Free Sole Witness by Jenn Black Page A

hair lay
plastered to her head.
    “By yourself?” he asked.
    She nodded again. “I bought earrings for– for
Kimber.”
    Carver’s voice turned gentle. “And you came home…”
    “I came home and went inside.”
    “Was the door locked?”
    “Yes. No. The front door was locked, but the sliding
door was open for Mr. Giggles.”
    Carver glanced at Davis again. He met her blank gaze
with one of his own.
    “Who is Mr. Giggles, Lori?” he asked her.
    “A cat.” Lori jerked toward him and tugged the front
of his suit. “You have to find him! Cripes. I didn’t see him. Where is he? The
door was open… I left the other door open, too… if anything happened to Mr.
Giggles, I’ll… I’ll…”
    Davis covered her freezing hands with his hot, dry
palms. “I will.” He returned her arms to her sides and turned toward Carver.
“Will you stay here with her?”
    Carver shot him a scathing look. “Of course.” She
wrapped an arm around Lori’s trembling shoulders.
    A cat. Shows how flaky memory could be. He’d have
sworn she was allergic to cats.
    Davis made his way to the front door and stepped
into the house. Technicians and uniforms swarmed everywhere. He recognized Bock
across the room and motioned him over.
    “First to the scene?” Davis asked.
    Bock looked slightly ill, his young features twisted
into a grimace. “Yeah.”
    “The vic?”
    “Dead female. Purse on the dresser ID’s her as
Kimberley Jackson, twenty-eight, local resident.”
    Davis nodded. “Wound?”
    Sweat tinged Bock’s brow and he swallowed. “Wounds,
plural. Shot several times, they said probably from down the hall.”
    Interesting. The killer was close, but not too
close. Why not? Would Kimberley have recognized him? Been suspicious? Fought
back?
    “Where?” Davis asked.
    Bock wiped his nose with the sleeve of his uniform.
“Everywhere. Two to the face, one to the neck, three to the chest. Cause of
death could be any of ’em. All of ’em. Hard to say.”
    “Ammo?”
    “9mm.”
    Same as the Turner case. Maybe coincidental, maybe
not, but Davis was a cop. Cops don’t believe in coincidence.
    Nonetheless, he’d keep that information between
himself and Carver. And their report, of course. If any of the Crimestoppers’
tips mentioned the link between the killings without reporters splashing the
connection all over the news, they’d know they were onto something.
    “Go on outside, Bock.”
    “Thank you.”
    Davis hoped Bock made it out back before vomiting.
    Somewhere along the line, someone had flicked on
every single one of Lori’s lights. Probably for documenting the scene—photos
would be worthless in the dark.
    Davis walked along the perimeter of each room,
cataloguing the scene in his mind.
    Hardwood floors, no rugs. Spackled ceilings,
overhead fans. The living room contained a large black sofa, a matching leather
recliner, and a flat screen TV.
    A double row of shelves stretched along the walls,
right about eye level. Both were filled with blown-glass figurines. Palm trees,
ballet dancers, roses. No dust.
    He drifted into the kitchen.
    Sliding glass door, open. Bock outside, puking.
Grass, orange tree, no privacy fence. Davis turned away from the backyard.
    Not a spoon was out of place, but the kitchen stank
like wet cat. Had to be the work of the mysterious Mr. Giggles.
    Davis stepped over to the table and leafed through a
small handful of envelopes. Mostly bills and you’ve-been-pre-approved junk.
Guess Lori’s mail wasn’t any more exciting than his.
    The shiny metallic refrigerator hummed to life.
    Photos littered the front panels, attached with
alphabet magnets. Strange. The five-by-seven on the freezer door hung cockeyed.
    Davis stepped closer and pulled it down.
    Lori and Sara, smiling and swimsuited. Lori sported
a tiny black bikini. Sara hid in a flowery one-piece. They stood ankle-deep in
sand, outer arms clutching fluorescent surfboards and inner arms around each
other’s shoulders.
    Man, that funeral