Trix

By Kate Morris

With Gingerbread still on the lam, Detective Lorena Evans takes her niece to Florida for a much-needed vacation and a break from their hectic lives in Cleveland. However, their sunshine and beach time is interrupted by a desperate plea for help from the F.B.I. on a case not one agent has been able to crack. She and her partner, Detective Jack Foster, are sent to Portland, Oregon, to consult on a serial killer case involving eleven known victims and a madman who likes to call himself Trix.
This killer intertwines memories of his disturbing youth with a very personal and in depth look into Lorena’s own hidden history, one she’d rather forget, and one into which he’d like to delve deeper. She works so hard to forget the darkness that dwells there, but Trix becomes fixated on her and won’t stop until he makes Lorena a part of his perfect collection.
When Jack’s past also rises up to meet them with blunt force, he becomes even more personally involved in the case and must face tough choices in the end. Fighting to keep Lorena from becoming Trix’s next victim will not be the only hardship he faces in Portland, and keeping them both alive will be one of the most difficult missions he’s ever performed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Morris
• Release date: Nov 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370142842

Kate Morris

Kate lives in Ohio on a small farm with "John" and is a huge advocate for the U.S. military and promotes the rights of gun owners everywhere.

Book preview

Prologue

I always knew my father killed my mother. I knew it before the police came one Sunday morning years later and arrested him. I knew it before the neighbors and the media and the jury that convicted him. I knew it because I helped him hide the body. I didn’t actively participate in her murder, but neither would I have stopped him from doing it. He’d called her a drunk whore for so many years that I had actually come to think of it as a term that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. That was until I learned that it was.

I was twelve that Sunday when he was arrested. Before she was murdered on a typical Sunday, I’d get home from church with my mother, and I’d play in the barn. She had a pot roast ready in the oven. She always put carrots, celery, and potatoes in it. I hate celery. I also hate the smell of a pot roast cooking, although most people find that particular aroma of comfort food delectable. I don’t remember what they started arguing about. She was usually complaining about money, although I never wanted for anything, so I naturally didn’t understand the problems they had. Once, I saw her in the bathroom applying a Band-Aid to her forehead where it was bleeding. I was seven at the time.

We lived on a small farm located far from the nearest town. Perhaps that was the reason it was so easy to cover up her murder. It was an equally small house, two bedrooms, one bath, one living room and a tiny kitchen with appliances that were ancient even then. She also complained about that a lot, too. She wanted more kids, but my father didn’t. He’d made that clear many times. I don’t think it was because he disliked me, but that he just didn’t like kids in general. I also got the impression that he constantly worried about money. He usually blamed his drinking on her bitching about money, though. I didn’t need fancy clothes or gadgets or toys. My father reminded my mother of that often and usually with his fist. He provided enough. We had food in our stomachs and a roof over our heads. Our small farm didn’t supply much beyond that, and for him, it was enough. For me, it was enough, as well. Although I think I mostly agreed with him on that point because he said it so often.

Occasionally he would hit her. I saw him do it once when I was just a little tyke. Later, I realized he probably did it a lot more than only the one time that I witnessed. It left an impression. Nagging wives deserved to get tuned up. He told me three beers into a stupor one night that he was sure she was cheating on him while he was working the farm out in the fields all day or at the lumber yard where he worked in the winter. As an adult, I figured he was a paranoid drunk, that my mother was likely not cheating since she didn’t even have a driver’s license to get to town to do so, and I’d never seen her drink alcohol, either. But I also came to think that most women were worthless. That idea did not solely come from my father but my own experiences with them.

He hated her. He made it clear to me many times while I worked on our farm equipment alongside him. I was always brighter than him, than both of them actually. The school system wanted to send me to a special school for gifted children, but, of course, there wasn’t money for that sort of thing, not when the tractor needed a new tire or the farm credit bank required payment for a loan on cows or my father needed more liquor. And so, I plodded along, bored as hell in regular school, and eventually fell behind from my lack of interest. It wouldn’t be until later when I was sent to live with a foster family after my father’s imprisonment that I would excel again in school.

