Cold-Blooded Liar (The San Diego Case Files Book 1)

Just a minute,” Kit said as Baz stopped their car at the curb of Dr. Reeves’s boss’s very posh street. They’d left the crime scene to CSU and the ME techs and headed to Dr. Vivian Carlisle’s home to check out the rest of Reeves’s story. “Incoming call from the ME.”

Baz turned to watch her, a frown on his face. “Why?”

She held up a finger and answered, putting it on speaker. “Alicia? I’ve got you on speaker. Baz Constantine is here, too.”

“Good morning.” Alicia Batra was not only one of Kit’s favorite MEs, the woman had become a good friend. “I’m at the scene. My assistant said that you needed to speak to me.”

“Yes. Can you run a tox screen on the victim? I’m specifically interested in any sedatives that would have a short half-life.”

Baz’s brows shot up. “What?”

“Why?” Alicia asked.

“Because I want to make sure someone didn’t help him hang himself.”

Alicia was quiet for a moment. “You don’t believe this was suicide?”

“I don’t know. I’m worried about the confession he left. There’s a detail that doesn’t fit.” Five young women. Not six. “Having the tox screen will ease my concerns and I wanted to make my request while the body was still fresh.”

Baz shook his head, looking weary and impatient.

He didn’t look like that often and it stung a little, but Kit’s gut was not on board with Driscoll’s confession. It was too neat—and missing a body.

“I can do that,” Alicia said. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Make sure that he died by the hanging and wasn’t already dead.”

“I’d do that anyway. Did you find a specific sedative in the house?”

“No,” Baz inserted. “There were no prescription drugs in the medicine cabinets or drawers.”

“I know that,” Kit snapped. “Look, he’s too big a man to have submitted to a hanging without some kind of a fight, and we didn’t see any sign of defensive wounds, other than the skinned knuckles, and those looked older. I just want to make sure he wasn’t chemically coerced. I’m dotting my i’s.”

“Got it,” Alicia said. “I’ll run the test and look for the shorter-lived drugs. It’ll take about forty-eight hours.”

“Thanks, Alicia.” Kit ended the call and frowned at her partner. “I’m not an idiot, Baz. I know the man is guilty of something, but I can’t get past five young women.”

“We don’t know that Cecilia Sheppard was number six.”

“I know. But do you honestly believe there were only five over fifteen years? Four of which just happened to be found by chance?” Three by metal detectors, the fourth by a dog digging for bones.

Baz’s mouth firmed to a straight line. “No. I think there were others. But he wouldn’t admit to any more if he thought we only knew about five. We just found out about Cecilia last night. If he didn’t know we knew about her, he wouldn’t have admitted to it.”

“You could be right. But how did he know about Jaelyn?”

Baz shrugged. “Maybe he went back to the scene of the crime and saw we’d been digging. Or maybe we have a leak. Enough people in the department know. It was going to get out.”

“Maybe.” The first answer was plausible, but she didn’t like the second. If the discovery of Jaelyn’s body had leaked, the use of the pink handcuffs might have as well. “But it can’t hurt to check for drugs in his system, can it?”

“No,” he admitted. “What about Reeves? Do you believe him?”

“I still don’t know. I want to believe him. He was right about Driscoll—if that confession note is genuine. But Reeves could be lying. We can verify his story with a few questions to Dr. Carlisle.”

Which was why they were parked in front of her house.

“Let’s get this over with.” Baz shoved his door open and got out of the car with a groan. “I need to sleep.”

Kit studied him as they walked to the Carlisles’ front door, worried. Partly because he seemed a lot more tired recently. Partly because she wondered if she was overthinking this case. And partly because Baz wasn’t overthinking it.

She might have wanted Reeves to be innocent, but Baz really wanted Driscoll to be guilty. Which wasn’t wrong in and of itself. Baz had been in homicide for sixteen years. He’d been around for the discovery of all five of the killer’s victims. That he’d desperately want to have caught the perpetrator was natural.

That he wasn’t concerned about the discrepancies in the letter bothered her.

She put that out of her head when they reached the front door. It was painted a cheerful red, contrasting with the beige stucco exterior. Kit knocked briskly and waited, breathing in the sea air. The house was a block away from the beach and this close she could hear the waves breaking. It would be peaceful if she weren’t so keyed up.

