Page 58 of The Survivor
“It’s theonlyname on our suspect list,” one of the detectives quipped ruefully.
Fantana silenced the kidder with a look. “So what have we managed to dig up on Grant?”
Hodges spoke up. “White male, forty-one years old. He inherited the flower shop from his father, been running it for twenty years, and lives in a brownstone near the store. It was deserted when our guys went over there.”
Blake plucked a random paper clip from the table and began snapping it between his fingers, his excitement rising at each new development. They were onto something here, close to cracking this case right open. “Any other real estate?” he asked.
Hodges shook his head. “Nothing we’ve been able to uncover.”
“What about the guy’s history?” Fantana demanded.
“Military,” Hodges answered.
Blake’s head jerked up. “Military? You’re sure about that?”
Hodges nodded. “He enlisted in the army when he was eighteen, left when he was twenty-one, honorable discharge.” Some more papers were shuffled. “He fought in the Gulf, part of Desert Storm, actually. Didn’t leave because of an injury, as far as we know, but we’re trying to get his full record. Army’s sending it over.”
Goddamn military. The adrenaline coursing through Blake’s blood made his fingers tingle. Everything became clearer now—why he hadn’t spotted a tail on him, how the guy continued to evade capture and waltz around as if he wore a cloak of invisibility. The Rose Killer had beentrainedto be invisible. Trained to kill. The army had taught him well.
Obviously a littletoowell.
“Oh,” Hodges added, “and we found a death certificate for a woman we believe was his wife. Anne Grant, deceased as of…” Hodges looked at his file again and read off a date.
Blake sucked in a breath. Anne Grant had died two weeks before the first murder. Was that the trigger they’d been looking for?
“Cause of death?” Melanie asked, curious.
Hodges could barely conceal his pleased smile. “Get this—suicide. Anne Grant slit her own wrists.”
Blake lifted one wary brow. “You sure Grant didn’t do her in and we’re looking at six victims instead of five?”
Hodges’s smile faded. “We’re not sure yet. Ruiz is getting a warrant to access the hospital records. We’ll know soon. But the slitting of the wrists—that’s important, right?”
Seeing the distressed glimmer in the detective’s eyes, Blake nodded. “Of course it is.”
“Good work, Hodges,” Fantana boomed. “Keep digging, find out everything you can about this man. Samson, I want you to put an APB out on him. Now.”
The curly-haired female detective nodded and bounced out of her chair. “I’m on it.”
“You three,” Fantana barked, pointing to the officers on his left, “set up surveillance on Grant’s house and flower shop. If he makes an appearance, grab him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Three more bodies hurried out of the conference room as Fantana continued to bark out orders at his team. There was electricity in the air that hadn’t been there since that first murder, when the evidence had been fresh, the morale high.
Suddenly the case was alive again, and for the first time in weeks—no, months—the ache in Blake’s temples subsided.
CHAPTER 13
“Do you want another cup of coffee?” Sam asked the officer sitting at Blake’s kitchen table.
John Perkins glanced up with a smile. He had very nice eyes, she realized. They were almost as dark as his skin, and exuded warmth and sincerity that made her feel at ease. “No thank you, Miss Dawson.”
“Are you hungry? I could fix something for you.”
He chuckled. “Why don’t you sit down, instead? You’re making me dizzy, pacing back and forth like that.”
Was she pacing? She hadn’t noticed. But she wasn’t surprised, and she knew exactly who to blame for her incessant restlessness. Blake Corwin and his too-honorable-for-his-own-good attitude.
