She didnât want to force him out of the room, but would, if necessary.
With a curt nod, Dante stepped out into the hall. He glanced down the hall toward the stairs. Breathing in relief, Heather followed.
âWhat questions?â
âWhen did you see Gina last?â
âLast night.â
Heather stared at Dante, feeling as though someone had just dumped a bucket of ice over her head. âLast night? You sure?â
Another broken pattern. The CCKâ if it was the CCKâalways kept his victims for several days. Intuition whispered, Itâs him, all right .
âYeah, Iâm sure,â Dante said. âWe were even in this room.â
No coincidence. Dante was meant to find her. Heather glanced at the blood-smeared wall behind the bed. WAKE UP S. Last time, it had simply read Wake Up. What did the S stand for?
Could an obsession with Dante be the reason for the broken pattern? The messages meant for him? Lafayette. The cigarette-lighter-burned symbol on Daniel Spurrellâs chest. The images of a hooded Dante wearing the anarchy symbol around his throat, then around his wrist. If heâd been meant to find the bodyâ¦her pulse raced.
Heâs communicating. With Dante.
She was close to the killer. Closer than sheâd ever been.
âDoes âWake Up Sâ mean anythingââ
Heather turned as two uniformed officers rounded the corner from the landing. âSpecial Agent Wallace, FBI,â she said. âIâm reaching for my identification.â As she slid a hand into her purse, the first cop, flushed with excitement and adrenaline, zeroed in on Dante and dropped a hand to his holster.
âYou!â he barked at Dante. âOn the floor! Now!â
âTell your partner to back off,â Heather said, displaying her badge to the second officer, a man older, thicker, and more certain than the one yapping like a terrier at Dante. âHeâs the club owner. He knows the victim.â
âJefferson,â the cop sighed. âEnough. Leave off.â Shaking his head, he stopped in front of Heather. âManning,â he said. Nodded toward his partner. âRookie and still green as a gatorâs hind end.â
Heather smiled. âNo kidding.â
She glanced at Dante. He stood at ease, pretending to ignore the now-silenced rookie. He even yawned. She wasnât fooled, however; she read the tension in his shoulders and noted the wound-up-ready-to-spring tautness of his muscles.
âOh, Jesus.â
Heather looked over at Jefferson. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the bound body, the message on the wall, his mouth open as he sucked in the reek of blood and death and shit. Jefferson blanched. Swallowed hard.
âDonât puke in here, asshole.â
Two men stepped from the landing and into the hall. The speaker pushed past Jefferson and walked into the room. His low-voiced rebuke, rumpled suit, and easy, confident stride told Heather the newcomer was a detective, as was the man following him. Partners, no doubt. His bored gaze scanned the scene, his lids shuttering like a camera lens, capturing every detail, etching every shadow and blood trail into memory.
His partner nodded at Heather, an unlit cigarette between his lips, a camera in his hands. He stepped into the room, stopping just inside the door. The camera whined as he snapped shots of the scene.
Manning and his rookie partner stood at either side of the door, guarding the scene. Jeffersonâs complexion was greenish and he kept his gaze on the floor.
âYou must be the fed Collins told me about,â the first detective said.
âThatâs right,â Heather said. She walked into the room, edging past the cameraman. âSpecial Agent Heather Wallace. And you areâ¦?â
âLaRousse,â he said, turning to face Heather. âHomicide.â He tilted his head in the direction of his partner. âThatâs Davis, over