The door opened, a woman about Kit’s age eyeing them distrustfully. “If you’re selling something, we’re not interested.”

The woman was too young to be Vivian Carlisle. The psychologist appeared to be at least sixty from her online bio. But the woman at the door had Vivian’s eyes, so maybe she was the daughter.

Kit showed her badge. “SDPD. We’d like to speak to Dr. Vivian Carlisle.”

The woman blinked, then quickly regained her composure. “She’s not taking visitors right now. Can I help you?”

“No,” Kit said, kindly but firmly. “It’s imperative that we speak with her.”

“Who’s at the door?” a man called, appearing behind the woman a few seconds later. He was older, his face bruised, his head bandaged, and his arm was in a sling. He gave Kit’s badge a wary look. “We gave a statement to the officer at the scene of the accident last night.”

An accident would explain why they weren’t accepting calls all night. Another mark in Reeves’s favor.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Kit said, assuming this was Vivian’s husband. “I hate to intrude, but I need to speak to your wife urgently. It’s related to one of her employees.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Which one?”

“Sam Reeves,” Baz said. “May we come in?”

“Is he all right?” the man asked, opening the door a little wider.

Kit gave him a neutral smile. “He’s unhurt. We really need to speak to Dr. Carlisle.”

“For a moment only,” the younger woman said firmly. “My mother needs her rest.” She aimed an arch look at the man. “So does my father.”

He rolled his eyes and opened the door completely. “Please come in. I didn’t get your names.”

“I’m Detective McKittrick and this is my partner, Detective Constantine.”

“McKittrick?” another woman asked from inside the house. “Richard, did she say her name was McKittrick?”

“Yes, dear. She says she needs to talk to you about Sam.”

Sam. Not Dr. Reeves.

“Tell them to come in and hurry.”

Kit and Baz complied, following the husband into a comfortably furnished living room where Dr. Vivian Carlisle sat on the sofa, elevating her leg that was encased in a plaster cast.

A serious accident, then.

Kit and Baz took the seats indicated, and Baz let out a quiet sound as he rested on a cushion that was much softer than it had looked.

He smiled ruefully at the older woman. “Long night. Looks like you had one, too.”

“I did. I’m Vivian Carlisle. What happened to Sam?”

“We need to confirm his account of his dealings with one of his clients,” Kit said.

Vivian frowned. “Where is Sam right now?”

“In an interview room at the precinct.” Kit watched the woman closely for a reaction. She didn’t have to wait long.

“What the hell?” Vivian demanded. “Why is he in an interview room?”

“Because he made an anonymous call to my direct line,” Kit said. “He referenced an ongoing investigation and we wanted to question him.”

“Took you long enough. He called you on Monday.”

So Carlisle had known. The marks in Reeves’s favor were piling up. “Can you tell me what you know about Colton Driscoll?”

Vivian glanced at her daughter and husband. “Can you two go in the study and close the door? I’d take them in there myself, but . . .” She gestured to her leg, waiting as they disappeared down a hall, their voices going silent after a door was closed. “Dr. Reeves has been concerned about Colton Driscoll for several weeks. He was worried when the man started talking about his ‘pretty young thing’ and her grave. He became more worried when Driscoll mentioned a new young woman. Driscoll is a compulsive liar. We decided that an anonymous phone call to SDPD would be in order, to make sure that Driscoll was telling the truth. We’ve been waiting since Monday for some announcement of the discovery of a body in the park, but none came. Sam’s become more and more concerned.” She tilted her head. “Did you find a grave?”

Kit nodded once. “We did. We brought Dr. Reeves in because he refused to tell us how he knew about the grave until we confirmed we’d found a body. He finally told us this story and that you could verify it.”

“He’s telling the truth. Sam Reeves is a good man. Too good, sometimes.”

“What does that mean?” Baz asked suspiciously.

Vivian’s glare was frosty. “It means that he has a huge heart and that he tends to invest too much personally in his clients. One has to maintain a professional distance to maintain good mental health in this field. Caring too much will eat you from the inside out.”

Something we have in common, Kit thought. “Did Dr. Reeves mention anything about lilac or lacrosse?”