It was soon after one of his drunken benders that he murdered her. I was at school when it happened, but it didn’t take long to figure it out when I arrived home. There was blood everywhere in the kitchen. Her body was lying in a giant puddle of it. There was a knife in his hand. It dripped blood onto the old, sticky, black and, in some places, moldy linoleum flooring. He must’ve just done it when I was dropped by the school bus. He explained that she’d attacked him, that they’d put him away if he turned himself in, that I’d be sent to an orphanage. That option didn’t sound particularly pleasant to me, so I helped him dig a hole where he dropped her body, wrapped in a white sheet, down in. Then he made me help him clean the floor in the kitchen. A few days later we went to the sheriff’s department and reported her missing. Many people knew she was unhappy there, so it was assumed that my father was telling the truth. He went scot-free for three years before her body was discovered by a detective who hadn’t bought his story of my mother running away. Her sister had pressed and pushed the local sheriff’s department to pursue the case, even though she lived three states away. I don’t know the exact conversation, but she must’ve been convincing. I kept my father’s secret. I never told anyone what I knew. I didn’t want to live in an orphanage. I also didn’t particularly care for my mother, although I didn’t think she was a drunk or a whore. I just didn’t care much for anyone, not even my truly drunk, selfish father. It just wasn’t in me to be adoring, loving. Maybe it was my terrible childhood. Maybe it was the abuse I witnessed and sometimes when I upset my father, the abuse I also suffered. Maybe it was because she never protected me from him. But I think I was just born this way. I was only about eight years old when I helped him cover up her murder. It probably didn’t help me to become a better person. But I did learn when he was arrested, locked up, the key thrown away, that I didn’t want to deal with the law or go to prison. I knew I’d have to be smarter than him, which, for me, I already was ahead of him on that count.

Please, just let me go, the young woman in the shed softly cried as she heard me moving around. I won’t tell anyone. I swear.

I wanted to laugh at her, but that would’ve been rude. She wasn’t smart, not a high I.Q. like myself. She was about average intelligence, which was why it was probably so easy to kidnap her.

The forensics since my mother’s death had improved exponentially. If it weren’t for the investigators snooping around the farm and finding the area that had sunk in a good six inches, they would’ve never found her grave. Unfortunately for my father, he hadn’t thought to visit her burial site to inspect it for signs of an obvious gravesite. He was too busy paying hookers in the next town over, or getting drunk, or passing out wasted and then having night terrors. It was annoying really, his nightmares. He never woke completely, just disturbed my own sleep.

My family has money, she pleaded. They’ll pay you to get me back.

I don’t need money, I explained, hoping she’d just shut up.

She had no idea who I was or why I’d taken her. It wasn’t like she’d understand. I was honest with her, though. I certainly didn’t need her family’s money, which I doubted they had. She, like all the other ones, was a runaway prostitute. Nobody ever missed them, nor would they. It’s why so many of us plucked them for our needs. It was easy, and nobody cared, nobody even reported them gone.

I didn’t need money because I made plenty of it on my own. I always knew I’d rise above the station of my birth. I realized as I became an adult just how poor we were when I’d lived under my father’s roof. I never wanted for anything because I never understood what I was missing. I didn’t have many friends in school because most kids thought I was strange or a freak for being so much smarter than even the teachers. I certainly never had anyone over for playdates, never went to school functions or played sports. And once my mother went missing, nobody even talked to me. My ‘weird’ label had multiplied by a million. The kid with the missing and then later murdered mother. I was glad that I was sent to a foster family far away from my original home, city, and school when I was twelve.

I promise I’ll do whatever you want, she said. Let me go, untie me, I’ll cooperate, ‘kay?

You’ll cooperate anyway, I informed her. You’ll really have no choice in the matter.

She whimpered as I adjusted the ropes binding her hands behind her. I opened my toolbox. She began crying at the sound of me rummaging around. I withdrew a hypodermic and a vial of clear solution. I could do this in my sleep.

I turned on the music player, the first chords of Bach floating languidly throughout the room with the dirt floor and the wide slatted wood walls that let in just enough light to avoid turning on the overhead bulbs.

