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  The video camera was pointed at Victory, the red light on. Don’t lose it, McClane. “I’ll be making a public statement later, regarding this incident and how it may or may not relate to other crimes.”

  “What exactly is the FBI doing to end this? What are you doing, Agent McClane?”

  She and Ryan brushed past the woman and flashed their IDs at one of the officers at the barricade.

  The reporter didn’t take the hint. Instead, she stayed a step behind, on their heels like a lost puppy. “Do you have any leads?”

  Even if I did. I wouldn’t tell you. Victory tried to keep her temper in check but failed. She spun and glared at the woman. “Look, Miss Mann. I understand you have a job to do. So, do I. Take another step and I'll have you both arrested.”

  The reporter stood speechless for a moment, her eyes wide, and then she laughed it off.

  Victory and Ryan kept walking.

  Ryan shook his head. “She’s a lot of fun, isn’t she?”

  Victory rolled her eyes. “About as much fun as digging a sliver out of my finger.”

  Ahead, Victory spotted the top of a stone shelter shaped like a Unitarian Church. Bitter wind howled, and snow continued to fall and crunched under their feet. Portable lighting had been set up, and a tarp hung over the crime scene. The killer was getting bolder, continuing to evolve, and that worried her. He wanted the authorities to find the body. Why? Ryan handed her a pair of Nitrile gloves. She huddled in the warmth of her coat and put them on.

  In the beginning, The Wrapper task force was comprised of six FBI agents, four local homicide detectives, and numerous liaison personnel. Not anymore. With manpower and resources spread thin nationwide since 9/11 and following the Boston Marathon terrorist attack, the force had dwindled to three. Her, Ryan, and Detective Sean Brody, a bear of a man with the Cincinnati Police Homicide Unit.

  After trudging up an incline, Sean greeted them with a grim expression on his face. “Ryan. Vic.” He shook his head. “Gotta warn you guys, this one is even worse than the last.”

  Images of The Wrapper’s last victim were fresh in Victory’s mind. She sighed, unable to imagine how it could be worse. “Good to know. The tenth anniversary of his first kill is only a few days away. Did he decide to do it early, or is there more to come?”

  Neither man replied as they walked together to the crime scene.

  In the light, