The Seventh Victim by Mary Burton

“That’s good coffee.”
    “Really?”
    “I can’t write legibly, and I can’t cook a lick, but I can make coffee.”
    He took a sip and found he was pleasantly surprised. “Good.”
    “Puhleez. It’s the best.”
    “I’m from Seattle. We are ground zero for coffee.”
    “As long as I’m on duty the coffee will be good.” She took the half-full cup and set it on her tray. “Enjoy.”
    “Thanks, Danni.” As she turned he said, “Hey, didn’t that girl that was killed work here?”
    Danni’s eyes grew suspicious. “Yeah. You a reporter?”
    Raines shook his head. “God, no.”
    “Cop.”
    “Do I look like a cop?”
    Danni arched a brow. “Yeah.”
    “Nice to see I haven’t lost that.” At her confusion he added, “I used to be a cop. Long time ago. I guess the case caught my eye. Hard not to ask questions. Sorry.”
    His honesty appeared to disarm her. “No harm. And for the record, I didn’t like what they said about her in the news today.”
    “Straightforward enough.”
    “I guess I just didn’t like the way they boiled her life down to bare facts. She was so much more than that.” Anger hardened her face, but there was no hint of tears. “Her uncle is flying in tomorrow to claim her.”
    “I feel for them. I wouldn’t wish losing a child on my worst enemy.”
    “Yeah, well.”
    “What can you tell me about her, so I’ll remember more than the basic newscast?”
    Danni’s voice grew softer. “She was kind of corny. Liked pink and singing Lady Gaga in the kitchen. She was moving to New York. I was kinda jealous of her.”
    “You’ve got nothing to be jealous of, Danni. You strike me as a sharp kid.”
    She snorted a laugh.
    “Was there anybody who might have wanted to hurt her?”
    “Mack and I were talking about it, and none of us can think of anyone. Like we told the Rangers, we’re all thinking it was some random guy.” A customer at another table caught her attention. “I’ve got to go.”
    He watched as she moved toward another table and began to gather up plates. Danni was a tough nut and no wilting flower. Just like his daughter.
    He could almost hear his wife now. “That girl of ours is going to be a general one day.”
    He sipped his coffee, thought of his wife, Susan, and how much he missed her, their daughter, and home. Pushing aside a pang of guilt, he redirected his gaze to the patrons.
    Within seconds he spotted a slight, blond woman enter the café. She wore jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals and had a backpack slung over her shoulder. She was as slight as a teenager, but she moved with a confidence that only came with maturity.
    Lara Church.
    Beck had been right. She wasn’t the meek girl who’d fled Seattle seven years ago. As a man approached her, Raines noted slight stiffening in her back as she extended her hand. Her handshake was firm and her gaze direct.
    She laughed as the graying gentleman in his fifties spoke. After what looked to be a question, she pulled out a notebook and made a note. They chatted another half minute and then she made her way to the diner register, where she ordered a coffee. Just as quickly as she came, she was gone.
    Lara Church, the Seattle Strangler’s last victim, had managed to rebuild her life.
    But she would have to remember this time. Lives depended on it.
    He might not be a cop now, but his cop’s instincts burned strong. Two strangled women. Both dressed in white. One with a penny and the other’s bones too scattered to be determined.
    He’d spent a lifetime studying killers and their motivations. And the Seattle Strangler, like nearly all serial killers, enjoyed the ritual of death. He enjoyed the planning, the fantasizing, the hunt, and, of course, the kill.
    “So why haven’t you gone after Lara?” Raines whispered. “I’ll bet there were a dozen times you could have killed her by now. Why are you waiting? Why the new victims?” He traced the rim of his cup.
    Raines would bet his left nut that the killer had