tell Daubs that. Neither did he tell Daubs that he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen that symbol before.
“And the boyfriend ?” Daubs asked.
“We don’t know who he is. Friends and family didn’t know she was dating anybody, so I figure he’s married. We got fingerprints and DNA, but nothing hit.”
“That just means he doesn’t have a criminal record.”
Daubs was stating the obvious, apparently to remind them that he was a real cop, and not just a bureaucratic suit.
“I don’t think he’s the killer,” Hanson said. “Right now he’s just a person of interest.”
“Keep on it. And keep me informed. Daily . You understand? You get a lead, I want to know about it.”
The press had already given the killer a stupid name: the West Side Basher. Never mind that Robyn Macy had died on the south side of the city. Roger Banks had first dibs.
God help them, Hanson thought, if they got another body before they got a lead.
Chapter 12
Why I tie about thy wrist,
Julia, this silken twist,
For what other reason is’t
But to show thee how, in part,
Thou my pretty captive art?
But thy bond slave is my heart.
’Tis but silk that bindeth thee,
Knap the thread and thou art free,
But ’tis otherwise with me:
I am bound and fast bound so
That from thee I cannot go;
If I could I would not so.
—R OBERT H ERRICK ,
“The Bracelet (to Julia)”
T he package sat on the welcome mat at her front door.
Cherry stared at it, then looked around. She didn’t see anybody or anything else, just the package, wrapped in shiny paper decorated in pink and red hearts, tied with a bow.
She lifted it gingerly and wondered if she should hold it to her ear to see if it ticked.
Don’t be so paranoid .
It was probably a mistake, something meant for the previous tenant. She had only moved in here almost three weeks ago. Maybe a housewarming gift from a friend?
Except none of her friends knew where she had moved. None except Roger and Marla.
She took it inside and laid it on the kitchen counter. Gunther jumped up and rubbed against her shoulder.
“Hello, stupid cat,” she said, running a hand down his back as she looked at the package.
The wrapping was pretty, but not extravagant, and the bow was taped on a little crooked. It looked ordinary enough, but its very presence was odd, and these days, odd made her uneasy. It hadn’t come through the mail or FedEx; someone had delivered it to the door.
She could carry it down to the complex office; they might be able to forward it to the proper person. Then again, knowing the manager, he would probably keep it for himself or throw it in the trash. She hated the idea that someone had gone to all the trouble to deliver a gift that wouldn’t reach its intended recipient. The recipient might never know someone had remembered his or her birthday.
She thought there might be a card inside.
“Should I just stand here looking at it?” she asked the cat. “Or go ahead and open it?”
The cat blinked at her and then mewed.
She pulled the wide red ribbon off, then slid a finger carefully under the paper so she could tape it back up if necessary.
The box was ordinary white, cheap and flimsy, about six inches square, not very deep.
Whatever it was, it was wrapped in newspaper. She pushed it aside.
Inside the box lay a collar. Not an ordinary collar like you would put on a dog, but a sleek metal band with a locking clasp.
It was the kind of collar a slave would wear. An expensive one that she recognized from the Stock Room’s website, back when a collar from her master was the thing she most desired.
Now the sight of it made her feel sick.
A card lay inside the circle made by the metal collar. Just a white card without an envelope, printed in neat block letters.
“MINE” was all it said.
Then a headline from the newspaper caught her eye.
Local attorney found dead, beside a grainy photo of Roger Banks.
“I know, honey, I know,” Marla said on the
“And the boyfriend ?” Daubs asked.
“We don’t know who he is. Friends and family didn’t know she was dating anybody, so I figure he’s married. We got fingerprints and DNA, but nothing hit.”
“That just means he doesn’t have a criminal record.”
Daubs was stating the obvious, apparently to remind them that he was a real cop, and not just a bureaucratic suit.
“I don’t think he’s the killer,” Hanson said. “Right now he’s just a person of interest.”
“Keep on it. And keep me informed. Daily . You understand? You get a lead, I want to know about it.”
The press had already given the killer a stupid name: the West Side Basher. Never mind that Robyn Macy had died on the south side of the city. Roger Banks had first dibs.
God help them, Hanson thought, if they got another body before they got a lead.
Chapter 12
Why I tie about thy wrist,
Julia, this silken twist,
For what other reason is’t
But to show thee how, in part,
Thou my pretty captive art?
But thy bond slave is my heart.
’Tis but silk that bindeth thee,
Knap the thread and thou art free,
But ’tis otherwise with me:
I am bound and fast bound so
That from thee I cannot go;
If I could I would not so.
—R OBERT H ERRICK ,
“The Bracelet (to Julia)”
T he package sat on the welcome mat at her front door.
Cherry stared at it, then looked around. She didn’t see anybody or anything else, just the package, wrapped in shiny paper decorated in pink and red hearts, tied with a bow.
She lifted it gingerly and wondered if she should hold it to her ear to see if it ticked.
Don’t be so paranoid .
It was probably a mistake, something meant for the previous tenant. She had only moved in here almost three weeks ago. Maybe a housewarming gift from a friend?
Except none of her friends knew where she had moved. None except Roger and Marla.
She took it inside and laid it on the kitchen counter. Gunther jumped up and rubbed against her shoulder.
“Hello, stupid cat,” she said, running a hand down his back as she looked at the package.
The wrapping was pretty, but not extravagant, and the bow was taped on a little crooked. It looked ordinary enough, but its very presence was odd, and these days, odd made her uneasy. It hadn’t come through the mail or FedEx; someone had delivered it to the door.
She could carry it down to the complex office; they might be able to forward it to the proper person. Then again, knowing the manager, he would probably keep it for himself or throw it in the trash. She hated the idea that someone had gone to all the trouble to deliver a gift that wouldn’t reach its intended recipient. The recipient might never know someone had remembered his or her birthday.
She thought there might be a card inside.
“Should I just stand here looking at it?” she asked the cat. “Or go ahead and open it?”
The cat blinked at her and then mewed.
She pulled the wide red ribbon off, then slid a finger carefully under the paper so she could tape it back up if necessary.
The box was ordinary white, cheap and flimsy, about six inches square, not very deep.
Whatever it was, it was wrapped in newspaper. She pushed it aside.
Inside the box lay a collar. Not an ordinary collar like you would put on a dog, but a sleek metal band with a locking clasp.
It was the kind of collar a slave would wear. An expensive one that she recognized from the Stock Room’s website, back when a collar from her master was the thing she most desired.
Now the sight of it made her feel sick.
A card lay inside the circle made by the metal collar. Just a white card without an envelope, printed in neat block letters.
“MINE” was all it said.
Then a headline from the newspaper caught her eye.
Local attorney found dead, beside a grainy photo of Roger Banks.
“I know, honey, I know,” Marla said on the
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