Free Damaged by Pamela Callow Page B

missing.”
    Silence reverberated like an aftershock on the phone line.
    In a choked voice, she asked, “Who called you?”
    “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that.” He cleared his throat. “Can you describe her?” He prayed Kate was wrong, that Judge Carson’s daughter was fat and blond, not thin and dark.
    “Fifteen years of age, five foot four, black hair.” There was a pause. “With a ridicul—with a blond stripe down the middle. And she had a scar on her left forearm.”
    They couldn’t verify the scar, but the rest of the description was an exact match. His eyes met Lamond’s. Ethan gave a slight nod. Lamond closed his eyes and crossed himself.
    “Your Honor.” He was dismayed to hear the hoarseness in his voice, but, Jesus Christ, it’d been one of the more disturbing sights in his career. “I regret to inform you that the initial description matches that of our victim. I need you to come to the morgue to identify the body—”
    “How was she killed?”
    “It appears to be a deliberate homicide.”
    “I don’t want generalities, Detective. I want the facts. I want you to tell me how she was killed. Right now.” Her voice was harsh and staccato in its delivery. It was a technique that she used to great effect on the bench.
    He fought to regain control of the conversation. “Until we confirm her identity, I am unable to provide you with any specifics.”
    There was a sharp inhale on the phone. But Ethan knew she, of all people, would understand the need for holdback evidence. The specifics around the M.O. was the one card the police held. They could use that information to bait a suspect.
    “Fine,” she ground out. “I’ll be at the morgue in twenty-five minutes.”
    Ethan knew the body—what was left of it—had already been removed from the scene. “We’ll meet you there.”
    The phone went dead in his ear. He’d never been so glad for someone to hang up on him. He exhaled a deep breath.
    “Man, that was tough,” Lamond said. “How’d she seem?”
    Ethan shook his head. “I don’t know.” No one ever knew with Judge Carson. She never let you. But one thing he knew for sure: she’d hang them by the balls if they screwed up.
    Everyone in the war room knew it, too. The tension in the room rose a notch.
    “Brown, start working on the warrant for searching the premises,” Ferguson said. “Make sure every t is crossed. We don’t want to get caught on a technicality with Judge Carson.”
    “Already working on it,” Brown said. She flipped her portfolio closed with a sharp thud and strode with measured briskness out of the war room to her desk in the bull pen. Ethan knew without looking that Walker’s eyes would be following her long, lean figure.
    “Let me know when it’s ready, Brown,” Redding called after her.
    “Give me twenty minutes,” she said over her shoulder.
    “Come on, Lamond,” Ethan said. “We can’t keep Judge Carson waiting.” They filled out the paperwork for the key to the morgue’s secure stall, impatience shivering through Ethan’s muscles as he waited for the Ident detective tosign it out. The key in his pocket, Ethan hurried across the road with Lamond to the parking lot holding the police vehicles, jumped into an unmarked car and drove to the morgue. They made it in eleven minutes. Good. Ethan wanted to be first to arrive. He and Lamond had just reached the main doors when Judge Carson pulled into the parking lot.
    “I came straight from my office,” she said, striding across the wet asphalt toward him. She wore a stylish off-white trench coat, loosely belted at her trim waist. The rain began to make a darker pattern of wet across her shoulders. Her hair swung in a dark, sleek bob, threaded with silver and glistening with water. From a distance, she looked younger than her years. But her purposeful stride couldn’t disguise the toll the past few minutes had taken on her. Her skin was pale and crepey. Hard grooves carved a path from her nose to