Blood Dahlia - A Thriller (Sarah King Mysteries) (15 page)

28

By eight o’clock in the evening, Sarah had read through the files three times. She stared at the Black Dahlia crime scene photos until they no longer bothered her. Every suspect’s name had been read aloud to see if anything would occur, but nothing did. No one jumped out at her.

She wished this stupid thing, whatever it was that she had inside her, would just be like a switch that turned on and off. The hardest part was that she had no control over it
, and it was hard to use it for the benefit of anything. How could she, when she didn’t know when or where something would hit her?

Sarah decided three reads was
enough. Whatever she had gotten from the original Black Dahlia killing was already in her head. Nothing else was going to be gained by staring at grisly photos. She closed the files, stacked them neatly in a pile, and then rose.

The muscles in her back and legs ached
, and she stretched her arms out as wide as she could. Then she squatted down, feeling the deep stretch in her thighs before she stood up and walked out of the library.

Outside the windows was darkness dappled with city l
ights. Inside the Bureau’s offices, a few agents were still typing on their computers, and a cleaner was vacuuming in the far corner, and that was it. The place was empty, and Sarah felt uncomfortable being there without Giovanni or Rosen.

One agent, a woman in a black suit with the coat slung over the back of her chair, was typing up what looked like a police report. Sarah walked up to her
, blushing, and said, “Excuse me.”

The woman looked
at her, her face stern. “Yes?”

“Um, is there
, like, a cafeteria or something on this floor?”

“No, but down the hall that way are a few vending machines.”

“Thanks.”

The woman turned back to her computer without saying another word.

Sarah said, “So are you typing up a report on a case?”

The woman stopped, her eyes not leaving the computer screen. “Look, no offense, but I’d like to finish this and get outta here
. I don’t really have time to talk.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

Sarah turned and walked around a few cubicles before she found the hallway that the woman had pointed to. She looked both ways and saw the dim glow of vending machines on the left. Giovanni was off to the right, speaking with someone. She kept her eyes on the linoleum floor as she walked to the vending machines.

Just a few days ago, she was a bartender
who got drunk every night, and now she was walking the halls of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and reading fifty-year-old files about famous murders. Life sure was odd.

The vending machines had the worst food possible
, nothing but greasy meat chock-full of preservatives. Sarah glanced over the selection quickly. On the bottom was a small tray of salad with a side of ranch in a pouch. She decided against it and chose some coffee in the machine next to it. She took out some dollar bills and inserted them into the machine. As the second one entered, she squealed and crumpled over, her fingers shooting up to her temples. The coffee missed the cup and spilled onto the floor.

The pounding had started again
, and fragments ran before her eyes. A man in older clothing, something from a different decade, cutting a woman’s face. The woman was bound at the ankles and wrists. He slashed her body and cut pieces off, throwing them around on a bare cement floor.

Then a man in more modern clothing with vivid colors
was doing the same thing to another girl, this one blond. The girl begged for him to stop and screamed for help, but they were in the woods with no one else around. The woman tried to run. The man let her get only so far before he caught up again and slashed her thighs, then flipped her onto her back and cut into her face again.

The images stopped. Sarah was breathing heavily. As she
pulled herself upright, she felt the trickle of blood on her face. She reached up and touched just under her nose—two streams of blood, one from each nostril.

She
covered her nose with one hand and searched for some napkins. She found a roll of paper towels behind her near a sink and unrolled a few, then pinched her nose and tilted her head back, her fingers pressed firmly against her nose as she leaned against the counter.

“Hey,” Giovanni said, rushing up to her with a look of concern. “You okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine. It just hit me again.”

“What happened to your nose?”

She shook her head, her eyes on the ceiling. “I don’t know. It’s never happened before.”

Giovanni stood there a moment and watched her. “I think that’s enough for one day. I’ll drive you home.”

The car ride was pleasant. The rain had stopped and left that wet-cement smell that doused the entire city. Sarah kept her window down for the entire drive and took it in. She watched the passing shops and stores, the people on street corners hanging out on a Friday night.

“
What happened exactly?” Giovanni asked.

“I saw something.”

“What?”

“I saw that girl, the Black Dahlia.
A man was cutting her somewhere, like in a basement. He was cutting her face. And then it switched, and I saw another man cutting another woman. Their clothes had changed, and it was more recent. Really recent. He was chasing her through the woods or, like, a forest or something. She was trying to get away from him, and he cut her thighs to stop her, and she fell. He climbed on top of her and started cutting her face—the same exact way the Black Dahlia was cut.”

“In the woods?”

“Yeah.”

“There was only
one victim found in the woods.”

“Was she blond? With blue eyes?”

Giovanni glanced at her. “Yeah, she was. You think that’s who you saw?”

“I don’t know.”

They pulled to a stop in front of her apartment building. Giovanni put the car in park, and they both sat quietly for a moment.

“I don’t think this is good for you,” he said. “I shouldn’t have pushed for this.”

