The Drowned Girls (Angie Pallorino Book 1) Read online

  “What links the Drummond and Hocking homicides to the assaults on Fernyhough and Ritter, then?” came Leo’s gruff voice from the back.

  “I’m going to let Pallorino walk you through those cases. Pallorino?”

  Angie got up and went to the front with her files. She set them on the table. Clearing her throat, she pointed to the photo of Ritter on the whiteboard, an attractive teen with long brown hair, petite build. “Sally Ritter was assaulted in August four years ago after leaving an outdoor concert to relieve herself in the woods nearby. By her own admission she was severely intoxicated. Once in the trees, out of sight from the concertgoers, she was grabbed by her assailant from behind. He held his arm tightly around her neck and pressed a knife blade to her throat. She remembers a male voice, dark clothing, and a ski mask. She believes her assailant was Caucasian, about five feet eleven inches tall, lean, very strong. Probably in his twenties or early thirties. He dragged her deeper into a bushy area, where he forced her facedown to the ground. He pressed her face into the dirt, and, holding the blade to her neck, he yanked up her skirt and ripped off her underwear. He ordered her not to scream or he’d slice her throat. He then said these words: Do you reject Satan, father of sin and prince of darkness? Fisting her hair, blade to her throat, he forced her to say I do. He then penetrated her with his penis from behind, vaginally and anally, leaving tears. Ritter was sixteen at the time.”

  Angie paused, feeling Maddocks’s eyes on her. She resisted glancing his way and focused instead on the men in front of her. “He then struck her on the head, she thinks with a rock, rendering her temporarily unconscious. When she came around, she made her way back to the concert, where friends asked her what she had on her face. Her assailant had drawn, in red waterproof Sharpie, a crucifix on her brow, and a lock of her hair had been cut from just right of center of her hairline.”

  Angie pinned up a photo of the red cross on Ritter’s forehead. “This photo was taken by her sister—Ritter reported her incident three days after the fact. The size and shape and positioning of the cross matches the ones carved into Drummond’s and Hocking’s foreheads. The lock of hair was cut from the same area.”

  She pointed to the photograph of Fernyhough. “Allison Fernyhough was fourteen at the time of her assault. She was leaving the Tudor Bar downtown in early September three years ago where she’d been drinking under a false ID. On a deserted street, she was attacked, also from behind, an arm around her neck, knife to the throat. She was pulled into an alley and behind a dumpster, where she was forced facedown into the paving and told not to scream or her throat would be cut. Her assailant ripped her clothing and repeated the same words: Do you reject Satan, father of sin and prince of darkness? He forced her to say I do, then raped her in the same manner as Ritter before rendering her unconscious. Fernyhough didn’t remember much about her assailant—she also admits she’d had too much to drink and was vulnerable. She only discovered the red crucifix on her forehead and the missing lock of hair after she returned home that night and looked in the bathroom mirror.” Angie pinned up the photo of Ritter’s brow with the crucifix. “Again, same shape, size, positioning. This photo was taken by her friend. Ritter reported the incident six days later, at her friend’s, then her mother’s insistence. Neither Ritter nor Fernyhough had rape kits done. Their clothes had been washed in both cases, and their assailant, they believe, wore a condom. We found no witnesses, nothing, other than both victims admitted to having felt they were being ‘followed by a man’ in the two weeks preceding the attacks. There were no further assaults reported, nothing matching this MO on ViCLAS, nothing from the high-risk offender unit matching this offender’s MO, either.”

  “So if this is the same perp, where’s he been?” came a question from the group.