Never once did I visit my father in prison. I had no further use for him after I realized I wasn’t going to an orphanage as he’d once warned. As a matter of fact, I’d found out quickly after his arrest that there wasn’t even an orphanage in our entire section of the state, hadn’t been one open in years. I landed in a foster situation, which wasn’t as bad as so many Monday night dramas have made them out to be over the years with their tales of horror and molestation. My foster folks couldn’t have kids, so they fostered and adopted six of society’s rejects. I didn’t want to be adopted, however, and made it clear when they first brought it up six months into my stay with them. I called them by their first names, Carol and Dan, and kept my room neat, and obeyed their rules. I shared a room with three other boys, who were adopted, and we slept on two sets of bunk beds. Their home was about six times bigger than my old house in the country. It was in the burbs where lots of kids got together and played at each other’s houses. I was biding my time with the foster parents the same as I was with my real parents. It was only a matter of time before I was out on my own. They never questioned where I went after school or on weekends. They never had to. I was always honest. I went to the state park near our home to hike or to the planetarium or the zoo. I always left out the part where I also went to the city, where we were forbidden to go, to watch the homeless people who lived under bridges or I hung out in alleys. I also never admitted to sneaking into the morgues at city hospitals to look at the dead bodies when nobody was in there. I certainly never confessed to exploring murder by practicing on animals in the forest.

My foster father took the four of us boys hunting every fall during deer season. I asked him the next year to take me bow hunting. I was the only kid who wanted to hunt with him at all, so he was happy to do it. He wouldn’t understand my proclivities toward killing things, so I made sure to keep him in the dark. He was a good man, a God-fearing Christian, and so was his wife. They even paid for me to go to a gifted students’ academy when I got to high school. I loved biology, chemistry, anatomy and physiology. I excelled. I was in my element. Science was exciting and interesting.

I injected her arm and watched as her eyes took on a hazy, dazed appearance. Then I walked back to my toolbox and removed the leather case, spreading the instruments out on the worn, wooden and scarred table top.

I managed to tolerate my fellow foster kids in my new family even if they were needlessly cheerful and overly excited about the simplest things. Of course, none of them were intellectually gifted as I was since birth. My brothers, as our foster parents liked us to refer to each other, were all three into sports and girls. I had no interest in either. The sisters were younger than us at seven, nine, and ten, and like most kids at this age, we were mostly tolerant of them. They played with dolls and on the swing-set in the backyard and bugged and pestered all the brothers. This was when I realized, early into my internment at the foster home, that I’d need to get out of the house a lot. It was either that or practice my future career as a serial killer on them.

I learned patience while living with the foster family. Many times, I’d wanted to slice open their carotids just to see how long it would take for them to bleed out. Instead, I perfected the fine art of acting. I realized I could fake just about any emotion; happiness, grief, joy, and others. I had to pretend grief when I was seventeen when they sat me down at the dinner table. I knew something was wrong because the other kids weren’t in the room and it wasn’t time for dinner. My foster mother was a great cook, and once I explained that I didn’t care for pot roast, she rarely made it. She was attentive and kind but didn’t hover, which made her a perfect care-giver in my eyes. I didn’t like people who watched me too closely. That afternoon, they made chit-chat for a few moments, and she even offered a plate of cookies. I informed them that I knew something was wrong and that they should just come out with it. I didn’t want to prolong their discomfort. It was then that they’d gently informed me that my father, the one in prison, had been killed. There was a prison riot. Apparently, he’d not worked on his fighting skills and had obviously angered the wrong person because he’d been stabbed to death with a homemade knife, often referred to in prison terminology as a shiv. They hadn’t told me any of those details; I’d had to research that on my own. So, I feigned sorrow over the loss of my murdering, drunken waste of a human father figure for the sake of my foster parents.

My victim squirmed but was unable to do much other than twist her hips just slightly and wiggle her fingers. The medicine had finally and fully kicked in as the cello solo of Bach’s piece came to a dramatic crescendo. My heartbeat accelerated, as well. It was time.

Chapter One

Lorena

This trip was exactly what they’d both needed. It was long overdue. She’d promised Grace that she would take a vacation many times, but it had never happened. Another case would take precedence, and she’d be back to burning the midnight oil and losing track of time, space, everything including her orphaned niece. It was unacceptable. So, she’d made the plans, booked the flight and brought her niece to sunny Florida.

