Frozen by Jay Bonansinga Read Free Book Online Page A

now?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    She licked her lips. “Okay, but promise me something: whatever it is, whatever you saw in that lab today, you’ll give me an exclusive on it . . . when you’re ready.”
    After a beat, Grove smiled and said, “Let’s go spend some of your magazine’s money.”
    They walked across the street to a place called the Black Bear Lounge.
    The broken neon Schaffer beer sign over the massive, worm-eaten oak door should have been a clue to Maura as to what they would find inside. It was one of those dark, moldy taverns that masqueraded as a restaurant—the kind you find in every American college town—with the butcher-block booths, Tiffany lamps, and peanut shells on the floor. A few antler chandeliers and crisscrossed snowshoes added local color. But mostly it was a place for coeds to come and pound some beers.
    Okuda was waiting for them at the hostess stand. Grove asked the hostess if they could have a table in the rear. The peroxide-blond matron led the threesome through the malty shadows as the Rolling Stones pondered with thunderous volume why brown sugar tasted so good.
    They settled into a booth in the far corner and ordered a round.
    After the drinks arrived—a draft for Okuda, a glass of pinot grigio for Maura, a single malt scotch, neat, for Grove—Maura asked Grove if he was going to tell them what was going on, or if he was going to keep them in suspense forever, and Grove replied, after taking a sip of his Glenlivet, that the information he was about to give them was not for public consumption. He looked directly at Maura as he explained that it was highly irregular for bureau personnel to reveal the facts of an active investigation, and Maura felt a twinge of defensiveness. Not only was she a consummate professional when it came to discretion, but the chances of somebody in law enforcement actually noticing one of Maura’s articles in Discover seemed fairly remote.
    After a long pause Grove finally told them about a series of murders he had been investigating. Unlike most serial killers—who reflect some type of identifiable psychosexual need or fetish in their crimes—this guy, even after seven murders, was still a complete mystery, and one of the toughest cases Grove had ever encountered. Grove described the manner in which the killer apparently hunted his random victims, then dispatched them with some sort of sharp weapon, a spear or a sword. Then, in a low, almost pedantic drone, like a teacher informing students of their failing grades, Grove elaborated on the postmortem staging and posing.
    â€œGood God,” Maura uttered without really being aware of her own voice in her ears.
    â€œIt’s a coincidence,” Okuda blurted, his dark eyes shimmering and fixed on Grove.
    Grove shrugged. “I’ll show you the forensic photos from the last scene, and you tell me whether that raised arm, that supine position, and that wound in the neck—all of it—you tell me whether it’s all just a coincidence.”
    â€œIt’s not possible, is it?” Maura asked.
    Another shrug from Grove.
    â€œWhat are we talking about here?” Okuda wanted to know.
    Grove looked at him. “What do you mean?”
    â€œWell . . . you’re telling us you’re investigating a series of homicides that have a similar—what do you call it?”
    â€œSignature, pattern.”
    â€œSignature, right . . . which means, what, the victims ended up looking a lot like Keanu?”
    Grove corrected the young Asian. “Not ‘a lot.’ They’re identical.”
    A cold finger touched Maura’s spine all of a sudden—the way the profiler said the word identical , with that cutting gaze, and those almond eyes set deep in that sculpted brown face. For years, Maura County had found refuge, and perhaps even solitude, in the protective coating of history. Pain and savagery were an