The Kill by Allison Brennan Read Free Book Online

They were cunning, and constantly striving to commit the perfect crime.
    Right now, Zack didn’t have much to work with. The trace evidence they’d collected at the two crime scenes was still being analyzed. Their best bet at this point was carpet fibers collected from the victim’s clothing. Unfortunately, the samples were from two different vehicles, which didn’t make sense to Zack. One was a late-model Ford Expedition, the other a late-model Dodge Ram. Two very popular trucks that could belong to one of thousands of men in Seattle alone. This morning they’d run registration reports for both types of vehicles. Now, they were manually comparing the lists to see if any address had both truck types registered. Zack didn’t expect the results until tomorrow. He’d been frustrated that with all the technology they had, and the ability to run instantaneous registration reports for the two vehicles, running a comparative match was impossible because the “program didn’t work that way,” he was told. What was the point of technology if it couldn’t do what he needed?
    This morning, the coroner had sent a DNA sample to the state lab. Even though Doug Cohn had asked the state to rush the analysis, it could still take weeks, maybe months. Once complete, he’d enter the information into the national DNA registry, CODIS, and see if there were any hits. Unfortunately, with tight budgets across the country, law enforcement primarily entered DNA information only in active cases. Ten years ago it wasn’t a common practice, and twenty years ago—forget it. All the cold cases had to be entered manually, and unless there was funding for it, the work was done haphazardly if at all.
    But DNA was only good if there was a suspect to go with it. Zack hoped that whatever Doug Cohn preserved from Michelle Davidson’s body would match a known offender in the registry, though he didn’t expect miracles.
    Then there were the odd marks on the victims’ forearms. Both Jenny and Michelle had twelve small, almost uniform, punctures made with some sort of extremely narrow, sharp object. It could be a fine-tipped knife, like a scalpel. The marks weren’t made with the same knife that killed them, but the coroner said with certainty that they were intentional.
    “Do you think—?” Boyd began before he was interrupted by the bellow of Chief Princeton.
    Princeton wasn’t really his name but he strutted around like God’s gift to women, complete with a master’s degree from some Ivy League school. Zack had been tired and drinking at the blue bar down the street with a bunch of the guys late one night. Earlier in the day, the chief had been playing politics with the mayor and they’d been overheard talking about their respective alma maters. Zack didn’t know who had come up with the nickname “Princeton” for Chief Lance Pierson, but it had stuck.
    During the two years Chief Princeton had been in charge, Zack learned to respect him. The chief was good at schmoozing with the politicos, something that needed to be done and that Zack detested, and Princeton backed up the boys in blue 110 percent. That went a long way in Zack’s book, even though the chief often acted like his extra year in college and some brainy Latin award made him smarter than his men. They’d developed a good working relationship, and when the chief had learned about his nickname, he laughed it off.
    “Detective Travis. My office,” Pierson ordered.
    Boyd jumped at the chief’s call. “Yes, sir,” he said.
    “Down, Boyd,” Pierson said. “Just your FTO.”
    Zack told Boyd, “Run over to the lab and see if they have any word on the trucks.” Zack would have preferred to do it himself.
    He crossed the bullpen. “What’s up?”
    “There’s someone you need to meet,” Pierson said.
    “You’re not setting me up for another glad-handing with the mayor.” His chief constantly tried to get Zack to play politics.
    “It’s about your homicide