“No, but he did have a session with Mr. Driscoll yesterday after our meeting. He was planning to dig deeper and hopefully find out more. I guess he did. I was supposed to check on the potential grave site myself today, but my husband and I were struck by a car full of teenagers last night and . . . Well, I’m not going to be walking through any parks anytime soon. I suppose Dr. Reeves found more information that was pertinent.”

“He did.” That was all Kit would say. “Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

“Only that he picked you especially, Detective. I asked him why he called you, in particular. He said he’d heard about you from a friend and that you seemed to care about victims who’d been forgotten. He admired that about you.”

Kit wasn’t sure what to say to that. She’d wondered why Reeves had chosen to call her. “I appreciate your candor.”

“I’ll also add that if he needs an attorney, I will provide one. Tell him to call the house phone. My cell was destroyed in the accident and I haven’t gotten a replacement yet.”

“He has an attorney,” Kit said, “but I’ll let him know. He was worried about you.”

“Tell him I’m okay. Can you see yourselves out?”

Kit and Baz walked in silence to their car. “Well?” she asked when they were both buckled in.

“Reeves was telling the truth,” Baz said and sounded so disappointed that Kit had to laugh.

“I’m so sorry.”

He tried to glare, but it ended up a sigh. “At least we have our killer.”

Five young women, not six. “Yeah.”

SDPD, San Diego, California

Saturday, April 9, 11:05 a.m.

Sam paused his pacing, staring at the interview room mirror. If there was anyone still back there, he couldn’t see them. “What is taking them so long?” He turned to Laura. “Is this good or bad?”

She lifted a shoulder in a very familiar shrug. He really hated that shrug, but he couldn’t say anything because she was here, representing him. She could have chosen not to come, but she had, and he could be grateful for that and still wish she weren’t here, in his space.

The scent of her perfume made his nose itch.

The sound of her voice made his ears want to bleed.

At one time, just the sight of her smile had been enough to make his heart pound with happiness. Now, he saw her smile for the cold, calculating thing that it was.

It had messed with his head for a long time, having been so wrong about her. Having trusted her.

It had been Joel who’d helped him see the truth—that people like Laura Letterman were experts at making you see what they wanted you to see.

He’d taken that experience and learned from it. It had made it easier for him to see similar characteristics in his clients.

So he guessed he could be grateful to her for that, too.

“It could be either, neither, or both good and bad,” she said. “If they brought Driscoll in and are questioning him, it might just be that they’re holding you here in case his interrogation raises questions you might be able to answer.”

He’d thought of that. He hoped that was all this delay was about.

“Has Joel texted you about Siggy?” he asked.

She tapped at her phone’s screen, then nodded. “About five minutes ago. He says Siggy is comfortable at his place. He’s on his way back here.”

“He doesn’t have to come back.”

Laura shot him that don’t-be-an-idiot look again. “He’s your friend, Sam. He’s worried about you. Let him fuss. He sent a pic of the dog.” She huffed a soft laugh. “He’s cute.”

She tilted her phone so that Sam could see the photo. Siggy was in his crate, his tongue lolling happily. At least he wasn’t scared.

Sam hated the thought of his dog being scared.

“When did you get him?” Laura asked.

Sam leaned against the mirror, trying to put anyone watching him out of his mind. “The day after I broke up with you.”

Her eyes widened, and then she smiled ruefully. “He’s prob-ably better for you than I was.”

“No doubt,” Sam said, needing to change the subject. He wasn’t comfortable with anyone behind the mirror knowing his personal business. Any more than they already did—and he was certain that they’d been digging deep. “Have you worked with McKittrick and Constantine before?”

“Constantine, yes.” She made a face of distaste. “He’s a good cop. Very procedurally thorough. He was unshakable on the stand and my client is now serving life in San Quentin.” She tilted her head. “He doesn’t like shrinks. I remember that from the case because a shrink testified on my client’s behalf.” Another shrug. “We tried to go for a diminished capacity defense, but the prosecutor’s shrink blew mine out of the water.”

“Unfortunate,” Sam said sarcastically.

“He was guilty as fuck, so I threw a Hail Mary. Sometimes they work and sometimes they don’t. Just . . . be careful of Constantine and his partner. They’re predisposed to suspect you, or at least Constantine is.”

