“Standing watch in the witness room,” Emily said.
“Been there, done that.”
“You’ve worked executions, Chief?”
“Call me Gene. And yes, several. I started my career in Florida, where Old Sparky’s right up there with God and orange juice. Best of luck.”
“Thanks,” she said. “So, I hear we’ve got a common thread.”
“Matches,” Mason said. “A pair of which I found sixteen feet from a nice young man whose throat was slit by person or persons unknown. A barber named Frank Mahoney.”
“I read up on the murder on my way to the station,” Emily said, having logged onto NCIC in the car as a way to avoid Marty. He kept trying to explain, but she kept shutting him down. “Tell me about the matches.”
“Common kitchen type,” Mason said. “Two inches long, eighth-inch square. Lit, extinguished, and deposited in the room where Mahoney was killed.”
“Same here,” Emily said, describing the mud spa’s lobby. “I found ours behind the front door, out of the normal traffic pattern.”
“Mine were under a TV,” Mason said. “Deliberately placed, I believe, since the shop banned smoking.” He described the sickle of Mahoney’s throat. “When was your attack?”
“Friday,” she said. “The shooter stabbed the receptionist, then broke her nose.”
“Really?” Mason said. “Mahoney’s was broken, too. We assumed naturally, from the fall.”
“So did we,” Emily said, perking up at the thought of another commonality. “But CSI proved otherwise. The killer stabbed Zabrina, then smashed her nose on the counter. A half hour later he gunned down a deputy sheriff who’d pulled him over for a traffic ticket.”
The long silence told her he hadn’t heard that part.
“Gene?” she prompted. “Are you there?”
“Yes. Sorry,” Mason said, clearing his throat. “My niece was on the highway patrol. She got it during a traffic stop a couple years back. Left a partner and their two daughters. Lousy memory.”
“I know,” Emily said. The hateful looks she’d received two years ago from the widows of her murdered colleagues - blaming not the madman, but her, for their misery - still woke her in the little hours. “Anyway, you were saying . . .”
“Your murder occurred Friday morning. Mine was Saturday night,” Mason said. “Our killer could have driven the 1,500 miles, theoretically, but more likely flew into Phoenix, Vegas, or Albuquerque and picked up a rental-”
“Whoa, Gene!” Emily said. “What makes you believe we’re dealing with the same killer?”
The room gabble hushed.
“Wishful thinking,” Mason said.
Emily shook her head, and it resumed.
“I’m reduced to that because I’ve got no evidence,” Mason continued. “Not a fingerprint, shoe scuff, tire track, clothing fiber, or eyewitness. No suspicious cars, no prison breaks, all known dirtbags accounted for.”
“What about hair?”
“That we got,” Mason said dryly.
Duh, she chastised herself. It’s a barbershop! “Are you doing a DNA analysis?”
“Already shipped to the state lab. But that’ll take months. Besides, it’s clippings.”
“You need roots to extract DNA,” Emily said.
“Right,” Mason said, sounding as weary as she felt.
“I wish I could help you, Gene,” Emily said. “But those matches are coincidence. I know we found them at murder scenes, and both noses were broken, but . . .”
“It’s just too big a stretch to think our cases are connected,” Mason sighed. “Yeah, I know. But like I said, wishful thinking’s all I have left-”
“Seattle PD on Line Three,” Marty grunted, pointing at the phone. “Urgent.”
Emily considering flaming him for interrupting her interview. But that would be horribly unprofessional, and she wouldn’t sink to the level of that awful Alice. “Gene? Can I put you on hold a minute?”
“Sure.”
She punched Three as more phones jangled. The room got noisy with grabbing and answering.
“Emily Thompson,” Emily said, shoving a finger into her other ear.
“Mimi Sheridan, Seattle homicide. Are you the one who posted to NCIC about burnt matches?”
Emily managed not to drop the receiver. “Yes. Why?”
“I worked a case last October. Hit-and-run near Puget Sound, middle of the day. Victim was a twenty-year-old male Caucasian. A cabbie found him in the middle of the street with a piece of broken fender through his abdomen. Kid bled out before he hit the asphalt.”