be worried about her now? Is he taunting us?”
“Didn’t sound like it, but if he’s been killing for twenty years—at least—he’s got to be good,” Navarro said grimly. “Let’s go check for security footage.”
She looked up at him with surprise. “You’re coming with me?”
“Yeah. I want to know who this bastard is. Was Cecilia into drama?”
“Yep. Wanted to be in movies. Had taken a few trips to L.A. with friends for tryouts in the past. Her parents had grounded her, but she’d left the house anyway. Goddammit. We’re going to be too late for her.”
“Probably. Let’s find out what this caller of yours knows.”
San Diego, California
Friday, April 8, 9:10 p.m.
“Well?” Baz asked as he jogged into the bullpen. “What did you find?”
Kit looked up at him sharply. “You were supposed to stay at Luna’s birthday party.”
Baz pulled his desk chair next to hers. “I did. She’s five, Kit. The party lasted two hours. After the cake, the parents took the other kids home and my daughter took Luna home, too. She’s probably tucked into bed, getting her daddy to read her favorite book three times as we speak.”
Kit’s lips curved. “She got me to read it four times the last time I was there.”
Baz grinned, unrepentant. “Five is my record. She loved Harlan’s horse carving, by the way. I got video of her opening the box. Which I will show you after you share all.” He pointed to her computer screen. “So, the mystery man called back? Have you ID’d him yet?”
“Not yet. He’s wearing a funky hat that hides his face.” She toggled to the security footage that offered the clearest view of the man’s face. “He looks like he’s acting in some kind of desert flick.” The hat’s brim hid the top half of his face, the flap hanging at the back hid his cheeks and neck.
“Did you pull the coins from the phone?”
“I did. Navarro got Latent to do a rush analysis. None of the prints popped in AFIS. Well, that’s not true. Three of the prints popped, but they were for people who didn’t match this guy’s description. Our guy either isn’t in AFIS or he wiped the coins.”
“Not a huge surprise. If he’s been killing for twenty years, he’s smart enough not to leave prints. What are you doing now?”
“Trying to get a license plate. After making the call, he got into a gray Toyota RAV4 parked about a block away, but none of the security cameras were angled to get his plates. I’ve been looking at footage from cameras up and down the nearby streets to see if I can find him.”
“Good thinking. Send me some of the footage and I’ll do the same.”
For the next hour, they worked steadily, reviewing the footage from traffic cams along the most-used routes away from the trolley station. Finally, Kit spied the man’s SUV.
“Got him,” she crowed. “Tinted windows, so I can’t see his face, but I got his license plates.” Baz came around their desks to perch on the corner of hers, waiting as she typed the license plate number into the DMV database.
Then she sat back and stared at the man’s photo.
“Samuel C. Reeves,” Baz said quietly. “They always look so normal.”
Yes, they did. But Samuel Reeves didn’t look normal. He looked . . .
She wasn’t sure. Extra, somehow.
His eyes were green, his hair a dark brown that was almost black. His mouth had a serious set, but there was a sparkle in his eyes. If she saw him on the street, she just might pause and take a second look. He had a nerdy Clark Kent vibe that was earnestly appealing.
“He wears glasses, according to his license,” she said, even though he had none in the photo. There were, however, little indentations on the sides of his nose. “Heavy ones from the look of it. He’s also an organ donor.”
“No traffic citations, either. Not even a parking ticket. Guy’s as clean as a whistle.”
“He’s probably too young,” Kit observed, pointing to his birth date. “He’s thirty-five. He’d have been between fifteen and seventeen at the time of the first murder.”
“Old enough to kill,” Baz said. He tilted his head, studying her. “What’s wrong? You sound like you don’t want it to be him.”
Kit blinked. “I . . . I don’t not want it to be him. He just doesn’t look the part. Although I guess that’s how serial killers stay under the radar.”
“This is your first serial,” Baz said knowingly. “I thought the same thing the first time I ran across one. He looked like he could have been my next-door neighbor, but he’d brutally murdered nearly a dozen children. That we knew of.”
Kit shuddered at the thought. “You’ve mentioned him before.”
“It changed me, seeing those dead kids. Made me not trust anyone that looked normal.”
That she shouldn’t either was unspoken in his gentle rebuke.
Kit opened a new browser window and typed in Samuel Reeves. “He has a Facebook account.”
“Whoa,” Baz said, pointing at the third search result. “Hold on before you click on his Facebook. Look at that article. He’s a shrink.”