“I’m fine. And believe me, without an education, it’s the best job I can get. Sixty thousand a year with government benefits is awesome. I’ve never had health insurance before.”

“It’s not good for you to see all these things. You said you’ve never bled
after you saw something. What does it mean that you just did?”

“It’s nothing. I’m just exhausted. Some sleep will fix me right up
; I’m sure of it.”

Giovanni exhaled and
looked at her. “There are other jobs with health insurance.”

“Not that need what I can do. Don’t worry about me
. I’ll be fine.” She opened her door. “Goodnight, Agent Adami.”

He grinned. “Night.”

Sarah stepped out of the car and shut the door behind her. As she was making her way up the sidewalk to her building, she saw a man standing out front. He had his hands tucked into the pockets on his coat. A beard and glasses covered his face, and he looked right at her.

She ignored him and went to the front entrance and input the code to get into the building on the
keycode entry. The man came up to her, and she jumped and reached for the keys in her pocket, the only thing she could think of to use as a weapon.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the man said, holding up his hands. He reached into his coat and pulled out a
Washington Post
ID badge. “I’m Kenneth Lott. I’m with the
Post
. I’m a reporter. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Sarah felt stupid and tried to force herself to calm down.

“There a problem here?” Giovanni said, rushing up.

“I’m Kenneth Lott with the
Post
. I just wanted to ask you a few questions if that’s okay, Ms. King?”

“What questions?” she said. “About what?”

“We were told that you were a consultant on the Blood Dahlia murders, and I wanted to just speak to you about that for a few minutes.”

“She doesn’t want to talk,” Giovanni said.

“No,” she said. “It’s okay. What do you want to know?”

“You were spotted at the scene
where they found the most recent victim, at Director Hanks’s house. What exactly is your role in the investigation?”

Giovanni said, “Sarah, you don’t need to talk to him.”

“I have nothing to hide. It’s fine.”

Lott was shifting from foot to foot, either cold or nervous.

“I’m an assistant to Assistant Director Kyle Vidal.”

“
Assisting with what?”

“Just a personal assistant. That’s all.”

“Well, the thing is, we ran your name, and it doesn’t appear that you come from a law enforcement or criminology background. What exactly is your role?”

“Hey,” Giovanni
interrupted, pushing between them. “You sneak up on her as she’s walking into her house in the dark? Get lost. Now.”

“
I’m on public property. I don’t have to go anywhere.”

“
She’s an employee of the FBI, and she’s feeling harassed. I said take a hike.”

Lott looked from one of them to the other
then grumbled something as he turned and walked away. Sarah folded her arms and stared at Giovanni.

“I don’t need protection,” she said.

“You don’t deal with those guys. They’re vultures.”

“I can take care of myself and speak for myself. I
have a father. I don’t need another.”

Giovanni stared at her a moment. “I’m sorry. I just thought… you don’t have a lot of experience with those guys. They’re friendly to your face then stab you in the back the first chance they get.”

She sighed and gave him a soft, quick peck on the lips that hardly registered with her as a kiss at all but seemed to brighten his mood. “You’re cute. But don’t speak for me again.”

“I won’t.”

The door shut behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder to see Giovanni walking away with a smile on his face. He was, in a way, adorable—like some teenager with a crush. Despite the fact that he had seen so much war and death, the worst that humanity had to offer, there was a certain naïveté to him that was endearing.

The apartment was empty and dull as Sarah stepped inside. She turned on all the lights
, sat on her couch, and flipped on the television as she slipped her boots off. A
Vampire Diaries
marathon was on, and she put her feet up on the couch and leaned back. 

29

Daniel Wolfgram stared at himself in the mirror.

The button-front shirt he wore was
a plain solid blue. The pants were Dockers, beige. The sports coat was a simple black, no brand name. His shoes were leather but bought from a discount bin in an outlet mall. Being single and a tenured professor at Penn State, he could certainly afford better, but everything about him was designed to give one impression: normal.

From his haircut to the socks he wore, nothing stood out about him. Everything was chosen careful
ly to ensure that people who saw or met him remembered very little about him.

Wolfgram put the jacket on. It was nearly noon
, and his class started at three—a remedial class on calculus for students in nonscience majors every Saturday. He had personally volunteered to teach the class. Though it was held at the Penn State campus, everyone from the surrounding colleges and universities was invited to attend for a nominal fee.

The van was certainly his favorite transportation,
but the vehicle he drove on a daily basis was his beige Oldsmobile. The car, like his clothing, was meant to fit in anywhere and not stand out. Rather than buy a new car, he had bought a twenty-year-old car and rebuilt the engine. The scientific literature on memory indicated that older objects didn’t stay in the working memory of observers for as long as newer, flashier objects did.

As always before
getting in his car, Wolfgram checked the blinkers, the tires, and the mirrors, and only then did he get in and start the engine. The car rumbled to life, and he pulled out of the garage. Sunshine filled the car, but he chose not to roll down the windows, tinted at exactly the legal limit. He didn’t require GPS, though he had it. He knew this city well and had driven around for hours exploring neighborhoods he’d never been to and never would have gone to otherwise. Philadelphia was large, and it had taken him years to gain this sort of comfort, but he felt that he could start driving from anywhere in the city and know exactly how to get home.