  “Possibly in prison, or offending elsewhere, or there’ve been additional cases that have gone unreported.” She met the eyes of each man and the one woman in front of her in turn. “Those specific words,” she said, “are part of the Roman Catholic baptism ritual. Given those words, the crucifixes, the references to sinners, and the fact that Drummond was immersed in water and posed at the feet of the Virgin Mary, and that two of the victims were defeminized—had parts of their bodies removed that serve no other role in human biology other than to experience sexual pleasure—it’s possible that our offender believes he’s punishing the girls for their sin of female sexuality. Or for stimulating lust in himself. He—”

  Buziak came sharply to his feet. “Thank you, Detective. Let’s gather the facts and not speculate at this point.” He checked his watch. “This is all very preliminary. We’re waiting on final autopsy reports and lab results, including the results of tests being conducted on what appears to be animal hair and seeds found on Hocking’s body. We’ll be seeking further entomological, botanical, and odontological interpretation on that trace. We’ll also be soliciting meteorological and ocean current expertise. Our techs are combing through the results of the canvass that was conducted around Ross Bay Cemetery, including examination of footage secured from a 7-Eleven security camera across the street from the graveyard. And we’ll be doing further interviews with Blue Badger staff and a canvass of the surrounding area.”

  Chairs scraped back, and detectives gathered around while Buziak assigned investigative tasks.

  “Leo, you and Holgersen go to Harbor House—see if anyone there can tell us more about Faith Hocking. And take these.” Buziak handed Holgersen a pile of flyers with Faith Hocking’s mug shot. “Maybe someone in that area has seen her around recently.

  “Maddocks, you and Pallorino head to the morgue, see what O’Hagan has for us on Drummond.” He glanced at his watch again. “After that, visit the Drummond residence and see what the victim’s living conditions can tell us. I’ll be sending patrol officers with questionnaires to canvass residents in the area around her residence. Maybe they’ll locate someone else who got on that same 6:07 p.m. bus at the stop outside the Drummond apartment block.”

  Fitz said nothing, just watched like a dark hawk on the side.

  Voices rose.

  Buziak banged the base of an empty water glass on the table. “Listen up.” Chatter quieted.

  “We solve about eighty-five percent of our homicides in this country, and there’s a simple reason for that—most people are attacked by someone they know. But as soon as we have stranger-on-stranger crime, that nexus between victim and offender is broken. Find that nexus, and we’ll find him.”

  Fitz unfolded himself and rose from his chair. He came to Buziak’s side in front of the whiteboard. As tall as Maddocks, he was as narrow as Buziak. Beak of a nose. Long face. Sensual lips. Hooded, lugubrious eyes that belied a crackling sharp intellect and temper.

  A heavy quiet settled over the room.

  “Statistically,” Fitz said in his oddly high voice, “this offender will strike again, and soon, if this current time span between Hocking and Drummond is anything to go by. We’re not going to let that happen.” He paused. “I want this suspect in custody before Christmas.”

  Buziak added with a clap of his hands, “So, what’re you all waiting for? A hug goodbye? C’mon, let’s get started already.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Angie stepped outside and ducked under an overhang to call her dad. While she waited for the call to pick up, she watched Leo and Holgersen exit the building and make for cover farther along the building. Holgersen bent forward as Leo lit his smoke. She turned her back on them as her call connected.

  “Dad, it’s me. How’s Mom today? Any better?”

  Her father sighed heavily. “It’s not going to get better, Ange, only worse. She got all hyper and stressed and disoriented with the move. They have her heavily sedated at the moment.”

  Her heart ached. He sounded so defeated. Lonely. She glanced over her shoulder at the guys smoking, laughing. What was she doing with her life anyway? What was family to her? Suddenly these questions were big and real. Her mind went to Lorna Drummond, her br
utally murdered child. The sense of lost time.

  “I’ll try to go—” She hesitated. “No. I will stop by today. I promise. When I get a moment.”

  “Yeah, Angie. Yeah.”

  She bit her lip, jiggling her car keys. “By the way, Dad, what year was your sabbatical in Italy?”

  “Why?”

  “I … was going through all those old photos you gave me and wondering.”

  He fell silent for a moment. “I’d need to look it up—I don’t recall exactly.”

  “But it was the year of the car accident, right? We never visited Italy any other time, did we?”

  Another beat of silence. “What’s going on, Angie?” She noted a shift in his tone.