They’d gone to Universal Studios where Grace- ever the Harry Potter geek- had marveled at the village devoted to the book series. Her niece had also forced her onto every ride, roller coasters included, in that theme park. Lorena’s stomach hadn’t settled until the next morning, and when she’d laid down for the night, it had felt like the world was still spinning.

The next morning they’d hit Sea World, and, later at dinner at the Rainforest Café, Grace stated that she was going to study to be a marine biologist. Lorena had just smiled at her niece’s ever-changing career plans. It could shift on an hourly basis depending on her mood and the atmosphere.

Then it was on to the Gulf, where Lorena’s late sister and brother-in-law had owned a home near Siesta Key. They’d settled in for the remainder of their two-week-long stay, and Lorena promised herself again and again that she’d return at least once a year for Grace’s sake.

As she poked her toes around in the sand and enjoyed the calm serenity of listening to the gentle ocean waves lapping against the rocks of the jetty, Lorena sighed. Grace was surfing, although she was really just attempting to boogie-board, but Lorena didn’t have the heart to tell her that she wasn’t surfing. The waves were barely swells. But her precocious niece was laughing gaily and waving, and it was enough for Lorena that she was happy and being a kid for a change. She waved back and pushed her sunglasses higher on her nose again.

The sun felt great as it warmed her skin. She wasn’t looking forward to going back to Cleveland, where it was springtime and a snowy, drizzly, cold mess. It was late March, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still going to snow a few more big storms. Anyone who stored away their winter outerwear could be cursing their preemptive overzealousness the very next day. She leaned back onto her palms behind her, tilted her face toward the blue, cloudless sky, and soaked up some more vitamin D. She had planned to read a book while on vacation, but so far it hadn’t happened. Just detoxing and decompressing in the Florida sun had been therapeutic enough.

A shadow fell over her, as someone walked past. There were hardly any people on the beach this morning. Venice beach was a lot less crowded than Siesta Key. She’d promised to take Grace later today to hunt for sharks’ teeth. They were plentiful in this area, and vendors even rented out special metal baskets for doing some shallow water hunting of the tiny black treasures.

Evans, someone said, causing her eyes to pop open. It was a voice she knew all too well.

Jack! she exclaimed with surprise and shot to her feet. What the heck are you doing here?

He averted his eyes as Lorena snatched up her semi-sheer peach and lavender cover-up to conceal the tiny black bikini that Grace insisted she buy at a beach shop so that she could get a better tan. She should’ve never taken the advice of her niece. Her cheeks felt like they were growing warm and not just from the sun. Her partner was standing in front of her and by the look on his face was also uncomfortable.

Squeals of excitement came from the water’s edge as Grace spotted Jack and came barreling toward them. She hugged him around the waist, soaking the front of his t-shirt.

Hey, kid! he returned with enthusiasm. Havin’ fun?

Oh, yeah. I think I’m gonna be a surfer when I grow up!

Cool. Hang ten and all that, he replied with a wide smile and flipped his hand to mimic the well-known symbol that surfers used to describe that mantra. I’ll come to all your events and sabotage your competitions’ boards.

Jack! her niece screeched with a giggle.

What are you doing here? Lorena asked again. The last time they spoke was over a week ago when he’d been kind enough to drop her and Gracie at the Cleveland Hopkins Airport.

His gaze met hers, the smile sliding from his face. Texted with Grace and found out what beach you were at.

Grace, why don’t you show Jack your surfing skills? she hinted to her niece. Whatever had brought him to Florida to speak with her in person must not be pleasant, or he wouldn’t have traveled so far. They both had cell phones and each other’s numbers on speed dial. This felt ominous. It was an emotion with which Lorena was all too familiar.

Craig sent me to talk to you, he stated and waved to Grace, who was imploring him to watch her.

What? Why would Craig want you to come all the way here to talk to me?

FBI business, he explained and shielded his eyes from the sun since he wasn’t wearing sunglasses. Lorena removed hers.

What kind of business?

