Perfect Victim by Jay Bonansinga Read Free Book Online

funerals together, had burned CDs of old jazz tunes for each other, and on alternating mornings had even brought each other lox and bagels. Without even being aware of it they had become like brothers. And now Grove’s only brother in the world was dying, and it made Grove’s guts twist with anguish, and it made him curse this goddamned cell phone for squeaking and vibrating in his hand like a viper.
    â€œThis is Grove,” he snapped into the cell.
    An unfamiliar voice said, “Agent Grove, this is Dave Van Teigham, special agent out of Raleigh-Durham. Sorry to bother you so early in the morning, sir.”
    Grove frowned. He didn’t know anybody out of Raleigh-Durham. The voice on the other end had a youthful quality to it, and a calibrated drawl that suggested New South, maybe a college degree from someplace like Duke or Tulane. “Listen, uh, Agent, uh—”
    â€œVan Teigham.”
    â€œRight, um…look. I’m a little tied up this morning. Can you leave a message at Quantico?”
    There was a tense beat of silence, then the voice said, “The thing of it is, I would normally go through channels, but this thing is…”
    Grove waited. “I’m listening.”
    â€œOkay. In a nutshell. We got reason to believe we got a series going now—and it’s a little unique.”
    â€œGo on.”
    The voice took a deep breath. “We just taped off a scene outside a little resort town in North Carolina, along the Outer Banks, called Emerald Isle—female, white, early forties, name of Karen Finnerty, apparent cause of death sharp trauma. Signature matches up with an unsolved killing in Minneapolis two weeks ago.”
    â€œYou mean the MO?”
    â€œActually there’s a real signature here, looks like a ritual type deal.”
    Grove let out a pained sigh. He felt slightly guilty talking about this stuff in front of his unconscious boss. He turned away, toward the wall, as though this conversation might actually infect Geisel with its tainted backwash. “Look. Van Tiegham…I’m going to have to get back to you—”
    â€œIf you just give me a chance to—”
    â€œI’m sorry.” Grove rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to have to pick this up next week—”
    â€œIt’s just like your book.”
    Grove frowned. “I’m sorry?”
    â€œI said it’s just like your book.”
    Grove stood up, turned toward the wall, his voice suddenly low and urgent. “What the hell are you talking about?”
    On the other end of the line, Van Teigham’s voice dropped an octave. “I didn’t want to just drop this in your lap like this.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, just like my book?”
    â€œI think we got a situation here—I don’t think copycat is the right word for it: the evidence is staged exactly the same way it appears in your book.”
    Â 
    The door to Geisel’s room whooshed open, and Grove lurched into the corridor, his sweaty grip tight on the cell phone, the back of his neck tingling with nervous tension. “I’m not following what you’re telling me here,” he said under his breath, oblivious to the nurses brushing past him, the orderlies pushing carts down the hallway.
    â€œLet me repeat what I’m saying,” the voice in his ear said. “The evidence—both in Minneapolis and North Carolina—it matches down to the last fiber the model in your book—what did you call it? The archetype?”
    â€œHow did you even—?”
    â€œI caught your lecture at the annual AFP meeting last March, met you afterward at the banquet, got a copy of your book. I probably wouldn’t have connected anything up if I hadn’t seen that illustration.”
    â€œWhat illustration is that?” Grove stared at the scuffed tile floor, chewing the inside of his cheek. He did not notice the frail, gray-haired woman approaching