harshly and without humor. "You probably thought I'd be on the other side of the law." He leaned backward in the chrome chair until the front legs tilted upward.
"Frankly, I didn't think of you at all until the district attorney got a call from Washington."
The jibe rankled. "Good, then I can expect your full cooperation."
"Why not?" Slater paused, and like a dare added, "As long as you don't disappear on us." The again was implied and set Jack's teeth on edge.
"What can I do for the federal government?" Slater asked before Jack could react.
Jack stretched his long legs out in front of him. "I have an old cold case."
"What's a federal cold case got to do with my office?"
"We have intelligence that our killer might've run to ground in this area."
"Out of fifty states and thousands of counties, you think he's holed up in mine?" Slater lifted both brows and lazily rested his chin in his large hand.
Jack opened his mouth to explain, but the insistent buzzing of the phone stopped him.
"Hold on." Slater lifted one finger in the air and punched the speaker button. "What's wrong now, Connie?"
"Dispatch reports a 187 at North Shore, about a half mile past marker 19, two hundred yards from the water."
"Harris?"
"Yep, got him on the other line."
"Patch him through," the Sheriff instructed, looking at Jack with mild curiosity.
The voice came through the speaker phone, tinny, but deep. "Harris, here, Sheriff. Got a nude body off the highway, laying behind a log near the shore, female, possibly African-American."
"Say again. Possibly?"
"Yes sir, body's badly beaten. Can't be sure."
Jack went very still, all senses on full alert. This time as the headache slammed into him, he managed to control the pain of it. Still, the sounds of crushing bone and spattered blood echoed in his ears. Cries, young female cries, and the whimpers of fear and desperation, terror and pleading.
He smelled the bone, heard the blood, felt the cries. Mismatches, he thought, and battled back the sensory overload.
"Goddammit," Slater muttered. "I'll be there in forty." He depressed the call button. "Conn, get the techs out there ASAP." He slammed the phone back in its cradle.
Not possible, Jack thought, at the same time he mentally calculated the distance between the Utah border, where the fourth body was found, and northern California. It was his man. He felt it in his bones. Pulling out the notepad where he'd taken notes on Olivia's student, he read his own broad scrawl. Keisha Johnson, five foot two inches, African American-Islander, nineteen.
Shit!
Slater watched Jack's movement as he reached for his jacket.
When he reached the office door, Jack stood. "Mind if I tag along?"
Slater lifted his broad shoulders. "Why the hell not?"
A little less than an hour later, Jack and Slater stared down at the mass of bloody flesh nestled in the brush around North Shore, the California side of Lake Tahoe. A tall, burly deputy crouched beside the body, looking pale beneath his dusty black skin.
"Bus is on the way," Slater said to his deputy, his gray eyes unreadable. "How'd you come on it?"
Harris pointed to the square of red fabric flapping in the cool morning breeze. It was virtually unnoticeable from the highway. "That caught my attention and I pulled off to investigate, climbed down to the rock by the shore."
"Damn good eye," Slater complimented.
The headache remained, but Jack couldn't feel the screams and wails up here, this close to the body. It was like the victim could rest now that she'd been found. He turned toward the peaceful, clear waters of the Lake Tahoe for a moment and then looked down at the body again.
The small mangled flesh was a dusty pink, a hue that might've begun as scarlet and was now pretty enough for a little girl's bedroom. If you didn't look at the tangled pieces of bone and flesh along the length of the body. The Dead Language Killer's handiwork, he was sure of it.
Harris had secured the scene, although on this
"Frankly, I didn't think of you at all until the district attorney got a call from Washington."
The jibe rankled. "Good, then I can expect your full cooperation."
"Why not?" Slater paused, and like a dare added, "As long as you don't disappear on us." The again was implied and set Jack's teeth on edge.
"What can I do for the federal government?" Slater asked before Jack could react.
Jack stretched his long legs out in front of him. "I have an old cold case."
"What's a federal cold case got to do with my office?"
"We have intelligence that our killer might've run to ground in this area."
"Out of fifty states and thousands of counties, you think he's holed up in mine?" Slater lifted both brows and lazily rested his chin in his large hand.
Jack opened his mouth to explain, but the insistent buzzing of the phone stopped him.
"Hold on." Slater lifted one finger in the air and punched the speaker button. "What's wrong now, Connie?"
"Dispatch reports a 187 at North Shore, about a half mile past marker 19, two hundred yards from the water."
"Harris?"
"Yep, got him on the other line."
"Patch him through," the Sheriff instructed, looking at Jack with mild curiosity.
The voice came through the speaker phone, tinny, but deep. "Harris, here, Sheriff. Got a nude body off the highway, laying behind a log near the shore, female, possibly African-American."
"Say again. Possibly?"
"Yes sir, body's badly beaten. Can't be sure."
Jack went very still, all senses on full alert. This time as the headache slammed into him, he managed to control the pain of it. Still, the sounds of crushing bone and spattered blood echoed in his ears. Cries, young female cries, and the whimpers of fear and desperation, terror and pleading.
He smelled the bone, heard the blood, felt the cries. Mismatches, he thought, and battled back the sensory overload.
"Goddammit," Slater muttered. "I'll be there in forty." He depressed the call button. "Conn, get the techs out there ASAP." He slammed the phone back in its cradle.
Not possible, Jack thought, at the same time he mentally calculated the distance between the Utah border, where the fourth body was found, and northern California. It was his man. He felt it in his bones. Pulling out the notepad where he'd taken notes on Olivia's student, he read his own broad scrawl. Keisha Johnson, five foot two inches, African American-Islander, nineteen.
Shit!
Slater watched Jack's movement as he reached for his jacket.
When he reached the office door, Jack stood. "Mind if I tag along?"
Slater lifted his broad shoulders. "Why the hell not?"
A little less than an hour later, Jack and Slater stared down at the mass of bloody flesh nestled in the brush around North Shore, the California side of Lake Tahoe. A tall, burly deputy crouched beside the body, looking pale beneath his dusty black skin.
"Bus is on the way," Slater said to his deputy, his gray eyes unreadable. "How'd you come on it?"
Harris pointed to the square of red fabric flapping in the cool morning breeze. It was virtually unnoticeable from the highway. "That caught my attention and I pulled off to investigate, climbed down to the rock by the shore."
"Damn good eye," Slater complimented.
The headache remained, but Jack couldn't feel the screams and wails up here, this close to the body. It was like the victim could rest now that she'd been found. He turned toward the peaceful, clear waters of the Lake Tahoe for a moment and then looked down at the body again.
The small mangled flesh was a dusty pink, a hue that might've begun as scarlet and was now pretty enough for a little girl's bedroom. If you didn't look at the tangled pieces of bone and flesh along the length of the body. The Dead Language Killer's handiwork, he was sure of it.
Harris had secured the scene, although on this
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