They want to know if you and I would go to Portland and work a case for them, he said and glanced down at her. All thoughts of her scantily clad body were forgotten as he explained the situation. There’s been a string of murders out there. They’ve got a serial killer on their hands and can’t seem to dig anything up on him. It’s been going on for a while. Eleven murders in just that area that they’re sure of.

Why us? They’ve got the best profilers and agents in the country. Why not just pull a few to help out?

They did, he said and glanced back at Grace again, who crashed in a wave and went under. She stood up and waved a few seconds later. Riding the surf wasn’t exactly like surfing a tube in Hawaii. They don’t have shit. They need help, and I guess the director has Craig working on it, said he could pull anyone he wanted to help. He’s picking us. He knows I lived there for a while and that you…well, that you’re you. The director knew what we did on the Gingerbread case and…

The whole country knows about that mess, she said, angry still that Juliette got away.

Not everyone feels that way, not people in law enforcement. Most people, especially Craig’s boss, was impressed with your work.

Lorena rolled her eyes and snorted. She wasn’t impressed. It ended in a debacle.

Hey, wait a minute. I can’t just run off to work a case in Portland. I’ve got Grace. I have responsibilities. You and I have our own caseload.

Captain’s clearing our cases and handing them off to other people while we’re gone. Besides, we weren’t working anything that pressing right now anyway. The captain’s behind the decision. I think he wants the bragging rights if we solve it.

If the FBI’s best can’t solve it, what the heck do they think we’re gonna do with it?

I think they’re hoping for a miracle, Jack said and looked at her again.

We’re not miracle workers, Jack. We’re just detectives, Lorena complained.

Well, one of us is just a detective. I’m still not sure what you are, but it’s not just a detective like me. They all know about Gingerbread.

She got away. That wasn’t exactly something to go around bragging about.

That part wasn’t our fault, he reminded her.

Lorena sighed heavily. The Gingerbread case kept her up at night, even more than the usual with big cases. I know. I know we got a bad judge on that one. But I still feel responsible.

Comes with the job, he acquiesced.

She dug her toes into the soft sand, noticed that Jack was wearing running shoes, socks and jeans and realized that he was probably sweating in the hot Florida sun.

Wanna’ come back to our house with us and we can talk some more there?

Sure, he agreed with a smile.

She and Grace packed their belongings and went to their rental car. Lorena led the way to her sister’s home, a yellow-tinted stucco, Spanish-style two-story that faced an inlet on one side and had a gated driveway. People had told her many times that she should rent the place out when they weren’t using it, which was most of the time, but she never had the heart to do it. Holding on to the last remnants of her dead sister was already so hard to do, the memories fading as time went by. She just didn’t want strangers staying in her sister and brother-in-law’s home.

Come on, Jack! Grace called as soon as Lorena parked the car. I want to show you the alligator that lives in the lake. Mr. Jacobs, our neighbor, he says he’s gonna make a pair of boots out of him one of these days.

Grace, Lorena started. Let Jack come inside. You can show him another time…

No way, Jack complied with a grin. I gotta see this.

He winked at Lorena and followed obediently after Grace. Lorena just shook her head and smiled. He was so patient with her niece, with all of his own nieces and nephews, who also liked dragging him around and monopolizing his attention. She went inside and dropped their beach bag by the stairs leading to the second floor. She never changed anything in the house, in either of her sister’s homes. All of their same decorations, paint choices, furniture, and even the dishes were what her sister had chosen. Lorena was never much of a decorator, never had time to pick out bedding to match the walls or a leaded glass vase for flowers. Her old apartment was a simple, efficient, one-bedroom walk up, and whatever the colors the walls were painted was from the landlord’s tastes. Her sister, however, had impeccable decorating style. The Florida home was done in soothing ocean-inspired palettes of soft mint green, white, and pale blue accents.

She ran upstairs and quickly yanked on a pair of worn-in, faded jeans, a white t-shirt and one of her sister’s gray zip-up hoodies with the embroidered letters ‘Siesta Key’ across the back. It felt warm against the chill of the air-conditioning. It felt comforting because it belonged once to Cara as if her sister was enveloping her in a gentle hug. She liked giving Lorena those, hugs. Lorena wasn’t much of a touchy-feely person, but now she wished that her sister was still here to embrace her once more. She swallowed hard and went back downstairs just as Jack and Grace were walking in through the back, patio doors.