Sam remembered the disappointment on McKittrick’s face when she’d arrived at his apartment. She’d hoped he was on the level then, but his stupid crime board had sunk that ship. Not to mention the damn gun. He wished he’d never taken it out of the safe.

He could only hope that she’d be fair. He realized that he hated that she thought he could kill someone. He didn’t so much care about Constantine’s opinion of him, as long as the man believed he wasn’t a murderer. But he wanted McKittrick to . . . what? Like him?

Well, yeah. He did. It was juvenile, but accurate.

“Thanks. I’ll be careful. Have you been able to reach Vivian?”

“I would have told you if I did,” she said, not unkindly.

He knew that. “Sorry.” Pulling out a chair, he sat and dropped his head into his hands. “This is pretty awful.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said in a practical voice that actually soothed him. “Except for the resisting and the gun.”

He groaned. “I’m an idiot.”

“Did you point it at them?”

“No. I had it pointed down when I answered the door.” He sighed. “I thought, What if it’s Driscoll?”

“I can’t say that I blame you, especially knowing what he’d done to land in your office. Don’t worry. We can fix that. The resisting arrest charge might depend on their generosity, though. They haven’t booked you yet, so there’s still time to work it out.”

“I can’t have a record,” he mumbled. “I just can’t.”

“Look at it this way,” she said, sounding almost amused. “You’ve led such a boring Boy Scout life up until now, this can be a story you tell at parties someday. You can make yourself out to be a real badass.”

He scowled. “Boring isn’t a bad thing.” It had been the reason she’d given for cheating on him, though, and that still rankled. “I’m so sorry that I’m not interesting enough for you.”

She winced. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll just sit over here quietly and wait for the detectives to come back.”

“Fine.”

But he couldn’t sit. He began to pace again, tempted to flip the bird to the mirror on principle alone. But he didn’t. He couldn’t make this worse.

He was pushing a hundred laps around the room when the door opened and McKittrick and Constantine filed back in.

For a moment McKittrick held his gaze, but he wasn’t sure what she was thinking. She motioned to the chairs.

“Please have a seat, Dr. Reeves. We have much to discuss.”

Heart pounding, he obeyed. “Did you find Colton Driscoll?”

“You could say that,” Constantine said.

McKittrick sighed. “He’s dead.”

Shocked, Sam’s mouth fell open. “What? How? When?”

Oh shit. Do they think I did it?

“We found him in his house,” Constantine drawled, “hanging from a rope.”

Sam felt like he’d been sucker-punched. “Oh my God. Why?”

“He left a confession note saying he’d done the murders,” McKittrick said. “ME places time of death sometime between three and seven a.m. What was he wearing when he came for his session yesterday afternoon?”

Sam’s mind was reeling. “His mail room uniform. Khakis and a polo shirt. It was blue.”

“Thank you,” McKittrick said. “We stopped by your boss’s house after we finished at Mr. Driscoll’s place. Dr. Carlisle confirmed your story.”

Sam sagged in relief. “Thank you. Is she all right?”

“She’s fine,” McKittrick assured. “She was in a car accident with her husband last night. Both were treated for minor injuries at the hospital, then released, but her phone was smashed up. She said to tell you that she is okay.”

Sam closed his eyes, feeling a little dizzy. Vivian was all right and the detectives believed him now. Everything might be okay.

Except for Colton. That bothered him more than he’d expected it would.

Sam opened his eyes and found McKittrick watching him, her gaze still unreadable. “I’m surprised that Mr. Driscoll killed himself,” he said. “I wouldn’t have taken him as the type to do so.”

“Does this mean that my client is free to go?” Laura inserted, giving him a shut-up-now look.

McKittrick nodded. “We’ll be dropping the charges on resisting arrest. You did us a favor by bringing Colton Driscoll to our attention, Dr. Reeves, and we thank you. Please register your gun in California at the first possible opportunity.”

Sam shuddered out a breath. “Yes, of course. I’ll do that.”

“Then you’re free to go,” she said. “Baz, do you have his phone?”

“Yeah,” Constantine grunted. He handed Sam his phone. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Sam said politely.

She produced a small Milk-Bone-style dog treat from her pocket, then stunned him by smiling. Sam couldn’t rip his eyes away from her face. She was pretty in a cute-girl-next-door kind of way, but when she smiled, her whole face lit up.

