Pretty Little Killers Read online

  But the stark expression on her face made him pause. “What?” he asked.

  “I know who he is,” she said bluntly.

  He glanced at the body, then back at her. “You know the victim?”

  “Not personally, but I recognize him.” This time, she pinned him with a challenging look. “You’re telling me you don’t?”

  The derision in her voice made him grit his teeth, and he studied the man’s face. Flat nose. Long chin. Split lip and bruises all over his face.

  “Just spit it out,” he said, his voice tight. “Who is he?”

  She leaned forward for a moment, raking the flashlight beam over the dead man’s face. A second later, she looked up at him, her expression unreadable.

  “His name is Lester Wadsworth.” She paused, both brows arched. “Judge Lester Wadsworth.”

  The name sifted through the cobwebs in Hatcher’s brain. The media coverage surrounding the recent case the judge had presided over had garnered national news. Hatcher had watched bits and pieces of the news stories from a bar stool through blurry eyes and a blurry brain with his best friend, Jack Daniels.

  “He presided over the River Street Rapist trial,” Hatcher said.

  Davenport nodded, her look full of derision. “He dismissed the case on a technicality so the bastard is free to rape again.”

  Which had triggered mountains of protestors and media attention on the victims who’d suffered horribly at the man’s hands. Victims who felt the justice system had failed.

  Maybe one of them had killed the judge. That would fit with the justice symbol painted on his forehead.

  Sympathy for the judge failed Korine. She’d not only followed the trial but also been first on the scene when one of the rapist’s victims had been found.

  She’d never forget it. She had just transferred from Atlanta to be closer to her mother.

  She and her partner at the time had been called to an alley where a young woman had been discovered near the dumpster out back of a local bar, beaten and bloody, nearly unconscious.

  The young coed, Andi Rosten, had been hysterical. It had taken an hour to calm her down enough to describe the attack and her attacker.

  Later she’d fallen into a deep depression and had tried to commit suicide. Now she lived with her parents and struggled daily to regain control of her life.

  Knowing the man who’d hurt her was behind bars would have gone a long way toward Andi’s recovery. With him at large, she was obviously terrified he’d track her down and rape her again—or kill her for testifying against him as he’d threatened.

  “I remember the trial, very emotional. That reporter, Marilyn Ellis, stirred up panic with her story about the rapist’s release,” Hatcher said in a gruff voice. He gestured toward the intertwined SS. “The symbol of justice is significant.”

  Korine’s heart pounded. “The killer wants us to know that he exacted justice because we failed.” It also meant that each person affected by one of the cases the judge tried had to be questioned.

  And treated like a suspect.

  That didn’t sit well in her gut.

  She stooped down, aimed her flashlight on the man’s face, and examined it. “Did you find the murder weapon?”

  He shook his head. “You think the killer used a hammer?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Could have been a rock.” She leaned closer and with a gloved hand, traced a finger around a dark circular bruise. “Although the shape and size is larger than a hammer head . . . it might have been a gavel. Maybe one of the judge’s. I heard he has a collection.”

  “We’ll look for it,” Hatcher said.

  The wind picked up, swirling the acrid odor of death and blood through the air. A boat puttered somewhere in the distance. The clouds shifted, covering the moon, leaving the area almost pitch-black.

  The sound of cars parking in the circle at the entrance to the cove alerted him to the fact that help had arrived.

  “We’ll have to look at all of Judge Wadsworth’s enemies,” Hatcher said. “That could be a long list.”

  “The killer might not even be on it,” Korine said. “More than a hundred protestors gathered outside the courthouse during that trial.” Andi had definitely been in the courtroom that day. So had the two other victims.

  Other women had come from all over the South to support the victims and protest. Any one of them could have decided to get revenge. So could have a family member, friend, husband, or boyfriend.

  “I’ll ask Cat to pull the security footage at the trial and start sifting through the feed and names.”

  Cat Landon was an analyst at the bureau, a quirky young woman with a photographic memory. She was also a computer whiz and had a criminology background. Korine had met her and admired her work. Both obsessed with death and with cold cases, they’d connected and shared drinks and dinner a couple of times.