He was indeed. Dr. Sam Reeves, Kit read after clicking on the article, had delivered a keynote speech to a gathering of psychologists on serving homeless populations. “He also works pro bono at a teen shelter according to the bio on this site.”
“And volunteers at a retirement home,” Baz added, his voice heavy with derision. “He’s a regular humanitarian.”
Kit frowned at her screen, thinking about the short conversation she’d had with Dr. Sam Reeves. He’d sounded uncertain and almost panicked. She replayed the recording, listening to his words once again. When she finished, she shook her head. “I don’t think he was fucking with us.”
That wasn’t exactly true.
I don’t want to believe that he was fucking with us.
And that was disturbing. She never, ever allowed herself to be swayed by a suspect, but this man . . . I don’t want to believe he’s a killer.
Baz grabbed a chair and sank into it. “Talk to me, Kit. What’s on your mind?”
Staring at Sam Reeves’s photograph, she shook her head again. “I don’t know.”
Yes, you do. You like his face and you don’t want to believe he’s bad.
Which . . . was bad.
“You don’t think he’s guilty,” Baz stated.
“I don’t know,” she said again. “He sounds sincere.” She held up a hand to silence her partner. “I know that’s foolish. The best killers sound sincere. They sound innocent. Otherwise we’d catch them faster. But this guy . . .” She glanced over at Baz. “It’s possible this was a simple anonymous tip. Maybe one of his clients confessed something that he couldn’t allow to go unreported.”
Baz made a disgruntled noise. “Maybe. How long has he been in the city?”
Kit ran a standard background check, drumming her fingers on her desk as she waited for the results. “Four years,” she said when the report filled her screen. “Not long enough to be our killer.”
“He could always be an accomplice who felt so guilty that he had to call,” Baz said reluctantly.
Kit almost chuckled. Baz sounded so disappointed.
He did have a decided bias against psychologists and psychiatrists. He felt that they chose their occupations at best to fix themselves or because they were arrogant. At worst to hide a more perverse nature under the guise of helpfulness. He didn’t trust any of them.
Thinking of her “optional” appointment with Dr. Scott, Kit was inclined to agree. The man was somehow able to burrow under her defenses, getting her to share feelings she’d rather have kept hidden. Feelings about Wren.
Suspiciousness of shrinks was normal among cops. Her lack of suspiciousness concerning this one shrink was not.
Baz pointed to Dr. Reeves’s current address. “Look at this.”
Samuel Reeves lived in one of the high-rises downtown. She sighed, immediately seeing the connection. “That’s only a few blocks from where the first body was found.” The woman had been buried in a downtown park, which brought to mind a question she’d been meaning to ask. “How could her killer have buried her in a park in the middle of downtown? Surely someone must have seen him.”
Baz shrugged. “We asked that question when we found her, but not knowing exactly when she was killed made it hard to even speculate.”
Kit noted the question and returned her attention to the photo of Sam Reeves. “He was twenty when the first body was found, between fifteen and seventeen when she was killed.” She clicked on the link for his Facebook account. People put a lot of personal information in their social media profiles. Sam Reeves was no exception. “He grew up in Scottsdale, Arizona, went to high school there.” He’d attended Stanford University for his undergrad and UCLA for his doctorate. “He’s not from San Diego.”
“He has a car.”
She sighed again, because she wasn’t going to convince him and she didn’t think she should even be trying. Baz could be right, after all. “Okay. Let’s dig into him a little more. Then pay him a visit.”
“Fine.” He pointed at her screen. “There’s the hat he was wearing today.”
Kit nodded. She’d seen it the moment she’d opened his Facebook page. His profile photo was him wearing the hat. He appeared to be somewhere dry and hot with scrubby plants. There was a tent behind him and the sun was setting in the background.
A cute brown-and-white dog sat at his side, some kind of Lab mix. The dog held a stick in his mouth, looking for all the world like a cigar.
She clicked on the photo. “He uploaded this as his profile pic two weeks ago.” Scrolling down, she found the photo again, this time as a post. “ ‘Camping at Joshua Tree with Siggy,’ ” she read. “Lots of photos of him with the dog.”
“Lots of photos of him camping,” Baz noted. “Lots of places to hide other bodies.”
Which Kit hadn’t thought about. Usually she was the first to think something like that. Get your head back in the game.