“For Siggy,” she said. “We didn’t mean to frighten him.”

Sam’s mouth curved as he took the treat. “I’m sure he’s forgotten all about it by now, but he’ll enjoy the treat.”

Laura stood. “I’ll be taking my client home now. Sam?”

He gave a last nod to McKittrick, then followed Laura out into the hallway.

“Thank you,” he said to Laura. “For coming. I appreciate it. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. I figure I owe you that much. You ready to go?”

He regarded her for a moment, this woman whom he’d once loved. There was good in her heart, but there was a lot of awful in there, too.

“Did you say Joel was on his way?”

Her expression faltered. “Yes. You’re going to wait for him?”

Sam almost said, No, I’ll go with you, but then remembered how it had felt when he’d found her in bed with another man. How much it had hurt. He wouldn’t beat himself up for loving her or leaving her. But he wasn’t going to go down that road again.

“It’s for the best. He’s got Siggy at his place. We can get my dog, then he can take me home. Seriously, though, Laura, I do appreciate what you did today.”

“It wasn’t really anything. It would have been okay without me. But better to have representation, just in case.” She took a step back, her gaze a little regretful. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will. You too.”

He watched her go, then realized a uniformed officer stood about a foot behind him.

“I’ll escort you to the lobby,” the cop said.

“Oh, of course. What about my belongings? My laptop and my wallet?”

“They’ll have those up at the front desk. You’ll get them all back. This way, please,” the cop said and Sam followed.

But he felt eyes on him. A look over his shoulder revealed McKittrick standing in the doorway to the interview room, silently watching.

He raised the hand that held the dog treat, then didn’t look back again.

SDPD, San Diego, California

Saturday, April 9, 11:25 a.m.

Baz lifted a brow when Kit came back into the interview room. “What was that?”

She didn’t blink. “What?”

“That smile. And a dog treat?” He made a face. “You carry dog treats in your pockets?”

“Of course I do. Snickerdoodle loves them. And we did scare his dog.”

Baz had the good grace to look a little shamefaced. “I’m sorry about that part. But not the rest.”

“He gave us a killer.”

Baz leaned back in his chair, studying her. “A killer you still seem to doubt. Why?”

She sat on the corner of the table. “Five murders. Why five? Why not six, including Cecilia Sheppard? Why not ten? Do we think we really found all his victims over the years? That’s taking coincidence to ridiculous levels.”

“Like I said, maybe he didn’t want to admit to all the people he killed.”

“He’s a pathological liar who claims to party with Hollywood stars. I can’t believe he didn’t claim to have killed a hundred people. Or that he showed enough remorse to kill himself.”

Baz grimaced. “Point. But is that your only concern?”

She shrugged fitfully. “I don’t know. It feels . . . off.”

“He knew about Cecilia,” Baz said, counting on his fingers. “He knew she wore a lilac uniform. He knew about Jaelyn’s grave. He confessed. And for fuck’s sake, he had handcuffs and pink spray paint when we’ve kept that detail from the press. What more do you want to see?”

“I don’t know,” she said and meant it. She didn’t know. That bothered her a whole hell of a lot.

“I’d say we’ve closed this case. And we’ll get credit for catching a serial murderer, Kit. This is a huge feather in your cap this early in your career.” He frowned. “Is this a fear of success?”

She scoffed at the notion. “No. It feels too convenient. Too easy.”

His smile was kind. “Sometimes it is easy. Not every case is like Wren’s. Sometimes we get the bad guy. You know this. You’ve closed more than your share of cases since you joined Homicide.”

She sighed. “You’re right. I’m making this too hard. Let’s call Navarro.”

“We will. But first . . . what was with the smile at Reeves, Kit? I’m serious.”

“I don’t know,” she murmured once again. “I was . . . glad. Glad he was telling the truth. Glad he wasn’t a fraud, doing charity work to make himself look less guilty. Glad he was truly sincere and not some fake.”

“You like him,” Baz said quietly.

Her mouth tightened. “I don’t know him.”

“You like the idea of him, then.”

That wasn’t untrue. “I like the idea that someone is good and kind—and who they claim to be. I respect that he risked his career for young women he’d never met.”