  “We’ll need a list of all the judge’s cases, his enemies, and any hate mail he received.” She lifted the judge’s jacket sleeve, exposing abrasions on his wrists. “Looks like he was tied up. He’s a big man. Somehow the killer overpowered him, maybe had a gun or Taser, or he could have drugged him.”

  Hatcher shifted. “Means whoever it was got close to him. Maybe the judge even knew the unsub.”

  Korine snapped a photograph of the body, then took a close-up of his bloody face and his wrists. “At the courthouse, the judge was always guarded, surrounded by cops. A security detail followed him home at night.”

  Hatcher snapped a picture of the dock, then pointed to the walkway, where blood dotted the rotting wood. “This is not the kill site. The unsub dragged him out here for a reason. When we find the place he was murdered, we might learn more.”

  Korine scanned the area. Why had the unsub dumped his body in plain sight instead of pushing him into the marshy water and letting the tide carry him out to sea? Or why hadn’t he left the judge where he was murdered?

  “Someone wanted him to be found,” she said, the truth dawning. “But why here?”

  An odd look twisted Hatcher’s face. “Good question.” He furrowed his brow. “You worked sex crimes. Do you know any of the River Street Rapist victims?”

  Korine sighed. “I answered a call to one of the victims and took her statement.”

  “Maybe you should excuse yourself from the case,” Hatcher suggested.

  “I did my job. It wasn’t personal.” Although taking Andi Rosten’s statement had been grueling. “If you want to know if I was upset over the judge’s ruling, of course I was. But I joined the bureau because I believe in the system.” If she’d killed anyone, it would have been the rapist. But after the trial he’d disappeared.

  He was probably lying low until the dust settled, then he’d stalk another victim and continue his reign of terror.

  Voices sounded, and members of the ERT walked toward them. Another man wearing a lab coat followed.

  “Judge Wadsworth also tried a guns dealer,” Hatcher said, cutting into her thoughts. “Put him away for life. Dealer could have hired someone to off the judge as revenge.”

  “Why not shoot him? It would have been faster.” She retrieved her pocket notepad and made a list of what they needed to do. “Whoever did this wanted him to suffer. And if he—or she—used a gavel, it was a statement just as the justice symbol was.”

  “Good point.” Hatcher greeted the ERT and medical examiner.

  The gray-haired man in the lab coat offered his hand. “Dr. Dillard Patton, Medical Examiner.”

  Korine shook it and introduced herself. “I’m Agent McGee’s new partner.”

  “For now,” Hatcher said bluntly, earning him a curious look from Patton and a frown from Korine.

  A middle-aged, heavyset guy introduced himself as Supervisory Special Agent Roger Cummings, the lead of the ERT. Two agents with him were Tammy Drummond and Trace Bellamy.

  “What do we know so far?” Cummings asked.

  Korine filled them in on the judge’s suspected identity.<
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  “My guess is he’s been dead since last night,” Dr. Patton said. “The unsub must have kept him somewhere then dumped him this evening.”

  “We need to find the murder weapon,” Korine said. “Get someone to search the water. Killer could have thrown it in.”

  Hatcher shoved a hand through his tousled black hair as he glanced at the cottage in the center of the cove.

  Korine had tried not to look at him. She didn’t need a reminder of how handsome the damn man was. Something about his intense, brooding masculinity drew her like a siren’s call.

  Those mocha-colored eyes looked pain filled and soulful and dangerous at the same time. His big body was dangerous to her, too. Thick muscles strained against his shirt, which hid washboard abs beneath. Sex appeal at its most potent.

  Instead, she scanned the property, looking for places a predator could hide. Judge Wadsworth wasn’t a small man. Dead, he would have seemed even heavier.

  It took someone strong to haul him across the dock.

  The ERT needed to search the sand, the shells, and the seagrass for drag marks and forensics. Maybe they’d find footprints . . .

