Her delicate hands were cupped, like she was holding water. Her waist-length hair was blond with lime-green streaks, an affectation that somehow worked for her. The hair was so askew the overheads sparkled off her scalp. Zee had enormous green eyes with perfectly tweezed brows. Her full lips were painted coral. Her skin was taut. No blemishes or scars. One tattoo, a kitten, above her left ankle.
More notes.
An alligator belt cinched her pale yellow sundress. Her sandals had medium-high, but wide, heels. Stylish, but still practical for spending time on her feet. “A sensible girl,” Emily’s mom would have said approvingly.
Befitting August, Zee’s legs were bare. Befitting an employee discount, her nails were perfectly manicured and painted the same coral as her lips. They appeared natural, not glued on.
Branch grunted.
Emily turned to see him trying to exit the chair he’d taken to ease the strain on his bad hip. His face was mottled from exertion, his expression stained with frustration.
“Need a hand?” Emily asked.
“Not unless you can go potty for me, Detective,” he replied.
“Gosh, no, Captain,” she said, batting her eyelids. “But I’m certainly willing to learn. Is there a school for that?”
Branch snorted as he pried himself loose. He straightened his trousers, then limped toward the men’s room, leaning on the black thornwood cane. His big hand squeezed the top knob, which was carved into a bug-eyed man bellowing at the top of his lungs.
Emily smiled. It was a sly joke from Marty, Branch’s best friend besides his wife, Lydia.
Two years ago, Branch was raked by submachine-gun fire. His myriad injuries healed over the course of 400 physical therapy sessions, but walking sans limp was still maddeningly elusive. Marty talked to a woodcarver pal. A month later, he had what he wanted. He wrapped it in Dick Tracy comics and gave it to Branch last December, at the NPD party.
“You are such a dick,” Branch murmured, shaking his head. Everyone knew it was cop-speak for, “Love you, too.” Applause erupted even as heads turned to hide damp eyes.
The bathroom door closed, and she went back to her examination.
“Sheriff’s dispatch to Commander Benedetti.”
Encrypted band, Marty noted. Unusual. Not surprising, though, given the patrol frequencies were so clogged from the manhunt.
He picked up the mike. “This is Benedetti. Go ahead.”
“It’s Marge. Are you still in Naperville?”
“Yep. Just left the spa, heading back to the shop.” As chief of detectives, his office was next to the sheriff’s in the county building. “Why?”
“I can’t raise Patrol Nineteen. I tried everything but smoke signals.”
“Who is it? And what’s he or she doing?”
“Luerchen. Smiting evildoers on Plank Road.”
Marty grinned, having heard how badly Ray stepped on his weenie at the lieutenants’ meeting. Apparently, so had Marge. “Bunch of dead zones along Plank. Probably can’t hear you.”
“I know. But the lieutenant needs him back ASAP.”
“Probably wants her wastebasket emptied.”
He heard Marge giggle. “Probably,” she agreed.
“So what do you need from me?”
“Your body.”
“So many women tell me that.”
“They don’t mean it like I do, dear,” Marge said. “Listen, I’d send a patrol unit, but they’re all tied up on jobs. I hate to bother Naperville. They’ve got their hands full.”
“Say no more.” He U-turned in front of the McDonald’s and headed back toward Plank Road. “I’ll find the miscreant and send him your way.”
“Thanks, Marty. You’re a doll.”
“Yeah, but don’t tell anyone. I’d never hear the end of it.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
The fun, flirty banter reminded him of how sensational Emily looked popping out of that mud. Not as good as being slathered in whipped cream, one of the many fantasies he’d cooked up about the first woman he’d loved since his wife died of cancer. But close.
“Appreciate that, Margie,” he said, making a mental note to stop at the supermarket after finding Ray. “Benedetti out.”
Emily studied Zabrina’s cuts. Each was an inch long and very thin, with smooth edges. Deep, to have killed her so fast. One was on her chest, where her barely there bra crossed her heart. Another was on the left side of her neck, into the jugular vein. Air-blackened blood crusted around each, freshened by the occasional flush of scarlet.
“A long, narrow, unserrated blade,” she said. “Like a fillet knife.”
“Agreed,” Branch said.