Wow, Jack blurted. She wasn’t lying. There is a big old dinosaur in that lake.

I know, Lorena said with a grimace. I wish someone would just get animal control out here to get rid of it. He’s lived in there for years.

Eating the neighborhood dogs, no doubt, he joked.

Grace laughed and joined in, Or the neighbors!

Right? Jack teased.

Grace, why don’t you go up and change? Lorena suggested pointedly, to which her niece nodded with understanding. Once she was gone, Lorena offered Jack some sweet tea, and they sat at the kitchen’s long island. I don’t want to drop everything and run to Portland. It’s not a good time for something like that. Grace has school.

Bob talked to her teachers for you, Jack replied, surprising Lorena that her former partner would go out of his way like that. He’s got an in at the school.

She smiled. Of course, he did. He was a cop, and everyone knew it. His boys went to the same private school as Gracie and were good friends of hers. Sometimes they were too close with their bad influences like violent video games and zombie movies, and she suspected swear words, although they were also sweet and very protective of Grace.

Jack continued his explanation, They’ve agreed to let her continue her studies through correspondence. That way she can go with us.

Go with us? That’s very disruptive, Jack. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Why don’t I just take a look at the case file and give my opinion? It’s not like it’s going to do any good.

Someone thinks it would. I’ve got a lot of connections in Portland, informants, friends on the force and such. They want our boots on the ground, not working it from Cleveland.

Right, she was forced to agree.

It should only take a few weeks, he explained.

Lorena shot him a look and a raised eyebrow, It could also take months. You know that. Cases don’t always come together that easily.

He nodded grimly. We don’t have to stay that long.

This is crazy.

He nodded again and withdrew airline tickets from his pocket. We’re booked for the four o’clock this afternoon out of Tampa.

Well, I guess I’ll head back to Ohio today with you then and pack. Sounds like we don’t have much of a choice.

We don’t, Jack confirmed. Cap wants us there. And, Evans, these tickets are for Portland, not Cleveland. The captain had me and Bob go to your house and pack for you and Grace. Your stuff’s being sent Fed-Ex to Portland.

What? she asked with offense. The idea of her partners rummaging her underwear drawer was embarrassing.

This case is urgent, he explained. We took Bob’s wife to help. It wasn’t like us big, dumb lugs woulda’ figured it out.

She mentally exhaled a sigh of relief.

Can I help pack anything here? he asked.

Lorena’s head was spinning. There was so much to think about. Um, sure. This is kinda’ hectic, Foster. I mean, we were on the beach a half hour ago, and now we need to be ready to leave in a few hours?

I know. Just take a breath. Point me in the right direction. I’m good at taking orders. I was married, remember?

He teased, but the pain of that situation, one he’d never fully disclosed, could not be completely concealed. Lorena nodded, gave instructions, and went upstairs to get Gracie moving. It was going to be a long day.

Chapter Two

Jack

He was glad that he knew the city so well or he would’ve been lost with the heavy traffic and blinding rain that was coming down in sideways sheets that always reminded him of the sheer curtains in the living room of his mother’s home when the summer wind would catch them through the open windows.

Grace was dead asleep in the back seat, and Lorena looked like she wished she was asleep as she rode shotgun in their FBI provided loaner vehicle, a black SUV with darkly tinted windows. Real inconspicuous. He and Lorena got a chuckle out of it. It also smelled like stale cigarette smoke and fast food grease. He’d have to remember to get an air freshener in the morning.

He pulled into the underground parking garage to the four-story building where their corporate apartment was located. Jack hoped he could live up to his suggestion that it would only take them a few weeks to figure this out. Either that, or he hoped they’d get sent back home for total incompetence. Fat chance with Lorena on the case. Knowing her as he did now, she’d probably solve it by the close of breakfast tomorrow.