The man also engendered loyalty from so many people—from his boss and her husband, from Joel Haley, and even from the shark attorney who’d looked so sad when he’d declined her offer of a ride home.

That piqued Kit’s curiosity. There was a story there, she was certain.

Too bad she’d never know what that story was. She’d have no reason to ever see him again.

“I guess not all shrinks are bad,” Baz allowed, disgruntled.

Kit patted his hand. “I’m sorry, Baz. I’m sure we’ll come across another narcissistic shrink who you can legitimately hate on sight.”

He scowled for a moment, then laughed. “Fine.” Then he sobered, and she braced herself for what he’d say next. “Will you see him again?”

“No. Why would I? Like you keep saying, this case is closed. I might ask Navarro to write him a formal thank-you letter in case his arrest causes him any future trouble.” A psychologist who made his living from clients referred by the courts had to maintain a clean reputation. “But other than that, I’d have no cause to see him again.”

He gave her a knowing look. “You can just call him, you know. Ask him out. It is the twenty-first century. Women do that kind of thing.”

The thought was not an unpleasant one.

Which might have bothered her even more than her doubts about Colton Driscoll’s confession note.

“I won’t,” she said quietly. She might regret not seeing the man again, but that was as far as she’d let it go. “I have a very full life. The life I want. I’m good, Baz.”

He looked like he’d say more, but he only shook his head. “Message received. Ix-nay on the ink-shray.”

“Thank you. Look. It’s been a long twenty-four hours. Let’s check in with Navarro and then I’m going home to give the rest of the treats in my pocket to Snickerdoodle before I take a nap.”

She held a hand out to Baz, pulling him to his feet. He groaned as he stretched his back.

“You’re going to take a nap, and you’re young. Imagine how I feel. I’m too old to go all night long.”

Kit snickered, then let herself laugh. It rolled from her belly, making her shake as Baz shook his head in amusement.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said when her laughter had come to a wheezing end.

“I’m so telling Marian you said that. I’m telling everyone you said that.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’ll tell everyone that you smiled at the shrink and gave him a biscuit for his dog.”

That shut her up. “You’re an asshole.”

He smiled. “And don’t you forget it.”

SDPD, San Diego, California

Saturday, April 9, 12:10 p.m.

Kit’s heart sank when she walked into the bullpen. Navarro and his boss were in his office, both smiling jovially.

“Don’t you dare,” Baz muttered.

She looked at him, more than a little hurt. “Dare what?”

“Tell them you think that it’s a mistake. We found the confession. We found the cuffs and the paint. He’s dead. He did it and he’s dead.”

She drew a quiet breath. “I’ll do my goddamn job, Baz. Just like you taught me.” Then she marched up to Navarro’s office, Baz sputtering behind her.

“Kit,” Baz hissed.

“I’m going to give him the facts. Then it’s his choice. Okay?”

Which wasn’t true. If Navarro dismissed her concerns, she’d still have them. She’d still poke around for answers. She rapped on Navarro’s door and he waved them in.

“McKittrick, Constantine, come in,” he said with a huge smile. “This is a good day.”

“Yes, sir,” Kit said respectfully.

Navarro’s smile faltered. “What happened?”

Suddenly both men’s gazes were locked on her and Baz.

“Nothing,” Baz stated firmly. “Colton Driscoll has been transported to the morgue and CSU is finishing up at his home. We’ve confirmed Dr. Reeves’s story and he’s been released. Just as we told you, sir.”

“Then why do you look like you just sucked a lemon, McKittrick?” Navarro demanded.

Kit squared her shoulders and purposely did not look at Baz. “There are a few details that don’t add up, sir.”

Navarro sat on the corner of his desk. “Something other than the confession letter saying five and not six victims?”

Kit nodded, because she’d already told him about her concerns, but she needed to be sure that he’d heard her. “Mainly that. I’m also suspicious of his shoes. They were brand new when most of the shoes in his closet were worn. And they just happen to be the same shoe that made the print we found near Jaelyn Watts’s grave.”

“It’s a common shoe, Kit,” Navarro said, frowning. “We’ve all agreed to that.”

Yes, they had, but she still couldn’t shake the fact that they were the same shoes that Sam Reeves had also worn to the park. Was that merely a coincidence?

