Free Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) by Danielle Girard Page B

came to mind, and he pulled his notebook from his breast pocket. Tearing the page from the spiral, he handed it to Renee. "Will you have someone run a check on this license for me?"
    "Rush?"
    He nodded. "And I need to have you check with local departments about similar cases."
    "Who do you want to try?"
    "L.A. Try Detective Sherman there. I saved his ass two months ago. Maybe he'll return the favor. And try Portland—what's his name—"
    "Del Negro is there, isn't he?" she said, writing on her notepad.
    "Exactly. And Jimmy Atkinson in Seattle." He paused. "That's enough to start. Get anything they can think of. If they've got something—anything—I want to talk to them. And I want as much as you can get on what happened to FBI Agent Casey McKinley in Cincinnati."
    "Got it." She shifted the stack of files against her hip and stared him down. "You talked to Angie, Jordan?"
    The name felt like an uppercut to his gut. He stared at his feet. "Yep. And it still doesn't sound like she wants anything to do with me."
    Renee shook her head. "Don't be stupid, Jordan. The woman loves you. She'll come around. Now, don't go forgetting your father-in-law's birthday is in three days. I'll pick up a card."
    "Thanks, Renee."
    "And Will's birthday is in less than two weeks, Jordan. You don't want to be away from that boy on his birthday."
    He nodded. "I asked Angie to bring the boys up this weekend. Told me she wanted me to come to her. But I don't want to go stay with my in-laws."
    Renee waved her hand at him, dismissing his comment. "Of course not. She'll come up here. She just wants you to work for it. You should send those flowers."
    "It won't do any good."
    "Won't know till you try."
    Jordan eyed her, then shook his head. "I don't know..."
    "Oh, forget you. You men don't know a good thing till it's gone." She handed him a couple of files and pushed him toward his office. "Now, you get in there and dial up some shop and send your wife flowers. Write something real sweet, now, you hear me? I'll get on the horn and see about getting Warrior tickets. Between the flowers and the tickets, Angie couldn't say no."
    "Thanks, Renee."
    "Yeah, yeah. Now, git." She waved him off.
    Jordan sat at his desk and debated the merits of sending flowers. Somehow it felt like an admission of guilt. He hadn't done anything wrong, but that wasn't how his mother-in-law would see it. Damn, but he did want Angie and the boys back. It was getting lonely in the house.
    Finding a number in the phone book, he dialed a florist and asked the high-pitched male voice on the other end to send something bright and cheery with a card that read, "Come up here before I explode."
    "Oh my. Isn't that visual?" the salesman exclaimed.
    Jordan thanked him and hung up, a little uncomfortable at the florist's enthusiasm.
    With that done, he concentrated on making notes for the press conference later. Ray Zambotti's autopsy report on the black girl found in the alley described what few clues Jordan had. The facts were eerily familiar as he thought over the first victim's autopsy report.
    The girl's mouth was a regular sewing project. Her upper lip had been completely detached from her face and, from what the medical examiner could guess by some strange marks on the head, attached to her scalp.
    The medical examiner had called to confirm that the signature on the black girl's leg had been compared to that on the white girl, and were nearly identical. He was still working on matching the marks to a style of blade or weapon, though. Scalpel was everyone's best guess.
    Jordan told the M.E. to call in whatever resources he needed to determine what instrument created those marks. Maybe it could be used to track the SOB down. Jordan pressed the intercom on his desk. "Renee, could you come in here?"
    Less than ten seconds later, Renee entered, notebook in hand.
    "You still talk to that woman in records at Quantico?" Jordan asked.
    "Betty? Every Monday like clockwork."
    "Good. Call the M.E.'s