shake the feeling that he was missing something. Something having to do with Lily’s hostility yesterday—even as understandable as it was—as well as her father’s subsequent refusal to talk to him.
He hesitated before entering his office and thought about Lily. It didn’t take long before his erection strained against the fly of his pants. John took a shaky breath.
It had been the same reaction he’d had yesterday. It was like he was twenty years old again and he couldn’t keep his body from wanting her no matter how unwise the response. Back then, he’d pushed her away when she’d come to him. And now? Now he expected her and her family to … what? Forgive him? Understand? Cooperate?
He snorted. Right. What a mess.
With a sigh, he finally went inside. He greeted the receptionist and then went into the back office that he shared with the office’s three deputies.
“Hi, John.” Deputy Tom Murdoch appeared in the doorway just as John sat down behind his desk.
He motioned Murdoch inside. “Hey. Anything helpful from LaMonte’s parents?”
Murdock shook his head. “She had a habit of hitchhiking from their home in Incline Village. Who knows where he picked her up. Here are their statements.”
John took the folder and opened it. Yesterday, sitting in his car outside Lily’s house, he’d studied a close-up photo of LaMonte’s face. This photo focused on her stab wounds. On film, LaMonte’s injuries seemed even more severe than they had in person at the crime scene, which was the opposite of what one would expect. But without her face as a distraction, without the nerves and adrenaline and compassion that had rattled through him at the crime scene, all John had to focus on were her torn flesh and blood.
The photos themselves seemed inhumane. Cold. As cold as the man who’d done this. He set the file aside. Hopefully, the guy had left plenty of evidence behind.
“What about the jacket we found?”
“Doesn’t look like it belonged to her, but it’s being tested along with the evidence collected from her body. The coroner found a credit card she’d tucked into her sweater pocket.”
John remembered the thin gold chain around LaMonte’s neck and the small earrings in her ears. Was it ethics or simply disinterest that had kept her killer from taking them and the credit card? He hadn’t taken anything from his other victims either, even though Diane Lopez had at least fifty bucks still on her and Shannon Petersen had half-carat diamonds in her ears.
“The coroner confirmed sexual assault,” Murdoch said. “Took a vaginal swab and other evidence from the body.”
“It’ll match the others.” John sighed. “So we’re back to square one. We’ve got his DNA, but no one to connect it to.”
“What about DNA evidence from the Tina Cantrell case?”
“Never done. Back then, it wasn’t required and Hardesty confessed so why waste the time or money.”
“Is having the evidence tested the next step?”
“For some reason, the defense hasn’t asked for it. And the prosecution’s position is it’s not needed, so Thorn’s certainly not going to.” In fact, Thorn had been adamant on that point. As he’d pointed out, “It’s costly, unwarranted, and could potentially just complicate things. If another person’s DNA is found on her body, it doesn’t prove Hardesty didn’t kill her. It just gives the defense another opportunity to delay the execution while they talk about a phantom suspect.”
But he’d left out one crucial fact, one he was smart enough to know. Another person’s DNA could show Hardesty hadn’t been working alone. He might have had an accomplice. An accomplice who was at this very moment on the loose—the man they’d dubbed The Razor. Soon, John was going to talk to Chris Hardesty about that possibility.
“Right now,” John continued, “Thorn just wants me to look over the evidence we already have and explore any possible holes. To appease the governor so the execution goes forward as planned.”
“And what if Hardesty’s telling the truth? What if The Razor really killed Tina Cantrell?”
John stared at Murdoch but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
If it turned out the same man killed Sandy LaMonte, the two other girls, and Tina Cantrell, then the media would have a field day. He could see the headlines now:
Innocent Death Row Inmate Barely Escapes With His Life.
“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” John said. “Listen, Murdoch. I appreciate you working the extra hours on this. As soon as we eliminate the theory that the same man killed Tina Cantrell and Sandy LaMonte, Hardesty’s claims of innocence are going to have zero credibility. But I trust you to keep focus on what’s important. No matter what happens with the Cantrell case, we still have to find the animal who’s killing these girls.”
“Sure,” Murdoch said, then hesitated. “How young do you think the next one’s going to be?”
Grimly, John opened the file and flipped through the photos until he found one depicting LaMonte’s face. He knew Murdoch was thinking of his own teenage girls. “I don’t know.” The Razor’s first victim had been twenty-five. His second, twenty. LaMonte, eighteen. Were their decreasing ages significant? Was Tina’s? She’d been forty when she’d been killed.
Murdoch paused on his way out. “Oh, the A.G. stopped by about ten minutes ago looking for you. Something about Tina’s daughter slapping a guy at the murder scene fifteen years ago. He wants to talk to you about it right away.”
John closed his eyes and raked his hand through his hair. “Great,” he drawled.
When he opened his eyes, Murdoch stared at him. “I take it this isn’t good news?”
John laughed humorously. “No. It isn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the guy she slapped.”
August 29
12:45 a.m.
Sacramento, CA
John’s little apartment was trashed. The smell of pizza and beer and other things made him dizzy, and all he wanted was for the last few stragglers to leave. Especially his ex-girlfriend, Stacy.
Tormented by the hurt look on Lily’s face before she’d run away from him, John nudged Stacy toward her roommate. “But I don’t wanna go, Johnny. I wanna shtay here with you.”
Patting her arm, he passed her into her roommate’s arms along with twenty bucks. “The cab’s waiting. Here’s enough for the fare and tip.”
“Hey! Where’s the party?”
Three men John vaguely recognized jogged up the walkway. Gritting his teeth, he blocked the doorway. “Sorry,” he said, although his tone telegraphed the opposite sentiment. “Party’s over.”
One of the men punched another in the chest. “I
