CHAPTER TEN
Ella and Mia always kept their desks pushed together, facing each other, mostly because it made passing paperwork easier.
But also because an old cop superstition said that thoughts traveled in a straight line from the forehead, and while Ella didn’t buy it, she didn’t want to risk being wrong either.
So, she wanted Ripley positioned to intercept anything she forgot to say out loud.
They’d been sitting in silence for an hour when Ripley asked, ‘Got anything?’
‘Not a damn thing.’
‘You been through the finer details?’
‘Everything, even God damn tax returns.’
‘Tax returns? Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ella admitted.
‘What about bank statements? Consumerism is all the rage these days, especially with twenty-somethings.’
Ella consulted the paper in front of her. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary for Amber. Just your typical twenty-something purchases. Clothes, makeup, booze.’ She squinted at a line item halfway down the page. ‘Looks like she had a thing for scented candles. Lot of charges to Yankee Candle in here.’
‘How about Rose?’
‘Same deal. Except swap out the candles for Starbucks.’ Ella tossed the statement onto the growing pile of dead ends. ‘I’m telling you, Mia, these two didn’t orbit anywhere near each other. They were both party girls, but they didn’t hit the same places.’
Ripley grunted. ‘What about their socials? Any mutual friends, groups in common?’
‘Nope. I ran their profiles through every platform I could think of. Not a single point of overlap. Maybe these two victims aren’t connected at all.’
‘You don’t really believe that.’
Ripley was right, she didn’t believe that. The figurines, the staging and the consistent victimology. These girls must have had at least one thing in common. Somewhere between Amber Holloway and Rose Michaels was a purpose.
Ella blew out a gusty sigh. ‘No, but I’ve officially come up short. Anything on that deadbeat ex-husband of Amber’s? Ryan Grimshaw?’
‘Not yet. Fields checked his house but he wasn’t home, so now he’s tracking his license plate. I’ve sent some pictures of the figurines to Amelia at HQ. She’s going to run some image recognition on them.’
Ella shot out of her chair, needing to pace, to feel the circulation in her legs. ‘The vics’ cell phones? Do we have access yet?’
‘You know how long clearance takes for that, Dark.’
She certainly did. Clearance to access victims’ tech items seemed to get longer every week. She longed for the days that the old-timers told her about, when they could snatch a cell phone from a crime scene and devour the contents right there. ‘Damn privacy laws.’
‘If people didn’t keep their entire lives on their phones, it wouldn’t be such a problem.’
‘Thanks a lot, Big Tech. I don’t see why we can’t just swipe it out of evidence. Those phones are just sitting on the table. I saw them.’
‘See? This is what I’m talking about with you. You’re getting real rogue, Dark.’
‘What? You think it’s a bad idea?’
‘I think it’s a great idea, but it doesn’t work like that. So you swipe a phone, find something useful, then how do you explain that in your report?’
Ripley’s cell chose that moment to erupt in a burst of tinny music. Ripley stuck it to her ear.
‘Talk to me, Fields.’ A beat. ‘He’s where? You’re kidding me? Since when?’
Ella identified the story beats from Ripley’s expression alone. The wider she flared her nostrils, the worse the news, and right now she could fit a rolling pin up there.
‘No, great job. Yeah, I’ll tell her.’ Ripley jabbed her phone and dropped it back on the table. ‘Bad news.’
‘You’re not kidding. What?’
‘FIelds got a hit on Ryan Grimshaw. In Baton Rouge. Since last week.’
Ella fought the urge to grab a pen and throw it at the wall. ‘Freaking Baton Rouge. I never liked that place.’
‘Working construction over there, which means he was nowhere near New Orleans last night.’
‘Guess it wasn’t the husband.’
‘Every rule has an exception. Since we’re up slack alley, why don’t we go visit Rose’s house? Her file says she lives with her sister.’
Ella chewed her lip, considering. She spat out a piece of dead skin. ‘Worth a shot. Better than sitting here fondling dead trees. Just let me grab the ballet dancer we found on Rose’s body, see if she recognizes it.’
Ella snatched up the evidence bag and shoved it in her pocket.
The desk in front of her was buried under paper that told her precisely nothing.
Two women with no connection, two figurines nobody could explain, and a killer out there somewhere who apparently had the decency to leave calling cards but not the courtesy to make them legible.
Carol Holloway hadn’t recognised the snowman. Rose’s sister might not recognise the ballet dancer. And if that happened, Ella would be exactly where she’d started.