Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 47187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
“Frankie,” he sighs, but I hold up a hand, asking for silence while I examine the body and the surrounding area.
The victim’s chest is bare, his white chef’s coat unbuttoned and hanging open. His black and white houndstooth pants are pulled down around his ankles.
I squat down to get a closer look. “He’s been worked over good. Tortured. More than the last three vics combined. Surprisingly, he still has his dick.”
Jay mirrors my position on the other side of the body, his eyes roving over the victim’s legs, taking in the angry red gashes and purple bruises that mar the skin. He lets out a low whistle as his gaze travels up to the man’s stomach. “Fuck, Frankie. His organs are shredded.”
I nod, my eyes tracing the jagged wounds that crisscross the victim’s torso. “More like eviscerated.” It’s not a clean cut, not by a long shot. The edges are ragged, like someone went at him with a serrated knife. Or claws. Shreds of the intestine and God knows what else spill out onto the dirty concrete, glistening in the morning light. “Whatever connects this poor dude to the others, it earned him a special kind of hate.”
Leaning in closer, I study the man’s face. His features are distorted, and his mouth frozen open. “Bag went on while he was still breathing,” I say, my stomach churning at the thought.
Jay grunts in agreement. “No reason to bother otherwise. Our whack job doesn’t get off on torturing dead bodies.”
“What the fuck did you do?” I whisper to the DB because this kind of hatred is personal. Very fucking personal. “We know who he is?”
The cop standing watch over the body confirms, extending a plastic evidence pouch. “We found his wallet on him. Back pants pocket.”
I grab the bag with my gloved fingers, opening it and grabbing the billfold. “Tristan Dupont. Why does that name ring a bell?”
“Hot up-and-coming chef. He runs that new place in Malibu, Under the Sea.”
I blink in surprise. “How the hell do you know that?”
“What?” Jay asks with a shrug. “I know stuff.”
I snicker at Jay’s expression. “Sure, you know ‘80s football trivia and ‘90s Lakers rosters. But anything from this century? Not so much.”
Jay’s face breaks into an exaggerated grin that has me chuckling. “Well, if you weren’t such a hermit, you’d be up to speed on the city’s trendiest eateries like yours truly.”
“Okay, Mr. Know-It-All. We’ve got a hot Malibu chef. But what’s he doing in this neck of the woods?” I ask. “The restaurant’s nowhere near here, and his Manhattan Beach address puts him even further from this spot.”
Officer Padilla chimes in, “Looks like he was heading home from his shift. We found this bag near the body. I snapped some pictures before sealing it up as evidence.”
Jay and I stare at each other. “Good job, Padilla.” Jay digs into the evidence bag containing a deep blue duffel bag. “Anything good in there?”
Padilla says, “His knife roll, an extra coat, toiletries and his cell phone.”
Jay lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s his work bag. Knives are clean and the change of clothes is fresh.”
I glance at Jay. “Let’s get that phone to the lab. There might be something useful on it—texts, calls, location data.”
Jay nods, already slipping the phone into a different evidence bag. “Make sure they prioritize it.”
“You got it.” Padilla takes the phone and the bag over to the forensics team, where Nate accepts it with a nod.
“Hopefully, this leads us somewhere,” I say, shifting my focus back to the crime scene. There’s still plenty of ground to cover.
Behind the forensics team, I spot Amelia rushing forward, only to be stopped by a uniform at the yellow tape. “Frankie!”
“Let her through,” I call out, waving her over. “What’s the big emergency?”
“No emergency.” She’s breathing heavily as if she ran a mile rather than a few short feet before flashing a toothy grin. “I finished the preliminary profile of your killer, and I heard there was a new body, so you know I couldn’t resist.”
“The head shrinker needs a shrink,” I snark under my breath.
“So, you’re not interested?” The playful smile on her face is annoying.
I nod. “Yes, I’m interested. Duh!”
“Okay, so I’ve noted what the officers on the scene told me, but it doesn’t change anything,” she begins, choosing her words carefully. “And remember, this is tentative, but pretty damn accurate. You’re dealing with a highly intelligent, organized killer. OCD-level meticulous, as if he’s thought of everything, ran through the steps repeatedly. Nothing he does is by accident.”
I nod, stepping away from the body in case she wants a look-see at the gory details. She doesn’t, and I don’t blame her. “So,” I say, “the change in M.O., the increase in the torture,” I point my thumb over my shoulder to the dead chef behind us. “It’s all part of his sick game?” I ask.