Dream Man

It was still early enough that traffic was fairly heavy.

Anxious to reach the exit, he tucked up too close behind a semitrailer. One of the retreads on the rig chose that moment to come apart, throwing up a big road gator that slapped into the front of his car. Cursing, he backed off to a safer distance, but the distraction helped, pulled his mind away from everything he was trying not to think about.

It took a little longer than ten minutes to reach 3311 Cypress Terrace. The street was cluttered with the usual assortment of official vehicles and sightseers. Dane got out of the car, studying the bystanders with acute interest, looking for one who seemed familiar. If the same guy had done both women, he might have been at the Vinick scene, too. Nothing; not one of the gawkers triggered a memory.

Cypress Terrace was in a slightly more upscale neighborhood than the Vinicks had lived in. The houses weren’t bigger, but they were about ten years newer. There was a small, attached carport, and that was where the knot of uniforms had gathered, though one patrolman was guarding the front door, and he hoped another one was at the back.

Freddie Brown and her partner, Worley, were the detectives on call that weekend, and they were already there.

Freddie detached herself from the group of patrolmen as soon as she saw him. “Hi, doll,” she said, tucking her hand inside his arm and drawing him to a standstill. “There’s no hurry. Talk to me for a minute.”

If it had been anyone but Freddie, Dane would have shrugged him off. But it was Freddie, and this was her crime scene. She wouldn’t have taken him to the side without a good reason. He looked down at her and lifted an eyebrow in question.

“Word is that you asked to be notified of any female stabbing fatality,” she said.

He gave a brief nod, hoping she wasn’t irritated about him horning in on one of her cases.

She patted his arm, reassuring him. “I figured you wouldn’t have done that without a damn good reason, so I’ve held the scene for you. We’ll consider it a birthday present.”

“Held the scene?” he repeated, stunned. “You mean no one has gone in?”

“That’s what I mean. The patrolman who found the body deserves a medal. He backed out as soon as he saw her, didn’t touch anything except the doorknob, and secured the area. It’s probably the most pristine crime scene you’ll ever get. Ivan’s on the way.”

“We’ll wait for him,” Dane decided. “Thanks, Freddie. How did a patrolman happen to find the body?”

She flipped to her notes. “The victim’s name is Jacqueline Sheets, divorced, no children. Her ex-husband lives in Minnesota. She worked at one of the bigger law firms as a legal secretary, very good at her work. She had made plans to meet a friend for dinner, one of the other legal secretaries. When she didn’t show, the friend tried to call, but there was no answer. Evidently Sheets was normally very punctual, and had recently had some medical problems, so the friend was concerned. She drove over here to check. Sheets’s car is in the carport, there’s a light on, and the television is blaring, but she can’t get anyone to the door. She went to a neighbor’s house and called 911. Patrol Officers Charles Marbach and Perry Palmer were nearby and got here before the emergency crew. They beat on the doors and couldn’t get any response. Officer Marbach forced the lock on the front door, saw the victim immediately when he opened it, and stepped right back out.” She closed the notebook. “The friend’s name is Elizabeth Cline. She’s sitting down in the carport. She caught a glimpse of the body and she’s pretty rattled.”

Another car added itself to the congestion. Dane glanced at it and identified Trammell. Freddie did the same, and looked back at Dane with a wry look. “Now, how about you tell me what’s going on?”

“We want to look for similarities to the Vinick case,” he said quietly. “We think it might be the same perp.”

Her eyes widened, and a look of horror came over her freckled face as the implications hit home. “Oh, shit,” she breathed. “It’s even the same day of the week.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” He could just see the headlines about the Saturday Slasher. He wondered what sensational name the newspapers would apply if the time of death was put before midnight, making it a Friday murder.

The Friday Fucker?

Trammell joined them, resplendent in oatmeal linen slacks and a sky blue silk shirt. His hair was perfectly combed, his exotic face freshly shaved, and there wasn’t a wrinkle in sight. Dane wondered how in the name of God he did it.

He brought Trammell up to date on what had happened so far. Freddie asked, “Do you want to question the friend?”

Dane shook his head. “This is your show. All we want is to see the scene.”

“You don’t have to wait for Ivan, you know.”

“I know. I’d just like for him to get it as clean as possible.”

“At a guess, I’d say he’s never going to get one any cleaner.” She patted both of them in that motherly way she had, and returned to the group in the carport.

“It’s a house,” Trammell said unnecessarily. “No cypress trees, but the address is Cypress Terrace. We were on the right track. It’s going to be interesting to see if the television is one of the big-screen models, on a pedestal.”

Dane put his hands in his pockets. “Do we really have any doubt?”

“I don’t.”

“I don’t either. Damn it.”

“I called the lieutenant. He should be here any time.”