and his heart pounded like a fist. He’d tried to sit up, desperate to get away from the edge, when a portion of the ledge crumbled under him. He’d realized if he kept moving or panicked, he’d die. So he’d closed his eyes and stepped back from the fear. He’d called for help until his voice was raw, finally, he’d stopped. He’d slowed his breathing and steadied his heartbeat. In the quiet of his mind, he’d found a refuge away from fear.
He’d lain on that rock for nearly three days, never moving as the crows circled, rain drizzled, and bugs crawled over him. When he’d been rescued, he’d been so calm the searchers had thought he was in shock. Later, when he’d faced his first crime scene, he’d stepped back again and returned to the emotionless place that allowed him to see clues that others, overcome with emotion, missed. This talent, honed to cutting sharpness, resisted corralling more and more. In recent years, personal relationships had suffered. He’d lost touch with too many. And worse, he didn’t care.
“Iceman. Ice on the outside. Ice in his heart,” Georgia had declared at the most recent family Christmas celebration. A few glasses of wine in her, she’d bemoaned the trials of love. Stone sober, he’d suggested she overrated love. That comment had earned him the “Iceman” moniker.
“Alex.” Deke’s voice rushed across the sparsely furnished living room.
“Yeah.” He turned from the pictures to see Deke standing in the doorway, backlit by the bright sunlight shining in from the kitchen.
“The victim is Deidre Jones, isn’t it?” Alex asked.
“Yes.”
Yesterday, he’d smelled the lies on her like overdone perfume when she’d challenged him at the TBI offices. He knew he’d hit some kind of nerve with his questions, and she was hiding something big. He’d been right but didn’t relish the victory. “What happened?”
“She was stabbed multiple times. She’s in the kitchen.”
Dozens of questions rattled in his brain, but he silenced them all. Look first. Then ask. His old man had said that a million times. Don’t let anyone else’s analysis cloud your perspective.
He moved past a couch and a coffee table. On the table sat a half glass of water, red lipstick on the rim. No furniture beyond the couch, other than a television and a small end table with a lamp on top.
He imagined Deidre had clicked on the light and sipped her water when cop radar prompted a return to her purse to retrieve her gun. Had it been a knock at one of the doors?
Alex shifted his attention to the kitchen and moved carefully past the breakfast bar. He saw his sister, Georgia, dressed in a Tyvek suit and booties, her red hair tucked into a surgical cap as she leaned over the body, snapping photos. Blood pooled around the body and under Georgia’s feet. Judging by Georgia’s equipment and grim face, she had been here several hours documenting the scene. He knew this because she would never have stepped into the blood and disturbed the evidence until it was well documented.
Georgia’s body blocked a full view of Deidre, but he caught a glimpse of one pale arm, slashed and cut. The upturned palm, gashed and gaping, conjured images of Deidre blocking the blade with her arms and grabbing the knife’s edge. She was a tough woman. Could hold her own against most men. How had this killer gotten close enough to stab her?
Georgia rose up, moistened dry lips, and turned from the body. A glance up at Alex revealed anger mingling with sadness.
Refusing to acknowledge the liquid emotion in Georgia’s eyes, he took his first hard look at the body.
Deidre lay on her back, her arms and feet splayed. She was fully dressed in the pantsuit he’d seen her wearing when she’d faced him in the lobby at TBI. Knife cuts had slashed the white silk top, cutting into flesh and soaking the delicate fabric with the dark ruddy brown of blood. Knife wounds slashed through her pants, cutting deep into flesh.
Who
He’d lain on that rock for nearly three days, never moving as the crows circled, rain drizzled, and bugs crawled over him. When he’d been rescued, he’d been so calm the searchers had thought he was in shock. Later, when he’d faced his first crime scene, he’d stepped back again and returned to the emotionless place that allowed him to see clues that others, overcome with emotion, missed. This talent, honed to cutting sharpness, resisted corralling more and more. In recent years, personal relationships had suffered. He’d lost touch with too many. And worse, he didn’t care.
“Iceman. Ice on the outside. Ice in his heart,” Georgia had declared at the most recent family Christmas celebration. A few glasses of wine in her, she’d bemoaned the trials of love. Stone sober, he’d suggested she overrated love. That comment had earned him the “Iceman” moniker.
“Alex.” Deke’s voice rushed across the sparsely furnished living room.
“Yeah.” He turned from the pictures to see Deke standing in the doorway, backlit by the bright sunlight shining in from the kitchen.
“The victim is Deidre Jones, isn’t it?” Alex asked.
“Yes.”
Yesterday, he’d smelled the lies on her like overdone perfume when she’d challenged him at the TBI offices. He knew he’d hit some kind of nerve with his questions, and she was hiding something big. He’d been right but didn’t relish the victory. “What happened?”
“She was stabbed multiple times. She’s in the kitchen.”
Dozens of questions rattled in his brain, but he silenced them all. Look first. Then ask. His old man had said that a million times. Don’t let anyone else’s analysis cloud your perspective.
He moved past a couch and a coffee table. On the table sat a half glass of water, red lipstick on the rim. No furniture beyond the couch, other than a television and a small end table with a lamp on top.
He imagined Deidre had clicked on the light and sipped her water when cop radar prompted a return to her purse to retrieve her gun. Had it been a knock at one of the doors?
Alex shifted his attention to the kitchen and moved carefully past the breakfast bar. He saw his sister, Georgia, dressed in a Tyvek suit and booties, her red hair tucked into a surgical cap as she leaned over the body, snapping photos. Blood pooled around the body and under Georgia’s feet. Judging by Georgia’s equipment and grim face, she had been here several hours documenting the scene. He knew this because she would never have stepped into the blood and disturbed the evidence until it was well documented.
Georgia’s body blocked a full view of Deidre, but he caught a glimpse of one pale arm, slashed and cut. The upturned palm, gashed and gaping, conjured images of Deidre blocking the blade with her arms and grabbing the knife’s edge. She was a tough woman. Could hold her own against most men. How had this killer gotten close enough to stab her?
Georgia rose up, moistened dry lips, and turned from the body. A glance up at Alex revealed anger mingling with sadness.
Refusing to acknowledge the liquid emotion in Georgia’s eyes, he took his first hard look at the body.
Deidre lay on her back, her arms and feet splayed. She was fully dressed in the pantsuit he’d seen her wearing when she’d faced him in the lobby at TBI. Knife cuts had slashed the white silk top, cutting into flesh and soaking the delicate fabric with the dark ruddy brown of blood. Knife wounds slashed through her pants, cutting deep into flesh.
Who
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