  “It’s nothing. Just that Mom had written 1984 on the back of a photo taken in Rome, and again on a shot from Naples, but I thought we were there in ’86 and that that was the year my face was cut.”

  Another odd beat. “Your mother was probably confused. It … the symptoms—they’d started.”

  Angie said goodbye, killed the call, and regarded the rain for a moment, unsettled by the tone in her dad’s voice. But it made sense. If her mom had already been losing touch with reality and time.

  Maddocks exited the station, and Angie’s attention snapped to him. He looked arrogant and striking as all get out in a black wool car coat, crisp white shirt, and burgundy tie. He moved with that same commanding presence that had snagged her attention—and libido—in the club. Yeah, she should have recognized that swagger and made him for law enforcement, military, or some allied profession.

  “Doc O’Hagan is expecting us,” he said as he approached her.

  “I’ll meet you there.” She stepped out into the rain and headed for her vehicle.

  “We can take my car!” he called after her.

  She hesitated, turned. “I always drive.”

  “Fine,” he said, coming up to her and holding out his keys. “You can drive mine.”

  “What’s wrong with my vehicle?”

  “You want dog pee in yours?”

  “What?”

  “My dog sitter fell through. I won’t have another until tonight, so Jack-O needs to hang out in my vehicle until then. Sometimes he pees in there. And his blanket and bowl and other trappings are in there.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  He tossed her his keys. She caught them. “It’s the Chevy Impala over there.” He strode toward the car.

  She stared after him in disbelief. Holgersen sauntered up behind her and chuckled. “Good luck with the control issues, Pallorino.”

  “Oh, fuck off.”

  “You sure you haven’t met him before?” Holgersen said. “Old Leo back there reckons you two got history. Said you both looked like you’d been slammed with an RPG when you locked eyes on each other in the morgue.”

  Angie swore and stalked toward Maddocks, who was waiting by his vehicle, hands in pockets, rain forming diamond droplets on his jet-black hair. Beeping the lock, she tossed the keys back at him. “It’s fine,” she snapped. “You drive.” She climbed into the passenger seat. A little mongrel growled on the backseat.

  “Oh nice, it really does stink,” she said, turning to check out the mutt. Ugly critter. Some kind of Jack Russell cross, and it appeared to have recently had its back right leg amputated. It growled again, baring yellowed little teeth.

  “Like I said, only until I get a sitter,” he said, getting into the driver’s seat. “Then I can get the car detailed.” He shut the door and pulled on his seat belt. In the closed confines of the vehicle the pee smell was stronger, and Maddocks’s body was suddenly too close, the space too intimate. His eyes met hers, and the memory of their sex together swelled through her. His pupils darkened, and she knew he was thinking of it, too.

  About our unfinished business … I’d like to finish it … Can’t stop thinking about you …

  Quickly clearing her throat, she said, “What’s with the dog, anyway? What happened to its leg?”

  He fired the ignition and backed out of the parking space.

  “Hit-and-run. Happened right in front of my eyes. Truck crushed his leg. I stopped and pretty much peeled him off the road, took him to the vet. They couldn’t save the leg, so amputated. No one claimed him.” Maddocks shrugged. “Maybe his owner didn’t want to pay vet bills, or couldn’t. Maybe he was just a stray. So I paid, and then I couldn’t have them just dump him at the shelter, poor guy.” He glanced at her. “So I took him. He needed follow-up surgery anyway. He’s just getting over that second op now.”

  “What kind of name is Jack-O?”

  The hint of a smile toyed with his mouth as he pulled into the road. “It was Halloween night when he was hit. He was trying to eat a shattered pumpkin on the road.” He shot Angie another look, and his smile deepened, lighting his eyes. “Besides, he’s a scary-ass-looking little thing, don’t you think? And he’s partially orange, like a pumpkin. I think it fits.”

  She weighed him, her preconceptions turning on top of themselves in her mind. So, the good-looking homicide cop blessed with a beautiful big dick also rescued orphan animals.