  A gray cottage sat to the left of the one the caller lived in, and a white one stood to the right, although they appeared deserted. The cove was named Sunset Cove because of its magnificent sunsets, but the sun had long faded. Shrouded by palm trees and sea oats, and bathed in darkness, the houses looked spooky.

  “Do your thing here,” Hatcher said to the ME and ERT. “I need to question the woman who reported the body.”

  He’d said I, but Korine ignored it. He obviously didn’t want her along, but he was stuck with her. And she would pull her weight.

  She wanted to hear what the caller had to say. Maybe she’d witnessed something helpful and could give them a lead.

  A boat puttered by, barely discernible in the dim light, slowed, then sped up. Hatcher watched it disappear into the inlet and wondered whether the killer could have come in by boat instead of by car. If the killer was in that particular boat, he might be watching to see that the body had been found.

  But if the judge’s murder was related to the River Street Rapist, why dump the body here instead of River Street, where the victims had been snatched?

  Hatcher angled his head toward Dr. Patton. “I’m assuming cause of death was from head trauma.”

  Dr. Patton glanced up from where he was examining the corpse. “I’d say so, but I’ll do a full autopsy and let you know time of death, COD, and anything else I find.”

  “Be sure to check for drugs,” Korine said. “We need to know if he was subdued before he was beaten.”

  “I always run a tox report,” Dr. Patton said, irritation lining his face as if he didn’t need Korine to tell him how to do his job.

  Hatcher thanked him, then turned to go to the cottage. As much as he dreaded it, he had to talk to Tinsley Jensen, find out how she was involved in this.

  It was too coincidental that she’d been a victim in one crime and was now a witness to another.

  He didn’t like coincidences.

  Korine joined him as he strode up the seashell-lined walkway to the cottage. Shells and gravel crunched beneath his boots. Even though he was at least eight inches taller than his new partner, she kept up with him.

  Just like she had in bed. He’d never met a woman so adventurous and passionate . . . or so tender that she’d made him want to hold her forever.

  Not even his wife had stirred that kind of emotion. Theirs had been an odd match, one shaped by too much booze and her lies . . .

  Fish-shaped wind chimes that resembled sea glass dangled from the porch awning, dancing in the breeze and tinkling softly, dragging him back to the case. A hand-painted sign crafted from driftwood hung on the door and read, THIS IS MY HAPPY PLACE.

  He doubted Tinsley Jensen was happy.

  White Adirondack rockers stood vigil on the porch, facing the ocean, offering a reprieve from the sun during the hot part of the day and a view of the beach and sunset.

  It looked peaceful and relaxing, as if the owner were here on vacation.

  Only he knew better.

  “The caller lives here?” Korine asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What exactly did she see?”

  He inhaled sharply, then knocked on the door. “We’ll find out. But I should warn you: she may not be amenable to talking to me.”

  Korine scowled. “Why not?”

  “Because she was a victim in the last case I worked. And her kidnapper got away.”

  Recognition dawned in Korine’s expressive eyes. “Tinsley Jensen?”

  He gave a nod.

  A voice echoed from the opposite side of the door, and the covering for the peephole slid open. “Who’s there?”

  Korine stepped up so Tinsley could see her through the peephole. “We’re here about your nine-one-one call.”

  The door squeaked open a fraction, and Tinsley’s pale, frightened face appeared. Anger followed, streaking through her eyes and slamming him in the gut with its brutal honesty.

  “Tinsley?” Hatcher’s voice sounded rough, unsure. Guilty.

  “I don’t want to talk to you, Hatcher.” She started to close the door in his face, but Korine caught it with her foot.

  Korine flashed her badge. “Then talk to me,” she said softly. “There’s a dead man out there. We need to know exactly what you saw.”

  Tinsley pressed her lips into a thin line, then gestured toward Korine. “Okay, I’ll talk to you.” She shot Hatcher a look of disdain. “But not him.”

  Hatcher folded his arms. He wanted to argue. To declare that he was lead on this investigation. That Korine was a damn rookie.

