Page 9 of The Perfect Betrayal

Even though there were real signs that Daran Peterson wasn’t the most sympathetic victim of all time, Jessie couldn’t but feel some measure of compassion for the guy. Bleeding out as you wait to be dumped in the cold Pacific waters didn’t sound like the greatest way to go.

“How many penetrations?” she asked.

“We count ten,” the youngish tech said, “but the medical examiner will have to get him back to the lab to be sure.”

“Where is the M.E.?” she asked.

“Bathroom break,” the tech said.

“I’m done now,” someone said from behind them. Jessie turned around to see a smallish Asian man with a neatlytrimmed beard and gloves on his hands. He was chewing a big wad of gum. “I’m Dr. Tran.”

“Jessie Hunt,” she replied. “So you agree with the estimate of ten wounds?”

“That’s about right,” he said between chomps. “But he was likely dead after the third or fourth one.”

“You didn’t say that earlier,” Riddell said, sounding put out.

“I thought it was obvious,” Tran said. “But I keep forgetting that what’s obvious to me isn’t so to everyone. Sorry.”

“Well, it looks like whoever did this was either very angry with Daran Peterson or wanted to give us that impression,” Jessie noted.

“Why do you say that?” the youngish tech asked.

Jessie thought that was obvious too but didn’t say so.

“Because otherwise, they would have stopped stabbing when he stopped moving,” she answered before turning to Oliver Stanton. “Where’s the boat again?”

“Themotorsaileris over there,” he corrected with a touch of pretension as he pointed out to the water. “It’s the one about three hundred yards out of the harbor being tugged in. They should have it to the dock in a few minutes.”

"Great," Riddell said, expressing real enthusiasm for the first time. "Let's go meet it. Maybe something on board can tell us who turned Peterson into a human pin cushion."

Though she didn’t love how flippant the detective was, she had to admit that she harbored the same hope.

CHAPTER FOUR

Hannah Dorsey could tell he was going to talk to her even before he got close.

Her mid-morning Brain Dysfunction and Repair course had just come to a close and she was packing up her laptop when the guy stopped nervously in front of her chair. At first he didn’t speak.

“You’re blocking me,” she told him, not in the mood to be accommodating.

“Sorry,” he said, taking a step back. “I wasn’t sure how best to do this.”

“What’sthis?” Hannah asked, eyebrows raised skeptically.

She was used to guys hitting on her, even in class. She wasn’t arrogant, but she knew that her slender but curvy five-foot-nine frame, blonde hair, and flashing green eyes—the same shade as her sister Jessie’s—were a magnet for college boys.

But something told her that wasn’t what this one was up to. She couldn’t put her finger on why but was projecting a different kind of nervous that didn’t feel date-y in nature.

She knew who the guy was. His name was Dallas something. The last name escaped her. They’d been in this class together for almost a month now, but he’d never made any attempt to talk to her before. Usually, he just did his work, maybe asked an occasional question of the professor, or answered one when called on. He seemed smart enough, though he didn’t speak with any regularity, so she couldn’t be sure.

“I know we don’t know each other,” he said, “but I was hoping you could help me out with an assignment.”

Hannah stood up and threw her backpack over her shoulder. In her seven months as a student at UC Irvine, she’d learned to be cautious when it came to any kinds of requests for help,especially from those of the opposite sex. Not every guy who made one was a scumbag potential assaulter, but at least one had been and that was one too many for her taste.

“You don’t know how to do an assignment?” she asked with an arched eyebrow, not wanting to be outright rude but brushing him back a little.

“I do, but it just, well, you probably didn’t notice but I wasn’t here on Monday,” he said.

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