Kendra moved to a walk-in closet on the other side of the bed. As she opened the door, she was immediately struck by that fresh lotion odor again.
Kendra pushed her face close to the hanging clothes, working her way down. She finally stopped and pulled out a gray long-sleeve T-shirt.
The lotion was smeared and splattered on its front, and the fabric was slightly torn.
Corrine Harvey had been killed in this shirt.
Kendra followed the scent to the clothes folded on a shelf above. She finally found a pair of black Capri slacks, also stained with Jafra Royal Pomegranate lotion. Why would her killer have put her clothing so neatly in this closet? It was bizarre.
She drew a deep breath. The sadness was close to overwhelming as she went through that poor woman’s clothes.
Get over it. Do your job.
Kendra found a plastic shopping bag on the closet floor and placed the clothes inside. If the killer had struggled with Corrine Harvey, there was a chance that he might have left skin cells—and his DNA—on the clothing. It was a long shot, but she had seen cases turn on far less.
Corrine Harvey’s home phone rang on the nightstand beside her bed.
And rang.
And rang.
And rang again.
She assumed it would soon go to Corrine’s voice mail or an answering machine, but after a solid minute, the ringing continued.
She slowly walked toward the bedside table and glanced at the cordless phone’s caller ID display.
She froze.
My God.
The display read: MICHAELS, KENDRA.
The call was from her mobile phone. She braced herself to slowly pick up and press the talk switch. “Yes?”
“You found the clothes.” A whisper, soft, hoarse. She couldn’t be sure if it was male or female. “You found the clothes she was wearing that night. I knew you would.”
Kendra went still. “Who is this?”
“I’ve been watching you, Kendra … What a pleasure. You never disappoint.”
She turned toward the large windows overlooking the backyard. Was he watching her even now? She ducked down and crouched next to the bed.
“Who the hell is this?”
“You’ll find out soon. I can’t tell you how eager I am for us to come together.” His whisper cut through her like a razor.
Her eyes flew around the room again, this time for something, anything, she could use as a weapon.
“Where’s the police officer?” she asked. “He had my phone. What did you do to him?”
The man chuckled. Kendra was sure it was a male voice now. “You should be more concerned about yourself.”
Think of something. Keep him talking.
“What did you do to him?”
“Why do you care?”
“He has nothing to do with this.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s all about me and you.”
“I’m glad you see it that way. I wanted to make certain that was absolutely clear.”
“I could hardly miss your intention.” She quietly moved toward the hallway. Surely, she would have heard this psychopath if he’d come upstairs … “Is the officer still alive?”
“For now. Tell me about him, Kendra. Humanize him for me. Maybe if I can look at him as a real-live human being, I won’t discard him like a scrap of meat.”
“Like you did all those other people? Ask him yourself.”
“I’m asking you.”
“I—I only just met him.”
“But that’s not a problem for you. Do what you do, Kendra. Tell me about him. Dazzle me. But I warn you, if you hang up, I will cut this phone line immediately. Then I’ll cut you and this cop. I can’t have you calling for help.”
Where in the hell was this sicko? Outside the house? Waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs? In the next room?
“I’m giving you a chance to save him. Tell me about this police officer.”
Kendra took another step toward the hallway. She froze when the floor creaked beneath her feet. To cover it, she said quickly, “He’s probably a swimmer.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes.” She strained to hear any sound of movement in the house. “Toned arms and shoulders, pronounced back muscles, flat stomach and narrow waist. Not a weight lifter, not a runner, but a swimmer.”
“Interesting.”
“He used to smoke, but not anymore. He has the smoker’s wrinkles around his upper lip, but I could smell no trace of cigarette smoke on him.”
“Excellent.”
“He’s left-handed but writes with his right hand. A parent or teacher probably made him do that as a child.”
“How disturbing.”
“I was tipped off by a writing callus on the side of his right-hand middle finger.”
“Yes, I see it.”