Jack signed them in through security as Lorena roused Grace from her slumber. Their assigned parking spot was number sixteen, and he helped by carrying one of Grace’s bags. Lorena pulled her own suitcase beside her and slung her backpack over her shoulder. She wasn’t supposed to be working on vacation, but he knew she’d have that pack with her. When he gave her a questioning look back at her sister’s house, she had lied badly about not working in Florida. He was starting to figure out her tells. Her right eye twitched, just slightly. For him, he just had his one overnight bag and his messenger bag for work.

They rode the elevator to the fourth floor and let themselves into their suite. It was roomy, standard, efficient, without a lot of embellishment or flair. It wasn’t anything like her home in Florida which was nothing short of a Mediterranean mansion. For their connecting flight to Chicago, Grace had regaled him of their vacation adventures and all the fun things they’d done. Then they’d had to kill time in O’Hare and ate a late dinner at a Chili’s restaurant. She’d chatted almost the whole time, which made him miss his sisters just the tiniest bit. Grace was excited to be going with them, but Lorena was quiet. She was also angry that her back was against the wall in this situation and that she’d not really been left with much of a choice. Then Grace had zonked out on the eight p.m. to Portland, which was the only flight available. Lorena hadn’t slept, though. They’d talked a little about the case. They didn’t have everything on it yet and were waiting to look at the files. But she had started forming opinions on their killer.

Their apartment was complete with a stocked kitchen and bar, two bedroom suites with their own bathrooms, and a spacious living room that looked out over the city, not that Jack wanted that kind of view. Looking out over the ocean or a farm field or some woods was better than city lights in his opinion.

Lorena helped Grace unpack her luggage just enough to find pajamas and do whatever else they needed to do on their side of the apartment. Jack dropped his bag on his bed and went back to the living area. There were boxes stacked in the middle of the room and on the rectangular dining room table. He was glad her belongings and their investigative supplies made it to their apartment. There were also boxes on the table labeled ‘FBI’ that he knew Craig had transferred over from the local office. Their friend from Cleveland was already in town and staying with a colleague. He called Jack last week to discuss the new case. And it took that long to convince his captain to get on board with the idea of sending them to Portland to work the case with Craig. Jack wasn’t thrilled at first, either. He didn’t have great memories of Portland and wasn’t eager to return. He’d left for a reason.

A while later, Lorena entered wearing sweatpants, a clean hoodie, and bare feet. Her hair was still damp, so she must’ve grabbed a shower. Jack was ready to turn in for the night. He felt a little jet lagged and had been going full speed since his dawn flight out of Cleveland. A glance at the clock on the wall revealed that it was eleven thirty. He was exhausted, but his partner looked raring to go.

So what’ve we got? she asked and stood next to him.

Jack sighed. She was in work mode. Eleven bodies so far, seven locally found. First one was found almost four years ago. The latest, last month.

She sat down and flipped open a folder from the top of the stack in the box. Jack walked over to the kitchen and set the coffee pot to brew a strong batch. It was bound to be an even longer night.

He spoke to her from the kitchen island as he took out mugs and creamer. I guess they didn’t realize they had a serial until number eight.

What took so long?

Jack said, Some of the bodies were found in other states.

Oh, she replied. That makes more sense. Harder to track and string together. How far away from here?

Nevada, Utah, California, up near the border to Canada in Washington state, and the rest here.

All of the bodies found out in the woods? she asked almost rhetorically as she started flipping through the victims’ crime scene photos.

Yep, all of them. Well, the latest one was closer to town, not far from here in a more open area. The others were found in more remote areas outside of the city.

But all by the water, she observed.

She was quiet for a few minutes as the coffee percolated into the glass carafe. Jack poured them both a mug and added about a pound of sugar to hers.

This is messed up, she observed as Jack approached the table. She was sitting on the edge of her chair with one leg tucked under herself.

They always are, Jack agreed.

She took the mug of steaming coffee from him and said, Thanks. We need a whiteboard.

I’ve got some supplies but not that, he informed her.

Jack took items out of the FedEx box labeled ‘work materials’ and some packages of supplies out of his messenger bag. Lorena took the small box of tacks and a stack of crime scene photos.

Hey, we’ve got Grace here, Evans, he reminded her before she hung up a picture of a dead body.

Oh, yeah. Crap. We need a designated no-fly zone workspace here somewhere, she lamented and tapped her foot impatiently.

