Page 32 of Killer Knows Best

Jack takes a breath. “I’m thinking we need to find out if a hotel room went unused last night.”

“If her john was there, we may not know,” I say.

Nikki measures the infinity symbol with her fingers. “I’ll do a deep dive and talk to the hotel. CSI has her phone and they said they’d release it to me this afternoon. If she contacted Kiki, then we’ve got another connection.” She looks up at Miller. “How many people have come through here with this symbol engraved into their skin? It’s identical to the ones those girls had carved into them last week.”

Miller heads over to his monitor and pulls up images from the previous cases.

“Here’s what I have on Delaney and Gwen,” he says, clicking through the files. “Same scar, same size.”

He keeps clicking, pulling up images of Sharon Oaks and Jane Doe. The same twisted infinity symbol was carved into their chests.

Nikki leans in. “It’s a signature, all right.”

“A signature, a brand, a message,” Jack says, voice tight. “Whatever it is, it’s the same across the board.”

Miller runs a quick search through his database, and three more files pop up on the screen. “Found these. All within the last year, all with the same symbol. Their deaths were deemed domestic accidents.”

“Looks like we’ve got more victims to add to the roster,” Jack mutters.

I tap the monitor. “He’s using something to mark them—clean, fast. It looks almost surgical. This is deliberate but of a different nature.”

Miller nods. “And well practiced.”

Before I can respond, Nikki raises a hand. “Oh, I almostforgot. Before my night took an unexpected turn, I found our girl. Karen Holt.”

Jack and I exchange a look. “Where is she?”

Nikki’s smile turns smug. “I know exactly where we can find her.”

Looks as if we’ve got our next move.

22

SPECIAL AGENT FALLON BAXTER

The moon hangs low over Crimson Heights like a silver eye, casting a cold glow on the ritzy mansions all lined up, each one more opulent than the next, as if they’ve got something to prove. And with their stately frames, and the arrogant air about them, they’re not looking to prove anything to anyone. They’ve already accomplished that feat.

Fall has settled in deep as the ground fog rolls across the manicured lawns, and the air has a sharp icy bite to it, razor-sharp enough to remind you it’s only going to get colder.

A few of the homes in the area are decked out for the season with pumpkins festooning doorsteps, wreaths of orange leaves hanging on the double door entries, and twinkle lights that somehow manage to make even the wealthiest estates look cozy.

It’s just Jack and I on the mission to speak with our next suspect. Nikki says she’ll meet up with us in a bit. I’m not sure what she has going on that’s important enough to miss this, but I’m betting it has to do with a man and a very compromising position.

The landscape slows as Jack takes his foot off the gas and wetake in the sheer opulence of these behemoths that look as if they were carved from a single piece of marble.

“Why do I suddenly feel as if we’re walking onto a movie set?” I mutter to Jack as we pull up to a sprawling mansion with too many cars crammed into the drive. The place practically screams old money, with its towering columns and an iron gate that looks more decorative than functional.

“That’s because there’s something that feels plastic about all of this.” He nods to the throngs of people pouring into the oversized house just ahead.

I can’t help but note the cars are expensive, and the people streaming out of them look twice as expensive.

Women in glittering dresses, both stylish and short enough to be fun and flirty, paired with expensive red-bottom heels. The men look dapper and yet more than happy to be here as they all seem to race into the glitzy estate.

No offense to the males in the vicinity, but I’ve found that when they need to get dressed for an occasion, they’re never too thrilled with the destination at hand. Most of them would rather be home watching a game or scrolling the internet with a hand down their pants, maybe both. Come to think of it, I’d prefer that scenario to this myself.

“Who dresses like this in the middle of the week?” I ask, mostly to myself.

Jack cuts the engine. “It could be worse. It could be a costume party.”

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