house. He wanted to check out Taylor’s new ride and had the 4Runner in four-wheel drive, powering the truck through the icy streets.
They talked casually of the case, the impending wedding. Taylor was always open with Fitz. He was more like a father to her than her own ever was. She never had to worry about her image, never was concerned that he had a problem being the older man, the second in command to the younger woman. Fitz was edging closer and closer to retirement; he’d been making noises about leaving sooner rather than later. Taylor hoped this visit to Martin Kimball would change his mind; maybe Kimball would be bored and depressed, and that would be enough to convince Fitz to stay on board for a while longer.
They arrived in front of the bungalow on Granny White Pike. The land itself was worth at least $500,000, the cottage another $200,000. The houses on the left and the right of the Kimballs’ had been razed and rebuilt into monstrosities, a stone-and-timber Tudor on the left, a redbrick, columned colonial on the right. Each would easily sell for well over $800,000. Both had elaborate landscaping that belied their small lawns, wrought-iron gates across their tiny driveway entrances. This area was booming, and the Kimballs’ cottage, though the original plan for the area, looked out of place among the finery.
That news had not reached the Kimballs. Christmas lights decorated every square inch of the front their home. A festive evergreen wreath hung on the door, festooned with curling red ribbons. The walk had been meticulously shoveled. A fine spray of cat litter was scattered along the bricks in polite readiness for any guests who might arrive. Taylor and Fitz took this path, Taylor’s boots squeaking on the remaining snow. She knocked on the freshly painted bright red door. It may not have the biggest house on the block, but it was clean and cared for.
The door opened, a small face peeked out at their knees. “Merry Christmas. Welcome to the Kimball home. May I help you?”
Taylor bit back a laugh. The urchin couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, but what a presence.
“Yes, miss. May we speak with your grandfather?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“He knows we’re coming.” Taylor bent at the knee, got face-to-face with the little one. “I’m Taylor. This is Fitz. What’s your name?”
“Sabrina.” The little girl stuck out her hand to shake. Taylor took it, all seriousness now. Sabrina gave her a nod, as if she’d been judged and found worthy, then opened the door fully.
The rooms within were filled with gaiety and love. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, the house was decorated to within an inch of its life with red and green—popcorn and cranberry strings, garlands, paper rings. Sabrina led the way to the kitchen, where the aroma of pumpkin pie and gingerbread wafted. She announced their visitors to the two people in the room.
“Gran, Grampy, this is Taylor and her friend Fitz. Grampy, they say they have an appointment with you. Are you ready to see them?”
Martin Kimball turned to his granddaughter with a glint of amusement in his eye. He reached out and grabbed her by the waist, swinging her into his arms as he stood. The waif reined in, he smiled at his old friend Fitz, nodded politely to Taylor.
“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in. Pete Fitzgerald and his lovely lieutenant. What can I do for you fine folks today? We’ve got a lot of pie, and we’re building a gingerbread house for Sabrina. Plenty of gumdrops hanging around. Care to help?”
Fitz looked wistful for a moment; Taylor knew his love of sweets was undermining his willpower. He gathered himself, a pillar of strength and resistance. If retirement meant a warm, loving home and a happy family, it didn’t look all bad. But Fitz had never married, didn’t have this built-in infrastructure to keep him satisfied.
“Wish we could, Marty. We need to talk. You got someplace private where we can chat?”
“Sure, we can go in the den. Here you go, sugar.” He handed off the child to his wife, a cheery-looking woman with red cheeks and a plump chin.
“Don’t be too long, Marty. The gingerbread is about ready.”
He kissed her on the forehead, patted the child’s hair, then signaled to Taylor and Fitz to follow. He went the length of the kitchen, through a swinging door and into a short hallway. The first room on the right was a small, cozy office/den, the blue-and-white choo-choo-train border along the ceiling giving away the space’s previous employment as a child’s bedroom. There was a plush, soft chocolate chenille couch and a cherry desk with two ladder-backed chairs on either side. Three weathered brown corrugated boxes sat on the desk. They bore the mark of private evidence files. All investigative cops had one or two stashed away.
They got settled, Taylor and Fitz on the couch, Kimball leaning against the desk. Taylor took the chance to size the man up.
Kimball’s hair was gray, cut in a military-style bristle top. His face had a permanently mournful expression, his eyes hangdog. His clothes were old-fashioned, from a previous generation. He wasn’t old, but he was certainly not doing anything to make himself seem any younger than his sixty-four years.
He was soft-spoken, and Taylor imagined he’d been a shy man once, with jug ears and a slow, sad smile. Retirement had eased some of the pressures on his mind, but the years were etched on his face. He’d seen too much, witnessed too many vicious crimes, to have a smooth, carefree aspect. He stooped slightly, and Taylor wondered if it was the weight of all he had seen in his years on the force.
Fitz had told Taylor that Kimball was the detail man of the old homicide unit, the one attuned to every nuance and ripple in a case. He was the homely one, the man any victim would confide in, the man every criminal confessed to.
He rested against the desk and waited for them to speak. Just like the old days, she assumed. No sense pushing an issue if it was going to come to you, anyway.
Satisfied they were in good hands, Taylor started. “We wanted to talk to you about the Snow White murders. The early ones. We’re pretty sure these new ones are a copycat, but you’d be the best person to confirm that with. The DNA isn’t back yet, but you know this guy. You can tell us if it’s him doing these crimes or if it’s someone else.”
“Okay.” Kimball walked behind them and shut the door. No sense in scaring his granddaughter if he could help it. Fitz got up and examined his friend’s bookshelf, whistling softly.
Kimball reperched himself on the edge of the desk. “What do you want to know?” He held up a hand. “No, let me ask you something first. Why do you think this is a copycat?”
“To start with, the wound tracks are inconsistent. Snow White was left-handed, you confirmed that with all the original autopsy findings. This guy looks like a righty trying to make himself look like a southpaw. He’s cutting them from the front instead of from behind. There are two other major discrepancies—the news articles placed in the vaginas, and there’s a cream on each girl’s temples. It looks like it’s arnica cream, and we’ve found the composition includes frankincense and myrrh. We can’t be sure that the substances are combined or separate just yet, but regardless, it’s a big deviation from the original murders. We’re tossing around the idea that this might be some sort of religious ritual.”
“So there’s no hair evidence?”
“You mean at the scenes? Not that we’ve found.”
“No, I mean the new victims’ hair wasn’t pulled out at the roots like
