show up again.
Food and sex on offer, after all.
THIRTY-FIVE
T he squad had come to the station for a Sunday morning meeting, gathering in their own office rather than in the conference room since most of the other detectives were off duty.
Second Sunday in a row for some of them, and they’d had to work late yesterday evening – not that any of them were too sold on Valentine’s, but that wasn’t the point; what mattered was that they were tired, and some of them had families, and Sam, like most of them, had this old-fashioned wish to be home with Grace and Joshua, which seemed to happen too damned seldom. Though usually when he was pulling overtime, it was because of overdue paperwork, not the violent crimes themselves.
They worked and lived in a peaceful place, for the most part.
All the more reason for them to protect it as well as they could.
The intention this morning was to brainstorm, as well as pool existing information again, trying their damnedest to refresh their minds and produce something new and useful.
One, two or even more killers remained the unsatisfactory consensus, and there was the strong possibility that they were dealing with a strong, highly organized individual, working alone or hiring help – which was their best hope of a weak link – but Sam had brought a sickening list to the meeting, of past partner or team serial killers in the US and worldwide. Lessons to be learned, maybe, or some ingredient of those cases to help trigger new insight in their own squad.
There were more photographs pinned up on the board than there had been just twenty-four hours earlier. John and Jane Doe joining the Eastermans, and the indignity of nameless victims always made Sam’s heart ache.
One question was taxing them all, and Martinez voiced it first:
‘I still don’t get what the hell kind of message is a goddamned fish tank?’
‘And how does it relate to the dome?’ Sam added.
‘The tank’s acrylic,’ Riley said.
The notion of a plastics-motivated killer gripped no one.
Exhibition was self-evident, but there was no other link they’d managed to conjure up between the garden of a former gallery and the backyard of an occupied luxury home.
Outdoors probably chosen just because it was easier than breaking in.
‘And because the displays were more likely to be found,’ Cutter said, ‘though that goes more for the Christou house.’
‘For the gallery too,’ Sam said, ‘if they knew the gardener’s routine. Which would make the dumping sites highly premeditated.’
‘Does that make the victims more or less likely to be randomly chosen?’ Riley asked.
The phone rang. Elliot Sanders bringing them up to date.
‘I’m putting you on speaker, Doc,’ Sam told him.
‘Same knife,’ the ME said, ‘or damned close. And we have stomach contents for you. Beef, egg plant, tomatoes and cheese.’
‘Moussaka,’ Riley said.
‘Christou’s Greek,’ Martinez said.
‘His restaurants serve fish,’ Sam said.
‘Bet he knows how to cook moussaka,’ Martinez persisted.
‘Not usually with sedatives, though, I’d imagine,’ Sanders’s voice said through the speaker. ‘Temazepam again. Higher levels in the male, maybe just because he ate more dinner. He may have been unconscious before he died.’ He paused. ‘More to follow, as always, but I thought you’d want to know.’
‘We need to know if the victims liked Greek food,’ Sam said.
‘I’d settle for their names first,’ Beth Riley said.
‘Moussaka has to make the Christous more interesting,’ Martinez said.
‘Except it was goulash with the Eastermans,’ Cutter said.
‘And fish,’ Martinez said.
‘We’re reaching, guys,’ Sam said. ‘Unpleasant as the Christous are, I can’t see them being crazy enough to have to have killed these people and then displayed them in their own fish tank – not to mention calling 911—’
‘Karen made the call,’ Martinez pointed out. ‘Not Anthony.’
‘Maybe their
Food and sex on offer, after all.
THIRTY-FIVE
T he squad had come to the station for a Sunday morning meeting, gathering in their own office rather than in the conference room since most of the other detectives were off duty.
Second Sunday in a row for some of them, and they’d had to work late yesterday evening – not that any of them were too sold on Valentine’s, but that wasn’t the point; what mattered was that they were tired, and some of them had families, and Sam, like most of them, had this old-fashioned wish to be home with Grace and Joshua, which seemed to happen too damned seldom. Though usually when he was pulling overtime, it was because of overdue paperwork, not the violent crimes themselves.
They worked and lived in a peaceful place, for the most part.
All the more reason for them to protect it as well as they could.
The intention this morning was to brainstorm, as well as pool existing information again, trying their damnedest to refresh their minds and produce something new and useful.
One, two or even more killers remained the unsatisfactory consensus, and there was the strong possibility that they were dealing with a strong, highly organized individual, working alone or hiring help – which was their best hope of a weak link – but Sam had brought a sickening list to the meeting, of past partner or team serial killers in the US and worldwide. Lessons to be learned, maybe, or some ingredient of those cases to help trigger new insight in their own squad.
There were more photographs pinned up on the board than there had been just twenty-four hours earlier. John and Jane Doe joining the Eastermans, and the indignity of nameless victims always made Sam’s heart ache.
One question was taxing them all, and Martinez voiced it first:
‘I still don’t get what the hell kind of message is a goddamned fish tank?’
‘And how does it relate to the dome?’ Sam added.
‘The tank’s acrylic,’ Riley said.
The notion of a plastics-motivated killer gripped no one.
Exhibition was self-evident, but there was no other link they’d managed to conjure up between the garden of a former gallery and the backyard of an occupied luxury home.
Outdoors probably chosen just because it was easier than breaking in.
‘And because the displays were more likely to be found,’ Cutter said, ‘though that goes more for the Christou house.’
‘For the gallery too,’ Sam said, ‘if they knew the gardener’s routine. Which would make the dumping sites highly premeditated.’
‘Does that make the victims more or less likely to be randomly chosen?’ Riley asked.
The phone rang. Elliot Sanders bringing them up to date.
‘I’m putting you on speaker, Doc,’ Sam told him.
‘Same knife,’ the ME said, ‘or damned close. And we have stomach contents for you. Beef, egg plant, tomatoes and cheese.’
‘Moussaka,’ Riley said.
‘Christou’s Greek,’ Martinez said.
‘His restaurants serve fish,’ Sam said.
‘Bet he knows how to cook moussaka,’ Martinez persisted.
‘Not usually with sedatives, though, I’d imagine,’ Sanders’s voice said through the speaker. ‘Temazepam again. Higher levels in the male, maybe just because he ate more dinner. He may have been unconscious before he died.’ He paused. ‘More to follow, as always, but I thought you’d want to know.’
‘We need to know if the victims liked Greek food,’ Sam said.
‘I’d settle for their names first,’ Beth Riley said.
‘Moussaka has to make the Christous more interesting,’ Martinez said.
‘Except it was goulash with the Eastermans,’ Cutter said.
‘And fish,’ Martinez said.
‘We’re reaching, guys,’ Sam said. ‘Unpleasant as the Christous are, I can’t see them being crazy enough to have to have killed these people and then displayed them in their own fish tank – not to mention calling 911—’
‘Karen made the call,’ Martinez pointed out. ‘Not Anthony.’
‘Maybe their
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