“Oh.” She swallowed hard as a familiar scene hit her screen. It was a selfie taken at Longview Park, where they’d found Jaelyn Watts. Dr. Reeves was crouched at the edge of a pond, his dog at his side once again. “He was there just a few weeks ago.”
“Hmmm,” Baz hummed noncommittally. “Lots of folks use that park, though.”
“I know,” she said, troubled. A thought struck her and she made another note. “I’m going to call the parks department first thing tomorrow. We know when Jaelyn went missing. I’m going to ask for maintenance records for the weeks immediately after her disappearance. It’s been less than two years, so they might have the records handy.”
Baz nodded. “Makes sense. If they’d closed off part of the park for some reason, that would give Dr. Reeves opportunity to bury the body.”
“Or someone else,” Kit countered, wincing even as she did so.
Baz tilted his head. “You really don’t want it to be him, do you?”
“No,” she confessed. “And I don’t know why. Just a gut feeling based on no data whatsoever.”
Baz studied the photo, his expression as troubled as she felt. “You’ve got a good gut. Go back to the background check.”
Kit toggled to the correct tab. “What are you looking for?”
“Weapons. None registered to him.”
She frowned. “The victims were strangled. No bullet wounds.”
“I know. But I don’t want to be surprised when we knock on this guy’s door. Let’s go pick him up.”
“Fine, but for now we look at him as a witness versus a suspect.”
Baz shrugged. “I hope you’re right.”
San Diego, California
Friday, April 8, 11:45 p.m.
Sam turned from his “crime board” to look down at Siggy with a tired sigh. “It’s not going to make any more sense no matter how long I stare at it, is it?”
Siggy just stared up at him adoringly, his tongue lolling.
“You’re no help at all,” Sam grumbled. “But you’re a good boy.”
It had been a ridiculous thought, that maybe he could create a crime board with maps and pictures like the cops used. But he couldn’t get those two young women out of his head. They were in danger. Or one of them was, at least.
As much as he’d hoped Detective McKittrick would have leapt on his second tip this afternoon, she hadn’t. He’d heard suspicion and distrust in her voice.
His disappointment was . . . huge. He’d had such high hopes that she’d be eager for information. She was dedicated to finding justice for the dead and he’d admired her for that. He’d even liked her—or what he knew about her, anyway.
But even bigger than his disappointment in Detective McKittrick was his fear for whichever young woman Colton Driscoll had chosen as his newest pretty young thing.
I have to do something. The phrase had been thrumming in his head for hours on an infinite loop. Even his mother noticed he’d become lost in thought at dinner, tuning his parents out, which was something he never did. It wasn’t like he could tell his parents what was going on, after all.
His mom had sent him home with chicken soup when he’d claimed a headache.
He glanced wryly at the can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup on his dining room table. His mother meant well, but she wasn’t the best cook. Luckily his father was, but as delicious as Sam was sure the lasagna had been, he’d picked at his portion, not tasting any of it.
I have to do something.
So he’d taken the elevator three stories up from his parents’ apartment to his own, planning the crime board. He’d propped a piece of poster board on the dining room sideboard and fired up his laptop, searching for information on Colton’s potential victim.
So far, he’d taped up a photo of the lacrosse team that he’d printed from the school’s website. He’d zoomed in on the two petite blondes, printing their faces as well. They went up on the board, along with their addresses. He’d printed a map of the city, marking their homes and Longview Park, where Colton had claimed to visit his last pretty young thing’s grave. He’d even added Colton’s home address, hoping to see a pattern, but there was nothing.
He’d checked the social media accounts of the two young women, hoping for something that would connect with Colton’s ramblings during their session. He’d pulled up his personal notes from the man’s sessions, poring over every detail, willing something to jump out and say It’s me. I’m in danger.
He’d checked the young women’s social media for any mention of Avondale, the show that Colton claimed to watch with his newest “love,” but he hadn’t found anything. Both teenagers had boyfriends at school—within their grade level. No older men. No mention of older men. Not even any posts about any famous actors that were older.
There was nothing whatsoever to indicate that either young woman was being pursued by a mysterious man of Colton Driscoll’s age. Of course, they might be hiding the relationship from their family and friends. That was probable, even.
Sam wished that his boss had been able to drive to the park tonight, but she would tomorrow and they’d find out if there was any sign that the cops had listened to his first tip. If they hadn’t, they weren’t likely to have acted on his tip this afternoon.
