Chapter 6 Jo #3
“You don’t quarantine people for food poisoning. I heard Maggie’s been placed in isolation.”
“Caution is advised, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“The nature of Dr. Maslov’s work. He’s one of the top authorities on viral bioweapons.”
“Bioweapons?” Jo stared at her. “Are you saying we should be worried about—”
“As I said, caution is advised.”
Jo suddenly laughed. “You just can’t leave the old job behind, can you? A conspiracy under every rock.”
“When you turn over enough rocks, eventually you find one.” Ingrid’s gaze suddenly focused on a vehicle in the parking lot. “There. Brown Toyota.”
They approached the vehicle, and Jo checked the license plate. Maine, 021RMG. “This is hers.”
“There’s a purse on the front seat,” noted Ingrid, peering through the window.
“Don’t touch anything.”
“Of course not. I know the drill.”
Jo pulled on gloves and tugged on the door.
It was unlocked, which was not unusual in the small town of Purity, where many residents didn’t lock their front doors either.
She reached inside for the purse. It was faux brown leather, big enough to carry the multitude of items a woman wouldn’t even remember having tossed in.
Inside were wadded tissues, sunglasses, breath mints, two ballpoint pens.
And a wallet. Jo flipped it open and found two credit cards, thirty-six dollars in cash, and a driver’s license.
Karen O’Brien was forty-eight years old, five foot four, 150 pounds.
The photo showed a plain-faced woman with short brown hair and unsmiling eyes.
“So not a robbery,” said Ingrid, echoing Jo’s thoughts. “An abduction?”
A possibility that was beginning to seem more and more likely.
Last night, after Karen O’Brien had finished her evening shift in the hotel restaurant, she would have exited from the same service entrance they had just used and walked to this employee parking lot.
It would have been dark by then, and at this edge of the property, there was only one streetlamp, at the far end of the lot.
Karen’s car would have been obscured in the gloom.
Had she sensed someone nearby, watching her?
Had someone approached her with a friendly face, a few reassuring words?
Or had the attack been so sudden, she’d had no chance to fight back?
“This isn’t a high-traffic spot, if you’re waiting for random prey to walk by,” said Ingrid. “But if the attacker knew her, he’d know what time she got off work. And where her car’s parked.”
“You’re thinking premeditated,” said Jo.
“Aren’t you? He could have followed her from the building. Maybe he’s another employee. Or one of the guests at the hotel.”
Jo thought of the people she’d just seen milling about on the lawn.
They were older, most of them retirees, here to learn about global crises.
No, she couldn’t see one of those genteel attendees stalking a middle-aged waitress as she walked to her car.
Couldn’t imagine some man in a blazer and boat shoes dragging Karen O’Brien into his vehicle and driving away with her.
“If this wasn’t a crime of opportunity,” said Ingrid, “then maybe he chose her for a reason.”
They were silent for a moment as they surveyed the dozen cars in the employee parking lot. Nearby was the golf course, a manicured lawn rolling down to the sea, with no nearby bushes to hide a body. If Karen O’Brien had been attacked here, her body must have been moved. Or . . .
“The trunk,” said Ingrid.
They moved to the rear of the Toyota, and Jo pressed the release button.
The trunk was painfully slow to open, as if the car were reluctant to surrender its secrets.
Inch by inch the trunk lifted, revealing at first only a glimpse of blue carpet.
Then the shoes appeared, white rubber soles, practical, followed by a pair of legs dressed in black pants, bent at the knees.
The rest of the body, wearing a restaurant server’s blouse, was curled like a fetus nestled in a car-trunk womb.
Jo didn’t have to feel for a pulse; the frozen limbs, and the steel knife handle protruding from the woman’s left eye, erased any doubt that Karen O’Brien was dead.
Gasping, Jo reeled back and averted her gaze. She focused instead on Ingrid, who was standing stock still. Most people, when confronted with such horror, would have uttered a cry and looked away, but Ingrid was staring into the car trunk, as if trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
But there was no making sense of this.
“Jesus,” Jo murmured. “A knife in the eye . . .”
“Not just any knife,” Ingrid said quietly. “It’s a stiletto.”
Jo frowned. “What difference does it make?”
“It’s not for cutting or slashing. It’s for thrusting. To penetrate vulnerable points of armor. Or a body.” For a moment Ingrid seemed paralyzed, unable to turn away from Karen O’Brien’s corpse. Then she abruptly pulled herself straight. “Excuse me,” she said and turned.
“Where are you going?” Jo called out as Ingrid walked away.
“I have to make a phone call.”