Free The Last Victim by Karen Robards Page A

Kaminsky—“start looking for someone who’s been out of commission for the past fifteen years and has just resurfaced. Caucasian male of the right age who’s been in prison and was just released, been out of the country, been in a hospital, you know the drill.”
    “Got it,” Kaminsky said.
    Ten minutes later, with Bartoli beside her, Charlie was heading for the Mead’s rented beach house, which was pastel blue and located next door to the pink one the RV was parked beside. The pink house, she had learned, had been chosen precisely because it was the next property down from the crime scene, although the two houses were separated by a considerable expanse of sea oats–covered sand. Walking along the wooden sidewalk that wound through the dunes—Bartoli had nixed driving; he didn’t want to alert the media (presently being kept at bay out front by the local cops) to their arrival—Charlie let the brisk wind blowing in from the ocean do what it could to soothe her. It smelled of salt and the sea, and lifted tendrils of her hairthat had worked free of the loose knot at her nape and slid beneath the V-neckline of her sleeveless white blouse to caress her skin. Even with the breeze, the night was warm enough so that the black blazer she carried over one arm was not needed. She was once again wearing black pants—clean black pants; she had a lot of them—with heels. It was her professional but not-inside-a-prison look.
    A makeshift fence composed of a line of yellow crime scene tape surrounded the house, blocking the sidewalk in front of them. Bartoli circumvented it by the simple expedient of ducking beneath it, then holding it out of the way so Charlie could follow.
    Once on the other side of the tape, she took one last look at the house from the sanctuary of the beautiful summer’s night. It was a large, rambling, two-story structure, with a multitude of windows and a wide gallery on the second floor. Built back-to-front, as most beach houses were, it had the main living areas facing the ocean, while the garage and lesser areas, like laundry rooms, fronted the street. The curtains were tightly drawn, but inside the house blazed with light, making the windows seem to glow. It was a sad commentary on the situation that the darkness outside seemed way preferable to what awaited within, Charlie thought. For a moment longer she stood still, drinking in the night with its starlit, black velvet sky and palely gleaming beach and rumbling waves. Then she mentally squared her shoulders and let Bartoli usher her inside the house.
    It was still being processed as a crime scene: technicians were busy everywhere Charlie looked. There was a lot of activity, a lot of noise, a lot to see and hear.
    “We’re just going to take a look around,” Bartoli told the cop who admitted them, who clearly knew who Bartoli was. The cop was young, maybe late twenties. Military-cut dark hair, tall and thin in his dark blue uniform. “This is Dr. Stone. Dr. Stone, Officer Price.” Charlie nodded politely, but she didn’t say anything: she was too busy bracing herself for what lie ahead.
    Price nodded. “Help yourself.”
    “We think the perp came in through the garage,” Bartoli told Charlie as the cop moved away. “The side door has a cheap lock, and there’s some evidence that it may have been jimmied with a credit card.”
    Busy looking around, Charlie merely nodded in reply.
    They had entered through French doors that opened from the deck, directly into the kitchen, which was large and modern. Bartoli had indicated a white-painted door next to the refrigerator. The door stood ajar. Beyond it, Charlie saw at a glance, was the garage. Its light was on, and a red mini-van was parked inside. Some evidence that investigators had been at work in the garage was visible, but nothing drew her. Turning her head, she surveyed the downstairs. A dining area with a glass-topped table and four chairs adjoined the kitchen, and beyond that was a