Carefully, he dried off Tammy’s fingers. They were long and sensual. Her nails were beautifully manicured and painted a dark blue. “You have lovely hands. It was one of the things I noticed about you.”
Sonny reached for the bolt cutters and angled the sharp edges on either side of her naked ring finger. He drew in a deep breath and then with a hard squeeze clamped the handles closed. The blades cut through the flesh and bone, snipping the finger off in one neat cut. The finger fell to the ground beside his knee.
There was little blood. Her heart had stopped pumping hours ago.
He gently laid the hand on the surface of the water and watched as a fine ribbon of blood followed the fingers to the tub’s porcelain bottom.
He fished a plastic bag from his duffel and placed his new trophy inside. He rose and leaned forward to kiss the woman on her lips.
“I’m sorry I can’t stay,” he said. “Darlin’, it’s been real nice.”
As the dimming candles flickered lazily on the blue walls, he rose and wiped down all the surfaces he might have touched before he grabbed his duffel bag and placed his trophy inside. He picked up his iPod, waiting until Miller sang his last note before turning the device off and shoving it in his pocket. Her chin had dipped forward as her torso had begun to slump closer to the water.
Sonny left her house and drove home. As he made his way through the streets, he felt relaxed and unhurried. The killing always brought a rare, if fleeting, sense of peace. Though the serenity would not last forever, he took comfort knowing that today would be with both of them forever.
He had absorbed her fear and then her last breath. His face had been the last she had looked upon. What they had shared was rarer and more intimate than sex. They were one.
He walked through the small house and into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He popped the top and took a long drink. He foraged in a cabinet and found a bag of potato chips. Taking both, he walked into a small den, clicked on the television to a game show host declaring he had a winner.
Sonny grinned. He felt the same way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tuesday, August 25, 6:00 a.m.
Melina had slept like shit. After she had knocked off work, she had gone by the hospital to see Elena. Although the child was sleeping, she had sat with her awhile.
When her head hit the pillow at 2:00 a.m., she spent the next two hours staring at the ceiling. When sleep did come, she dreamed about deserted roads, cold, and fear.
Finally, at five she rose, showered, and made a strong cup of coffee. When Wild Kitty scratched at the back door, she made a plate of albacore tuna and sat out on the patio drinking coffee while the cat ate. Through the fence, she heard her neighbor call for his cat. Neither she nor Wild Kitty spoke up.
She checked her phone. No updates from Ramsey on the Key Killer or Mr. Ring Finger. She should not expect one, but that did not stop her from checking twice more. She read the local news on her phone, and when the cat finished eating and left, she collected the plate and went inside.
By the time she had dressed, it was after six and she had headed to the office.
As she crossed her apartment parking lot, she noted the collection of three cigarette butts by her car. She had made a point to park in a different spot. And again, the lady with the pink lipstick had chosen to stand by her car and smoke.
The beauty of being a cop was that her natural suspicions could be satisfied fairly easily. She fished a latex glove from her pocket and picked up the butts, carefully wrapping them up.
When she arrived at the office complex, most of the individual office doors were open, and she could hear the tap of keys on keyboards mingling with hushed conversations. Ramsey was already set up in the conference room working.
Fatigue scraped her nerves and sent her in search of more coffee to make her more fit to be around humans. Coffee first. Ramsey could wait.
But as she passed the conference room, he rose and opened the door. “Mr. Piper is ready with an update.”
She kept walking. “Let me grab a second cup of coffee, and I’ll be right there.”
After Melina tanked up her to-go cup, she saw Ramsey waiting in the hallway. Silent, she followed, sipping as they cut across to the forensic lab. After showing their badges, they rode the elevator down to the first floor, where the crashed car had been towed.
In the open bay on a concrete floor, the mangled metal appeared more snarled and torn than it had on the street. Distracted by Elena and the jar, Melina had not fully absorbed the extent of the damage.
The center of the front grill and fender was bent, and the frame was angled out of alignment. The front passenger side was scraped, and the hood was crumpled.
“I’ll say it again,” she said. “I can’t believe BB was able to run.”
