short red hair had occasionally earned a question about whether he and Maggie were siblings—other than her son, Maggie had no relatives in the Kansas City area—sat across from his partner, Nick Fensom. Detective Montgomery adjusted his tie and leaned forward. Glancing around the room, she could see he was the senior detective, and his cool and confident demeanor reflected that status. “Such as?”
“His voice.”
“Voices can be altered,” Montgomery pointed out.
“Smells,” the chief countered. “She thought she detected something chemical.”
“That’s pretty vague.” Detective Montgomery wasn’t easily convinced.
A dark-haired woman, wearing a CSI windbreaker and sipping something from a stainless-steel travel mug, introduced herself as Annie Hermann, the task force’s liaison with the crime lab. “If we can identify the chemical or compound the vic smelled, then that could be a significant clue. It might give us the perp’s profession or a medical condition. Or tell us something about his vehicle.”
Detective Fensom shot CSI Hermann a look across the table and shook his head. “The perp leaves a red rose with each of his vics. It’s probably fertilizer or preservative from the florist’s shop.”
The petite Annie Hermann straightened in her chair. “Then maybe he works with flowers. The back of a florist’s van would be the perfect place to hide a body. The lab is running tests right now to isolate and eliminate any chemicals absorbed by the rose.”
Maggie continued to type. Analyzing a rose? Would an analysis of the tulip she’d just trashed reveal the motive behind the anonymous gift? Not that she had any doubt as to the sender and the seeming innocence of his request.
“It’s a viable clue,” Annie Hermann insisted.
“We’ll see.” Detective Fensom rocked back in his chair, unconvinced.
The CSI poked the tabletop with her finger. “Science gives us facts. It eliminates false leads and solves cases.”
“Not without any context to put those facts in. Cops solve cases. I’ll bet my gut has led to more arrests than your science.”
“Back to your corners, you two.” Chief Taylor silenced the debate. “The perp’s smell isn’t much to go on, but it’s a lead. Hermann, I want you to follow up on it.” He turned to the dark-haired detective. “And, Nick, I want you to use that gut to lead you to anyone on the streets who can tell us about this guy or these abductions. Anything is more than we’ve got right now.”
“Yes, sir, Chief.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the detective and the CSI settled back in their chairs, Maggie typed in the information, ignoring the crawl of memories over her skin beneath her uniform. Smell was indeed a vivid identifier because it left such an impression on the senses. Some of the most indelible memories she had from that hellish weekend her ex had gone off the deep end were of the smells—blood, booze, smoke, sweat—and the flowers he’d given her afterward. And to this day she would not use scented fabric softener or scented detergent in the laundry because of the memories that particular fresh smell evoked.
She nodded in silent approval of the victim’s power of observation. If she could identify her attacker by whatever scent was uniquely his, then the task force had a good shot at nailing him.
Provided they could catch him first.
Detective Fensom grumbled as he gathered up the photos. “What’s with the rose, anyway? It’s as though he thinks that hint of romance makes it an act of passion instead of violence.” He shoved the folder onto the blond woman in an elegant suit sitting beside him.
Dr. Kate Kilpatrick was more interested in skimming through the transcript of the report from the investigators who’d originally handled the case. Although Maggie had received counseling from the police psychologist years earlier, she’d never known Dr. Kilpatrick to work actively on an investigation before. “Maybe it’s a sign of remorse?”
“More like a sick memorial for everything he’s taken from her.” Edison Taylor was the only other uniformed officer at the table. But the patch on the short sleeve encircling his biceps indicated he was a specially trained K-9 cop. “I thought he was off the streets, Uncle Mitch. What’s it been? Eight—”
“Ten years, Pike,” the chief answered, using a nickname that Maggie knew referred to the surname Edison had before he’d been adopted into the Taylor family as a young teen. “Either he went away to prison for some other crime and now he’s back on the streets, or we’ve got us a nasty copycat.”
“So why exactly am I here?” Pike asked. “I’m not an investigator, a profiler or a lab tech.”
“I’m counting on you and your unit to provide extra security around the crime scenes. Run searches for us and so on.”
Dr. Kilpatrick nodded. “Everything I’ve read so far on the case indicates our perp is someone who blends into the community well. His victims appear to be unfortunate targets of opportunity. Yet no one seems to notice anything suspicious, much less feel threatened, before the attacks. It would make sense that he’d also be around after the fact, perhaps reliving the assault by watching the neighborhood and police response to his crimes.”
“Flying under the radar the entire time,” Chief Taylor continued. “The commissioner and I agree that stepping up patrols all across the city might drive our perp underground and create an unnecessary panic. If this is the same guy from before, he’ll stick to a part of Kansas City he knows. I want to narrow down the area where he hunts for his victims and use your unit and the dogs to keep a close watch in the neighborhood where he’s most likely to strike again.”
“And that would be?”
“Right now we’re looking at Irish Town and the City Market district. There are a lot of new businesses, renovated offices and apartment buildings there. Plenty of women live or work there, or travel in and out to shop and socialize. That’s where he abducted his latest victim.” He circled the table to scan the file for the info he needed. “She was abducted just after an appointment at the Fairy Tale Bridal Shop.”
“I know the area well enough.” The blue-eyed officer reached down and scratched between the ears of the muscular German shepherd stretched out at his feet. “Hans and I will be ready.”
Mitch Taylor returned to his chair at the head of the table. “Maggie?”
“Sir?” She snapped to when the chief called her name, forcing herself to interact instead of just recording information.
“I want you on the computer getting me the name of every violent offender whose prison term fits the time frame for when our perp was missing in action. The conviction doesn’t have to be rape. Look for physical assaults, armed robberies.”
“Specifically, crimes against women,” Dr. Kilpatrick clarified. “This guy is all about power. Either he’s punishing his victims for some perceived wrong done to him by a woman, or he’s compensating for a real or self-perceived weakness—and women are easier for him to control. He feels stronger, more masculine, by putting someone else down.”
“He could just be some sexual deviant nut job,” Fensom groused.
“Possibly,”