“What else, Detective?” the captain asked. He was a sharp-eyed man with a near-perpetual scowl. But Kit knew that he was a kind man, deep down.

“Why today? Why did he kill himself today? Did he know that he was about to be caught? And if he did, how did he know? How did he know that we’d found five bodies and not four? Did he visit the crime scene? Is that how he knew? We’ve kept the discovery of Jaelyn’s body under wraps.”

The men looked at each other, then at Baz.

Kit finally glanced at her partner. His jaw was tight and his cheeks flushed, whether from anger, embarrassment, or fatigue, Kit wasn’t sure. Probably a combination.

“Enough people knew about the fifth body,” Baz gritted out. “It might have gotten out. Or maybe he didn’t know about Jaelyn, and the fifth victim he referred to was Cecilia Sheppard.”

“Either of those could be true.” Kit hesitated, then asked the question that had been bothering her the most. “But if Jaelyn’s murder was leaked, is it possible that the cuffs and pink spray paint were leaked, too?”

The captain’s scowl grew. “Are you suggesting that Driscoll is innocent?”

“No,” she said firmly. “He knew about the victims, but according to Dr. Reeves, he was a pathological liar, so who knows exactly what he knew and when he knew it? He talked about the final victim—the sixth victim—like she was still alive, even though she went missing eight months ago. I’m not saying that he isn’t guilty. I’m saying that a few things don’t add up and I’d like to make sure we haven’t missed anything before we celebrate.”

“Like?” Navarro asked.

“Like how did he lure his victims? He admitted to five. We know there might have been six, if we include Cecilia Sheppard. He’s killed young women for at least seventeen years. Maybe twenty. Four of the five victims we found were accidental discoveries. There have to be more. Who are they? Where did he kill them? Where are they buried? Why did he choose the parks? And how did he manage to bury people in parks where so many people walked? I have questions.”

The captain nodded. “All valid. What does the ME say? Has he confirmed cause of death?”

“She’s doing the autopsy this afternoon,” Kit said. “Dr. Batra is on the case.”

“She’s good,” the captain said. “We’ll wait to see what she says. If she believes there is any reason to doubt that he hanged himself, we’ll act accordingly. And if she concludes that Driscoll killed himself, then we still need to find those answers. Especially if there are more victims. And we need to identify the two bodies that are still Jane Does.”

Navarro had moved his gaze from Kit to Baz. “What are you thinking, Baz?”

Baz leaned back against the door, scrubbing his palm over his face. “Right now, I’m thinking I want to go to sleep. But mostly I’m thinking that this guy confessed. We’ve been stymied on this case for fifteen years, ever since we found that first body. For a lot of us, this is the case that keeps us up at night sometimes.” He glanced at Kit, his eyes full of regret. “One of the cases,” he said, and Kit knew he meant Wren’s murder. “I want this to be true, Reynaldo. It quacks like a duck.”

Kit’s chest tightened. All three of these men had worked Homicide for years, were familiar with this investigation. Of course they’d have an emotional component to wanting to solve it. She did on the fresh cases she’d caught for the past four years. She did on the cold cases as well. She gave Baz an understanding smile, the band around her heart loosening when he smiled back. Argument settled. They were good.

Navarro nodded grimly. “I want this to be true, too. We’ll wait to see what Batra says after she’s done with the autopsy and then we’ll go from there. Go home, both of you. Get some rest, because either way, we need to know what Driscoll was up to. And we need to reopen the investigation into the unidentified victims. We need to give their families closure as well.”

“Yes, sir,” Kit murmured.

Baz simply waved. “Night, all.”

“Wait,” the captain said. “This psychologist. Reeves. Are we sure he’s on the level?”

Baz nodded. “His boss confirms his story. Seems like this guy just wanted to do the right thing but was between a rock and a hard place with his personal and professional ethics.”

“In fact, I’d like to request a letter from the department, sir,” Kit added. “Thanking him. It will also go to show that his arrest was a misunderstanding. Something like that could damage his career and he already risked it to help.”

“I’ll draft it up today,” Navarro promised. “You can look it over before I send it out.”

“Thank you. Come on, old man,” she said to Baz. “I’ll drive you home.”