“Adrenaline was pumping. And given the surprise in the trunk, BB didn’t want to talk to the cops.”
The echo of footsteps brought their attention around to a young woman in her early thirties. She was tall and slim with short light-blond hair. Sharp gray eyes stared out from behind thick-rimmed glasses.
“Agents Ramsey and Shepard, I presume?” the woman asked. When both showed their badges, she thrust out her hand. “I’m Agent Henrietta Wagner. Henri to the crew around here. Matt worked until about 5:00 a.m. and has run home for a shower. But I’ve been working with him along the way.”
After an exchange of a few pleasantries, Henri walked them to the front of the car. “Not the worst crash I’ve seen. If the vehicle had struck the tree on the driver’s side, she or he would have been more seriously injured. But as luck would have it, this individual’s side of the vehicle was fairly intact.”
“Too bad. It would have saved us the chase,” Melina said.
“I’ve spent the last couple of hours dusting the car for prints, and needless to say I’ve pulled many. However, as we learned at the crime scene, none were pulled from the steering wheel or any of the normal places you would expect the driver to touch. But as Agent Ramsey suggested, we did dust the car seat and pulled up several good impressions from the side and the back buckle. Prints were fed into AFIS about an hour ago, so we are hoping for some kind of hit.”
Henri walked them over to a table filled with a variety of belongings that Melina recognized from her earlier look in the trunk. “Whoever packed the trunk used every available square inch.”
“Their entire life was in that trunk,” Melina said. She walked along the edge of the table, looking at the contents of one of the suitcases: eight sets of high-heeled shoes, sparkling tops and dresses, and a collection of black and red lace underwear.
“Looks like it. The driver enjoyed high heels, designer jeans, and sequins. There was also a stash of credit cards in one of the bags. They were all reported stolen. There was also a sling and a cane.”
“Our driver is a grifter or con artist,” Melina said.
“And likely has an arrest record,” Ramsey said.
Henri received a text. “Looks like you’re right. Our driver does have an arrest record. Just got back the AFIS results. Her name is Bonnie Lynn Guthrie. She’s fifty-nine years old and was born in Dallas, Texas.” She tapped on a link and turned the phone toward them. “This mug shot was taken in 2014. Arrested for credit card fraud and possession of heroin in Ventura County, California. After the fifth arrest, she was sentenced to ten years in prison. California cut her loose after five years, time served. She’s been out on parole the last year.”
“Has she checked in with her PO recently?” Ramsey asked.
“She missed her last appointment with her parole officer. Until then, she had checked in faithfully,” she said. “His contact info is in the text.”
“Can you text me that?” Melina asked.
“Number?” Henri typed as Melina recited the digits. “Done.”
Melina pulled up the image as soon as it hit her phone. A flicker of recognition tickled the back of her brain. She enlarged the face with the swipe of her finger. Old memories reached out from the shadows, and the odd sense of déjà vu grew stronger. She scrolled through Guthrie’s priors but did not see any connection to Nashville.
“Do you see something familiar about her?” Ramsey asked.
“Not really.” She turned off the screen and tucked the phone away. “Henri, anything else you can tell us about the car?”
“No evidence of decomposition fluids,” Henri said. “I checked after the discovery of the jar and fingers. I did find a small bag of pot. No firearms.”
Melina glanced at the time on her phone. “I have time to swing by the hospital and check on Elena and show her the picture of Bonnie to confirm it’s BB.”
“Mind if I tag along?” Ramsey asked. “I’d like to hear what she has to say.”
“Sure. Suit yourself.” She thought about the pink-tipped cigarette butts in her pocket. “I need to make a quick stop at Matt’s office before we go.”
It took a couple of tries, but Ramsey was able to convince Shepard to let him drive both of them to the hospital. He was certainly interested in what Elena had to say, but his focus was on Shepard. She had stared at Bonnie Guthrie’s picture as if she had seen a ghost. Her eyes had widened and the color had faded from her cheeks. However, when he had asked, the agent had quickly cloaked whatever had been going on in her head.