We’ll have to use my room and tell Grace not to go in there, he said and led the way, carrying their box of FBI files.

Lorena followed, also transporting her own items. Jack went back to retrieve their coffees, the most important thing. He had a small nightstand and a long dresser. He laid out their homework on the bureau and the coffees on the nightstand. Lorena got to work arranging their case evidence the way they normally did back at the station. She taped and hung the pictures on the wall and started organizing the file notes in a way that made sense for them.

I’ll get us a whiteboard tomorrow.

’Kay, she said nonchalantly as she perused another file.

They worked in tandem until the case was laid out before them in the manner they preferred.

Jack sipped his coffee before remarking, We have all females ranging in age from eighteen to thirty-seven. The latest was eighteen. She was the youngest. Not sure why he chose someone young this time. Or maybe we’ve got another Gingerbread. Maybe he is a she.

No, Lorena said, shaking her head slightly. Not this time. The killer is definitely a man.

Jack had been joking, but he knew she didn’t always get irony or sarcasm. The rapes would indicate a man, too.

Right, she said, clueless.

He just smirked and tried to concentrate on their work. Lorena stood and left the room. Nothing new there, either. She returned a moment later with a small bag of peanut M & M’s.

There isn’t any candy in the cupboards, she complained.

Jack chuckled and said, Yeah, we’ll have to fix that first thing.

This whole thing could flop if we don’t get our daily dose of junk food, she teased. We need my Atomic Fireballs!

We? I think you mean you, partner.

She grinned and nodded and went back to her file. There are heavy doses of narcotics in the last four victims’ blood reports. Looks like the first few weren’t tested or something.

Jack looked over the reports, as well. This one was. That makes five.

He handed her the file he was perusing.

Pharmaceuticals. Looks like a pretty big dose. This guy had access to medicine. Phenyl Barbitol. That doesn’t seem like something that would be easy to get your hands on, Jack commented.

Right, she said. He has to have access to drugs.

Pharmacist? Jack asked rhetorically.

Lorena shrugged. Who knows? Drugs can be bought illegally off the street, so this could be any idiot with a connection.

True enough, he agreed. I’ll check in with a few friends I have over in Narcs. See if any of them know of someone who’s pedaling anesthesia.

Good, she said absentmindedly as she opened another file.

I can reconnect with some of my old informants, too.

She smiled and said, Nothing like criminals to keep us in the loop.

He chuckled and nodded.

Likes to dump them by the water, huh? she asked rhetorically. Jack already knew this. He didn’t want to tell her everything about their killer. She’d find it all on her own, and he wanted her opinion without his own thoughts clouding her mind.

Yes, he does.

"And the words written on their backs? Always the same. If he’d dumped them in the water, it would’ve likely faded since he draws the letters in their blood.

Well, you didn’t expect him to write the words in his own blood, did you?

That would’ve been nice, she answered with sarcasm. "How come they never make it that easy?

Sometimes they do, he pointed out. Remember the guy we busted a few months ago?

Yes, deciding to urinate a few feet from your crime scene isn’t exactly brilliant. He wasn’t a serial, though. Just a loser.

And leaving a bloody handprint on the tree where he was taking a leak didn’t help, either, Jack added with a chuckle.

We can’t all be smart, Lorena joked.

Jack chuffed, Well, you can.

Sometimes, she said. So, he likes to write the word, ‘Trix’ on their backs. What the heck does it mean?

Not sure. Could be a reference to the women. Most of them were prostitutes. He could be referring to turning a trick.

Maybe, she said, although Jack could hear the skepticism in her voice. But why spell it with an ‘x’?

A woman’s nickname? Someone he doesn’t like?

They worked a while longer. She refilled her coffee cup, but Jack did not. He would have to eventually crash later. A gallon of caffeine wasn’t going to help with that.

Doesn’t leave a print in the writing, she said. Of course. That’s why he’s still getting away with all this.

How do you think he’s dumping them without being seen? Some of them are pretty far from the nearest roads.

Interesting, was all she said.

Lorena was quiet for a while, making notes on her legal pad. Jack did the same. He had learned over time that they made a great team. They’d solved quite a