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“There were twenty-eight boxes in here of all shapes and sizes,” Vaughan said. “We searched them all. But we didn’t find any more human remains, and there was no connection to the Prince family.”
She ran her finger over the dusty edge of the back window. “Did you ever hear of any theories from the cops that worked the case about who killed Marsha Prince?”
“There was never one person in their sights, but they all made several big bets that she knew her killer.”
“Most women do,” she said.
“I’ll put in a request for the old case files.”
She imagined the attention and paperwork a case like this generated. It would take Vaughan weeks to dig through the old files. “I don’t spend six weeks re-creating a woman’s face without becoming invested. I’d like to help.”
He leaned against the side of the cage. “I never say no to help.”
“Good.”
“Seeing as we’re going to be partners, want to grab dinner?” he asked.
“I’m starving, and we could talk about the case.” It was a ritual she had shared with her late husband. Dinner had always involved a cold beer, maybe a steak, and discussion of a case. They had both loved the intellectual challenge, the sparring, and the lovemaking afterward.
“I know a place.”
“Lead the way.”
He drove them to a small diner surrounded by a cluster of fast-food restaurants near the interstate. When she shot him a questioning look, he held up a hand. “Trust me.”
“I’m holding you to a good meal, Detective Vaughan.”
He opened the door, held it, and waited for her to pass. The hostess called out his name; he waved and headed toward what had to be a favorite booth. Men, she noted, were creatures of habit and liked routine.
She slid across the red vinyl seat of the corner booth. From this vantage, they both had a clear view of the front and back exits. Like all cops, he probably wanted to know who was coming and going while he ate.
She reached for a laminated menu and opened it. “So, how many nights a week did you and Nate come here?”
“At least three. He never gets tired of the cheeseburgers and fries.”
The idea of a burger and fries did tempt, but too many years of eating lean had left her unable to deviate from her strict diet. When the waitress appeared with two ice waters, she ordered a salad with grilled chicken. Vaughan got the cheeseburger and a soda.
She took a long drink of her water.
“The last time I saw you, you were on the hunt for a killer in Nashville,” he said.
“South Broadway Shooter, according to the media.” This serial killer had shot couples as they strolled along the Cumberland River near Lower Broadway and the very popular tourist and entertainment strip. When she’d arrived, the shooter had killed six people in the span of one month. Local law enforcement had called her in to create a profile of the killer as well as a sketch based on scattered eyewitness testimonies. Two days after the media had telecast her sketch, he had been captured.
“The capture made national news.”
“The citizens of Nashville were scared. He all but shut down the tourist trade in the downtown area.”
“The media never explained what his motivations were.”
“Other than he was insane? He felt slighted by the music industry.”
The waitress delivered his soda, and he thanked her by name. Vaughan was good that way. He smiled, used first names, and made eye contact, as if you were the only person in the world. It was what had made him one of her best students at the training session. And a good lover.
“How many crimes boil down to hurt feelings?” he asked.
“Too many.” She took a sip of water and, when the waitress delivered their meal, carefully unwrapped her paper napkin from around the stainless fork and knife. She sliced into the chicken and was pleasantly surprised to find it was moist.
He bit into his burger, and for several minutes, the two sat and ate in silence. Cops on a case were damn lucky to sit at a table and eat a hot meal.
“What about the security cameras aimed at the apartment complex or on Helen Saunders’s floor?”
“We pulled the camera footage, but the building only stores the video for two weeks. And there were thousands of people who came and went during those weeks.”
“What about known associates of Helen Saunders? I suspect that her unit was not picked at random.”
“We couldn’t find anyone connected to Ms. Saunders who knew Marsha.”
“With all the media attention during the initial investigation, no one came forward?”
“There were hundreds of leads called in, but none of them panned out.” A bitterness sharpened the words.
“You sound troubled. Why?”
“I worked the stabbing homicide of a young sex worker today. Her case deserves that much attention.”
Zoe understood the grim realities of a cop with limited time, too many cases, and a strong desire to find justice for all. “And she won’t get it.”
“She will if I have a say.”
They sat in silence for a few more minutes, finishing up their meals, searching for conversation that strayed beyond their jobs.
“Any big plans now that you’re an empty nester?” she asked.
“No idea.” He set down the last bit of burger and again carefully wiped his hands with his paper napkin.
Her gaze dropped to his hands, remembering what they had felt like on her body.
“Want to come back to the house with me?” he asked, as if his own memory mirrored hers.
“Your actual house, and not a hotel room?” she asked.
“Nate’s gone. The place is in a little disarray after this morning’s packing, but it’s clean and so very close,” he said with a slight grin.
The colloquial term for their arrangement was friends with benefits or, more aptly, occasional work colleagues with benefits. Whatever the primary distinction, it was the benefits that were key.
This was the first time she would go to his house. The half dozen hookups over the last few months had been at either her old apartment in Arlington or a hotel room. Never at his home and never at the Old Town place that had belonged to Jeff’s uncle. Made sense. Neutral locations kept their relationship from getting too personal.
“Early day at the office,” she countered.
“My morning call is early as well, but you also get breakfast and personal delivery to your destination of choice in the morning. That gives us the bulk of the night, and then I’ll drop you off.”
She pictured those hands again on her naked body. “I’m ready when you are.”
He tossed his napkin aside, his half-eaten meal seemingly forgotten. “I’ll get the check.”
When Nikki arrived at the Foster house, she was still reeling from the news. The skull had belonged to Marsha Prince!
She had not heard the name in thirteen years. The Marsha Prince disappearance had been the first big story she had covered, and she had been handed the assignment because of pure dumb luck. The station’s crime reporter had been sick with the flu. Her boss, in a moment of desperation, had sent Nikki out to cover what the police dispatch had been calling a “possible abduction.”
The instant she and her cameraman had shown up at the Prince residence and seen the three cop cars, she had known in her bones she had hit pay dirt.