If the cops didn’t move to protect those young women, Sam would have to find a way to warn them himself. If he couldn’t figure out which teenager was Driscoll’s likely target, he’d warn them both. He wasn’t sure how he’d manage it within the confines of ethics and the law, but he was certain that he couldn’t live with himself if either young woman was hurt—or worse—because he’d done nothing.
Sam sighed again. “I think it’s time for bed, boy.” He’d already walked Siggy for the night, so he could just go to sleep. If he was able to sleep.
He turned from his attempt at investigating, then paused, eyeing his gun safe. He remembered that brief moment during Colton’s session when the man had been poised to strike him. Colton had recovered quickly, controlling himself, but it had left Sam more shaken than he’d wanted to admit.
What if the cops had acted on his tip this afternoon? What if they’d already warned the teenagers on the lacrosse team? That would be good for the young women, but if Colton figured out that Sam had been the tipster . . .
The man had beaten his neighbor for confronting one of his many lies. If he discovered that Sam had been the one to turn him in, he might strike out. Sam didn’t intend to be Colton’s next assault victim. He drew the gun from the safe. It was loaded, with a bullet in the chamber.
He’d had the gun for years, normally only carrying it with him when he went camping, just in case he met with trouble. He’d never fired it outside a target range and hoped he’d never have to.
He’d had alarming clients in the past, of course. He’d even been worried that clients would come after him before. But this was different. If Colton wasn’t lying, if he was guilty of sexual assault or even murder, Sam would be the one responsible for turning him in to the police.
Sam couldn’t carry a weapon into the office, but he could put it on his nightstand for his own peace of mind. If the police had taken his tips seriously, they’d hopefully take Colton into custody and Sam wouldn’t have to worry about him.
It wouldn’t be as simple as that, Sam knew. Colton might not be arrested, and if he was, he might be released on bail within a day.
I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.
A sharp rap on his door had him freezing, then glancing at his phone for the time. It was almost midnight. Neither of his parents would be knocking this late, and they did a little shave-and-a-haircut knock anyway, so it couldn’t be them.
A shiver of trepidation slithered down his spine. It couldn’t be Colton. I’m being ridiculous. I’ve got myself worked up over nothing.
But just in case . . . Sam pointed the gun toward the floor, crept to the door, and put his eye to the peephole.
Then exhaled in a swift rush of relief. Two people stood on his doorstep—a tall man with graying hair and a thirtyish woman of medium height with a sweet face devoid of makeup, her strawberry blond hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail.
Detective McKittrick. The man was her partner, Basil Constantine. Sam recognized him from the articles he read.
They’d followed up on his tips. Thank you, God.
Sam opened the door. “Detectives. I—”
He froze once again when both detectives abruptly drew their weapons and pointed them. At me.
“Drop the weapon,” Constantine barked.
McKittrick appeared grim. And maybe disappointed?
Sam didn’t have time to analyze her expression, remembering too late the gun he’d brought to the door. Shit, that was stupid. But he could explain. They’d understand.
Slowly he lowered the gun to the floor and took a step back, his hands held in front of him, palms out. “I can expl—”
McKittrick’s soft gasp cut him off. “What the hell?” she murmured, her eyes wide and focused behind him.
Sam looked over his shoulder. His crime board. Shit. “I can explain.”
“I’ll just bet you can,” Constantine snarled quietly. “Trolling for your next victim, you sick sonofabitch. Hands out at your sides, Dr. Reeves.” He spat Sam’s name with contempt.
What? Oh. Oh no. Realization dawned and Sam took another step back. They thought he was involved. They’re here for me. “This is a misunderstanding.”
“It always is,” Constantine mocked.
McKittrick’s jaw was squared, her eyes cold as she pulled handcuffs from her belt. “You’re coming with us.”
In shock, Sam opened his mouth. “This is wrong. You’re wrong.”
Ignoring him, she snapped a cuff on his right wrist, stepping behind him to cuff his left. Panic rose, clawing his throat.
No, no, no. Not his arms. They couldn’t grab his arms. He couldn’t let them.
“No!” He yanked free, taking a large step backward. “This is a mistake. Let me explain.”
Then everything seemed to happen at once. McKittrick swept his legs out from under him and had him facedown on the floor of his own apartment. His glasses went skittering across the floor as she jerked his arms behind his back, slapping the other cuff on him.
“Your mistake was resisting, Dr. Reeves,” she said coldly. “Now you’re under arrest.”