  He turned the heat up. Wipers squeaked as he drove. Her gaze lowered to his wrists, where his sleeves were pulling back to expose the red ligature marks left by the friction of her restrains and their hot sex. Her mouth turned dry, and her focus settled on his wedding band.

  “Why doesn’t your wife look after Jack-O—she also work full-time, or what?”

  A flash of those eyes. His mouth tightened. Ah, she’d hit a sore spot. Curiosity deepened.

  “She lives on the mainland. I moved here to be near my kid. Ginny just started school at UVic.” He stopped at a red light, tapped his fingers on the wheel. “I was actually with Ginn at the Blue Badger Bakery when I got the call for the floater. Trendy spot where Drummond worked.”

  More questions about this man, his wife, his kid, rolled through Angie’s mind. She looked out of the rain-streaked window. She didn’t want questions, or to feel interested, or to know that he could be available despite that wedding ring.

  “Buziak was a bit of an ass back there, cutting you off,” he said as the light turned green and he entered the intersection. “Sorry about that.”

  Surprise rippled through her. “It’s not for you to apologize.” Then pride whipped up her spine. “It’s not like I was fazed. Buziak is like that.”

  “What were you going to say?”

  “Are you trying to indulge me?”

  “Is that what you think? Look, if you’re going to be partnered with me, I want to hear your theories. All of them. And you’re gonna hear mine.” He turned onto the slipway that led onto the highway that would take them to the morgue. “Besides, you and Hash worked those earlier rape cases. I read the files, but there’s nothing like a firsthand account.”

  “When did you read the files? Last night?”

  “Early hours of this morning.”

  She stared at him. She was beginning to feel like her old cases, plus everything she’d already done with Holgersen on the Drummond investigation, were being sneaked out from under her. “Why didn’t you guys call me when you got the Hocking ID?” she said.

  He smiled. “Because you needed your beauty sleep.”

  “Fuck off, Maddocks,” she said quietly. “If you’re going to patronize me—”

  “Hey, if you’ve got a chip on your shoulder and want to think that everyone is somehow patronizing or indulging you because you’re female, or some kind of misandrist, that’s your problem, not mine.” His eyes turned serious. “Because I don’t play those head games. Understand?”

  “Tell me one thing,” she said coolly. “Since we’re clearing the ground here. Why did you take this job? It’s a step down, from what I can see. You were pretty much Buziak’s equivalent with the RCMP, yet here you are, taking orders from him, getting your fancy tie and wool coat dirty in the trenches. You fuck up on the old job, or what?”

  “I told you. I came h
ere to be close to my kid.”

  “And you just left your wife back there? Yet you wear your ring.”

  He shot her a hot glance. “It’s complicated.” The warning in his features, in his voice, told her to back off. “And personal.”

  She studied his profile—the aggressive thrust of his forehead, dark brows, strong nose. Wide, sculpted lips. Long, thick black lashes. An image of his dark groin and chest hair came to mind. In spite of herself, she felt a spark in her groin. She looked away. Yeah. Personal. They’d gotten real personal at the club.

  This was going to be complicated.

  Dangerous, even. If she wanted that homicide job.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Jayden? What’s the matter? You look positively white.”

  He clicked off the television news in the kitchen. His heart galloped in his throat. They’d identified the Cemetery Girl. Gracie. There had to be a mistake. How in the hell could it be Gracie? He felt like he was going to throw up. “Nothing.”

  “You certain?”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped as he pushed his uneaten breakfast aside.

  His mother’s eyes flickered between him, the television, and the kitchen clock. A frown creased into her brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the law faculty thing this morning?”

  Without answering, he got up and hurriedly left the kitchen, almost bumping into his father on his way out. As his dad entered the kitchen behind him, briefcase in hand, Jayden heard his dad say, “I don’t know why that kid still lives with us. He’s going to be thirty in two years, for heaven’s sake.”

  Jayden stilled, eavesdropping as his parents discussed him.

  “Because he can focus on his law degree without worrying about looking after his own place and buying and cooking his own food,” his mother said.