  But he kept his mouth shut.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Compassion for Tinsley filled Korine. She couldn’t imagine living every day terrified that a sadistic man like the unsub who’d held the young woman hostage might return to hurt her again.

  No doubt Hatcher harbored guilt over that.

  The fact that Hatcher’s deceased wife and this woman had been friends complicated matters more. If Tinsley knew about Korine’s night with Hatcher, she probably wouldn’t want to talk to her either.

  Tinsley stepped aside, and although she’d said she didn’t want to talk to Hatcher, she allowed them both entry.

  Korine scanned the foyer—a distressed white hutch held shoes, umbrellas, beach bags, and sun hats, all signs of home and a relaxing getaway.

  Apparently, though, the woman never left the house to enjoy that ocean or the sand and sun and beach.

  She and Hatcher followed Tinsley to a small den that looked cozy and quaint. A seashell lamp and photos of the beach, sea turtles, crabs, and the sunset added to the beach theme. A wall above her desk held sketches of the trees on the island that had been hand carved with images of soldiers who’d died in the area.

  At odds with the serene blue-and-white decor, built-in shelves held dozens of books and magazines on the historic graveyards, ghosts, and hauntings in Savannah. Another book featured stories about the Day of the Dead celebrated in Mexico. After Tinsley’s abduction, the Feds had speculated that the Skull had adopted his disguise from the sugar skulls used in the Day of the Dead traditions. Although with the island’s famous Skull’s Crossing, where human skulls had been found mired in the marshland years ago, and three more skulls found recently, it was possible that the unsub had used the skull image because of that case.

  Or that the unsub might have killed the victims, dumped their bodies in the ocean, and the skulls had floated to the surface after Hurricane Matthew.

  A pair of binoculars sat on a table by the window that overlooked the cove, as if perched there for quick use. A picture window also overlooked the ocean, although sheers were drawn, blocking the view.

  Tinsley’s way of keeping anyone from seeing into her private world from which she kept everyone locked out.

  The den adjoined a kitchen with a breakfast bar and island
, providing an open-concept design.

  A parakeet was perched in a birdcage in the corner. The bird was so motionless and quiet that it almost didn’t look real. The door to the cage stood ajar, but the bird remained inside.

  Tinsley reached for a china cup filled with what Korine guessed was tea and took a sip as she sank onto the sofa.

  The cup and saucer rattled in her hands as she set it back on the wicker coffee table. “So what I saw was real?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Korine said. “Tell us exactly what happened. Everything you saw. What you heard.”

  Tinsley wrapped her arms around her waist as if she needed to hold herself together. A petite blonde with bangs framing enormous violet-blue eyes, she was as beautiful and as delicate as one of the sea-glass treasures one might find washed up on the shore after the storm. Yet she was also frail, with dark circles shadowing her haunted eyes.

  “I was on the computer when I heard a noise,” Tinsley said. “I checked all the windows and doors, then looked outside and saw a figure dragging something along the dock.”

  “Could you tell if it was a man or a woman?” Korine asked.

  She shook her head. “Not really, the sun had already set. It was too dark.”

  “Did he come from the street?” Hatcher asked.

  Tinsley massaged her temple with long, slender fingers. “I don’t know.”

  Korine offered her an encouraging smile. “Did you hear anything? A car? A boat maybe?”

  “I told you I don’t know. I was on the computer and listening to music when I heard the sound.” She reached for the tea again with hands that trembled.

  “Where exactly was the figure when you saw him?” Korine asked. “Near the entrance to the dock or the cul-de-sac?”

  “He was just there,” Tinsley cried. “I can’t tell you anything else.”

  Korine squeezed Tinsley’s arm. “I understand this is difficult, especially after all you’ve been through. It was brave of you to call the police.”

  Tinsley’s face blanched. “You know who I am?” Then she made a sardonic sound. “Of course you do. I’m famous, aren’t I?”

  Korine understood the anguish in the young woman’s voice. As a child, she’d hated when people recognized her from the news stories about her father’s murder. “I study crimes. That’s how I recognized the victim. His name is Judge Lester Wadsworth. He ruled over the—”