Arrest? I’m under arrest? Me? No. No. No. This is wrong. This can’t be happening. But it was.
Siggy was growling, his teeth bared.
“Call off your dog,” Constantine demanded. “If he attacks, I’ll shoot him.”
“No!” Sam thrashed, trying to knock McKittrick off him, but she shoved her knee into his kidney. Pain flared but fear for Siggy kept him struggling. “Don’t hurt my dog! Please don’t hurt him!”
Siggy was approaching, lowered in a crouch, snarling at McKittrick in a way that Sam had never heard before.
“I hate it when they have dogs,” Constantine muttered.
“Tell him ‘down,’ Dr. Reeves,” McKittrick said calmly. “You can call someone to come and get him.”
Mom and Dad. They’d come for Siggy. They could be here in two minutes.
And see me cuffed and arrested.
No. That wouldn’t do. His father would have another stroke.
I’ll sort this out. I’ll explain and they’ll let me go. Mom and Dad will never be the wiser.
He got control of his breathing and, as calmly as he could muster, told Siggy, “Down, boy. It’s all right. Down.”
Siggy dropped to his belly but continued to growl menacingly.
“Do you want to call someone to get him?” McKittrick asked, her knee still in his kidney.
Sam didn’t like her so much anymore.
“Yeah,” he grunted out. “I have a dog walker.” A college student who lived on his floor. But he’d never called her this late before.
McKittrick patted him down and pulled his phone from his pocket. “Tell me your code and I’ll call her for you.”
No. Clarity was returning with a rush of anger. This is wrong. I was trying to help you and this is the thanks I get?
Although he could see their point of view. It looked bad. But I’m not bad. He’d make them see that.
Still, he wasn’t going to give the cops any more ammunition to use against him. Once he gave them his phone code, they’d have access to his personal life.
His personal session notes.
“No,” he said, trying for calm. He needed to see to Siggy’s safety first. He didn’t think Constantine would shoot his dog, but he couldn’t be sure. “If you’ll let me put him in his crate, I’ll call the dog walker when my hands are freed.”
“Suit yourself.” Her weight disappeared from his back and he drew a deep breath, fighting nausea. “Up.” She grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet.
If he weren’t so furious and about to throw up, he’d be impressed. Sam was six feet tall and weighed one-eighty. McKittrick didn’t look like she was big enough to manage him like that.
“If you’d let me explain, none of this will be necessary,” he said, using his therapist’s voice.
She huffed a mirthless chuckle. “Go ahead. I’m listening. You’ve called me twice, Dr. Reeves, and neither time did you give me a valid explanation, but by all means, explain.”
“First, I need to know if you found anything in the park.”
“I’m not telling you anything. You wanted to explain. So explain.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, considering his options. He couldn’t tell her anything until she confirmed that there was indeed a body. That was the point of this entire exercise. If he spilled everything now, he could lose his license, especially if Colton was lying.
“I can’t. Not until I know what you found in the park.”
“Then we’re at an impasse,” she said, still cold. “Where is your dog’s crate?”
Sam gritted his teeth. He’d be getting the biggest apology from SDPD when this was over. “In my bedroom.”
“Will he go with me?”
“No. I’ll have to walk him there.”
She looked at her partner. “If you’ll get the warrant started, I’ll take care of the dog and then get CSU to process the creepy photos.” She drew her weapon once again and pointed it at Sam. “Walk slowly, Dr. Reeves. Do not incite your dog to violence and do not try to resist.”
Motherfuckers. His blood boiling, Sam obeyed. “This is a mis- take,” he hissed once again.
She sighed wearily. “You have the right to remain silent, Dr. Reeves. I’d exercise that right if I were you.”
He flashed her a look filled with all the venom burning inside his chest. “Do I get my one phone call?” he asked, his teeth clenched. Vivian would clear this up.
“Depends on your behavior. Let’s go. Call your dog.”
“Siggy,” he said, managing to keep his voice calm. “Come on, boy. Time for night-night.” Siggy warily followed them to his bedroom where the crate door was open, his water bowl already filled. “In, boy.”
Still wary, Siggy slunk into his crate and McKittrick fastened the closures with a practiced hand, making him wonder if she had a dog of her own.
“Do you put food in his crate with him?”
“No. He’s eaten already.”
“Then let’s go.” She hesitated, then gave the crate a pat. “It’ll be okay, Siggy,” she soothed, then turned to Sam. “After you.”
