Deadly Messengers by Susan May Read Free Book Online

had taken a moment, too.
    The boy’s body had been nearly hacked in two. The first strike caught him full in the right shoulder, cutting through down to the armpit, severing the appendage from his body. Still alive after the first blow, he had tried to escape but looked to have fallen on oil spilled on the floor.
    While he lay there defenseless, the killer had swung his axe with such force it took only a few blows to tear the kid apart. All Benson left were two halves of the kid’s body—upper and lower torso, joined by small threads of muscle—and his arm back by the sink.
    The kid was seventeen. Jesus Christ. What the fuck was that?
    O’Grady didn’t envy the coroner’s job. At least his conclusion wouldn’t be cause of death: unknown . This was an open and shut case. Death by lunatic.
    You caught one of these cases rarely. If you were lucky—or unlucky, depending on your viewpoint—it could be considered a bonus. Another type of personality might dine out for a lifetime on a case like this. There might even be accolades or a promotion for closing it swiftly and putting the public’s collective mind at rest.
    O’Grady preferred to keep a low profile. He didn’t like tributes. He didn’t talk about his job. He was haunted enough by past events without rehashing the unsettling violent aspects of his career. Those memories he compartmentalized for his own sanity, only bringing them out if a case required it of him.
    In this case, where he and Trip were there to simply mop up evidence and do the paperwork, “tying bows” was all he would focus on. Let the profilers sift through the life of Toby Benson and come up with the reasons, to give everyone a better night’s sleep.
    He glanced at another pool of blood near the boy’s. The chef, a hefty man, bled out quickly. For him, at least, death was quick. O’Grady stared at the mottled dried stains of sticky, rust-brown, clotted with black globules. Of all the “make you, break you” cases he could snag, this one he’d have happily missed. Even with his mantra of leaving work at work, he didn’t think the images would leave him for a long while. Italian was off the menu for the near future, too.
    When he closed his eyes tonight, exhausted, he knew his mind would continue to circle one question: what would possess someone to massacre these people? If you wanted to make a case for evil, there was the confirmation, pooled in vivid red on this kitchen floor.

Chapter 7

     
     
    KENDALL HAD NEVER AMBUSHED SOMEONE for a story. She wasn’t one of those hard-nosed journalists who ran down the street after people shouting, “What do you have to say about ripping off old people?” Anyway, she probably wasn’t fast enough to pursue anyone more than ten feet while holding a microphone. What she did have was a natural curiosity and, after all these years, a good instinct for people and stories.
    She stood on Beverley Sanderson’s doorstep wondering if her knock would bring anyone to the door, forcing herself to breathe deeply to calm her nerves. She’d managed only about two breaths before the sound of footsteps inside sent her heart racing.
    The door swung open, revealing a woman in her mid-forties, her blonde hair held back by a bright purple scarf. She wore an unnaturally white smile. Kendall thought at first she must have the wrong address.
    “Yes?”
    “Beverley Sanderson?”
    “Yes.”
    “My name is Kendall Jennings, and I’m working on an article for Healthy, Wealthy and Wisdom magazine.”
    The woman stared at her. In her nervousness, Kendall continued to talk, uncertain whether she was seconds away from the door being slammed in her face.
    “Perhaps you’ve heard of it? They’re sold in all the supermarkets. Very popular. Over three hundred thousand copies sold.”
    Still the woman stared.
    “I thought you might speak to me about your experience at Café Amaretto last night.”
    Beverley Sanderson continued to hold the edge of the door. Her stare