Within twenty minutes, he was in front of the white condominiums he was looking for. They were stacked on top of each other like boxes and spread out for almost half a city block.
Efficient use of space
—
cram as many people into living quarters as possible
. He knew that a small fire would quickly destroy the entire complex. He pictured families running around on fire as they tried to escape.

He parked in front of the condominium and would’ve honked, except that he enjoyed being in other people’s homes. He got out of the car and knocked. Dara answered
, still pulling her shoes on.

“Hey
. Sorry, I’m running a little late,” she said.

“No worries.”

“Would you like to come in?”

“Certainly.”

The condo was decorated tastefully, he thought. The pictures on the mantel of the fireplace were mostly photos of her son, but there were also a few of her sister and extended family. A glass side table held a flower arrangement next to a white couch and glass coffee table.

“Make yourself at home,” she said,
disappearing back into the bedroom.

Wolfgram stared at the
flatscreen television mounted on the wall. He could see his reflection in it. Off to the right was a silver urn with gold trim.

“So where we going?” she
called from the bedroom.

“
A little place I know near downtown. You’ll like it. It’s Middle Eastern.”

He turned
to the photos. The young boy, Jake, was smiling in all of them. A few were sports photos, but there was one where he stood on a sand dune, staring off at the sunset. Wolfgram felt nothing for children and didn’t understand their allure. Why people would wish to share their lives with a creature that could give very little back was beyond him.

Dara stepped out, her hair done and her tight black dress on.
Much more fashionable than lunch deserved. Wolfgram grinned and said, “You look lovely,” because he knew it was what he was expected to say. He then took her arm and led her out of the condo and to his car.

As they drove, he would glance
at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. Having a woman near him like this was both thrilling and uncomfortable.

“What type of music do you like?” he asked.

“Oh, just about anything. I think I have Duran Duran in my car. Child of the ’80s, I guess.”

Wolfgram turned on the stereo and attempted to find something she might enjoy. The closest he came was a rock station playing a song he didn’t recognize.

“So, where you from?” Dara asked.

“
Los Angeles, originally. How about yourself?”

“Born
-and-raised Philly girl. Sometimes I think about moving, though. I mean, don’t you think it’s weird to be born, grow up, and die in the same place? It feels unnatural, somehow.”

“Perhaps you just need to travel more
.”

“Maybe. It’s hard with work, though. Do you travel a lot?”

“Yes.”

“That
must be good, right? I guess it beats getting stuck in one place like I did.”

“
It’s a fine line—do it too much and you become a stranger in your own home.”

The restaurant was a
wide-open space with plenty of plants and windows. The ceilings were decorated in frescos, and every waiter had traditional Persian garb. Their waiter seated them at a table in the center of the room, and the conversation wasn’t forced. Wolfgram found she liked to do most of the talking, which worked out fine, as he preferred to listen.

She spoke of her family life, of meeting
and divorcing her husband, and raising a child as a single mother. The hardest part, she told him, was that it was a son. She couldn’t teach him how to be a man, and she was worried that he wouldn’t learn about that part of himself.

After
lunch, Wolfgram drove her to one of his favorite bars. It was a karaoke bar with a grand piano in the center. The alcohol was high quality, and they had a strict dress code. They catered to a select group of people and wanted to keep it that way.

The bar was crowded,
much more so than one would think at lunchtime, enough so that they had to push their way through to order drinks. They found two barstools next to each other and waited as the drinks were made. Wolfgram turned and faced the stage where someone was singing Iron Butterfly.

“I didn’t picture you in a place like this,” she said loudly over the singing.

“Really? Why not?”

“I don’t know. You seem more
like a fancy restaurant type of guy.”

Wolfgram ordered
more drinks over the course of an hour. He would stare at Dara when she was paying attention to what was happening onstage—the way she would smile and the twinkle in her eye.

After four drinks, they left the bar and Wolfgram drove her home. She spe
nt the entire drive telling him about the time she was thrown out of a bar in college for fighting with her boyfriend’s lover. Wolfgram listened just enough to be able to nod when he had to or ask a follow-up question. But his attention was filled with the soft touch of her hand: her fingers lay over his right hand, his left on the steering wheel.

The sensation was an odd one. He thought he should pull away but never did.

When he stopped in front of her condo, she didn’t get out right away. She looked down the parking lot at a neighbor’s home, a slight smile on her lips.

“I had a lot of fun,” she said.

“So did I.”

“
Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

“Yes, I would like that,” he said.

She leaned in and kissed him on the lips. “Bye.”

H
e watched her, all the way to her door.

The kiss had been quick and probably meant nothing. Just a small display
, but to him it was the oddest feeling he had ever had. A woman kissed him on the lips.

Wolfgram did a U-turn and glanced into her condo before driving away.