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We don’t hit too much traffic and Jay gets us to the scene in double-time. As we pull up to the address, I take in the massive sign on the front lawn.
“Sober living,” I mutter, the gears in my head already turning. “Two of our three vics had a history of booze issues. Could be the connection we’ve been looking for.”
Jay shrugs as we make our way down the narrow path between buildings, nodding at the officers who beat us to the scene. “Maybe,” he says, “or it could just be a convenient spot to ditch a body.”
Jay's right, and maybe I'm getting ahead of myself, but as we step into the alley with its golden glow and the stink of hot, old garbage, I just know it's not. The killer picked this alley for a reason. I’m sure of it.
Right beside the large blue dumpsters, a pair of blue and white sneakers peek out as the first sign of our victim. “Sneakers look new. About a size ten, eleven, so it’s safe to say not a robbery.”
“Frankie,” he sighs, but I hold up a hand, asking for silence while I examine the body and the surrounding area.
The victim’s chest is bare, his white chef’s coat unbuttoned and hanging open. His black and white houndstooth pants are pulled down around his ankles.
I squat down to get a closer look. “He’s been worked over good. Tortured. More than the last three vics combined. Surprisingly, he still has his dick.”
Jay mirrors my position on the other side of the body, his eyes roving over the victim’s legs, taking in the angry red gashes and purple bruises that mar the skin. He lets out a low whistle as his gaze travels up to the man’s stomach. “Fuck, Frankie. His organs are shredded.”
I nod, my eyes tracing the jagged wounds that crisscross the victim’s torso. “More like eviscerated.” It’s not a clean cut, not by a long shot. The edges are ragged, like someone went at him with a serrated knife. Or claws. Shreds of the intestine and God knows what else spill out onto the dirty concrete, glistening in the morning light. “Whatever connects this poor dude to the others, it earned him a special kind of hate.”
Leaning in closer, I study the man’s face. His features are distorted, and his mouth frozen open. “Bag went on while he was still breathing,” I say, my stomach churning at the thought.
Jay grunts in agreement. “No reason to bother otherwise. Our whack job doesn’t get off on torturing dead bodies.”
“What the fuck did you do?” I whisper to the DB because this kind of hatred is personal. Very fucking personal. “We know who he is?”
The cop standing watch over the body confirms, extending a plastic evidence pouch. “We found his wallet on him. Back pants pocket.”
I grab the bag with my gloved fingers, opening it and grabbing the billfold. “Tristan Dupont. Why does that name ring a bell?”
“Hot up-and-coming chef. He runs that new place in Malibu, Under the Sea.”
I blink in surprise. “How the hell do you know that?”
“What?” Jay asks with a shrug. “I know stuff.”
I snicker at Jay’s expression. “Sure, you know ‘80s football trivia and ‘90s Lakers rosters. But anything from this century? Not so much.”
Jay’s face breaks into an exaggerated grin that has me chuckling. “Well, if you weren’t such a hermit, you’d be up to speed on the city’s trendiest eateries like yours truly.”
“Okay, Mr. Know-It-All. We’ve got a hot Malibu chef. But what’s he doing in this neck of the woods?” I ask. “The restaurant’s nowhere near here, and his Manhattan Beach address puts him even further from this spot.”
Officer Padilla chimes in, “Looks like he was heading home from his shift. We found this bag near the body. I snapped some pictures before sealing it up as evidence.”
Jay and I stare at each other. “Good job, Padilla.” Jay digs into the evidence bag containing a deep blue duffel bag. “Anything good in there?”
Padilla says, “His knife roll, an extra coat, toiletries and his cell phone.”
Jay lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s his work bag. Knives are clean and the change of clothes is fresh.”
I glance at Jay. “Let’s get that phone to the lab. There might be something useful on it—texts, calls, location data.”
Jay nods, already slipping the phone into a different evidence bag. “Make sure they prioritize it.”
“You got it.” Padilla takes the phone and the bag over to the forensics team, where Nate accepts it with a nod.
“Hopefully, this leads us somewhere,” I say, shifting my focus back to the crime scene. There’s still plenty of ground to cover.
Behind the forensics team, I spot Amelia rushing forward, only to be stopped by a uniform at the yellow tape. “Frankie!”
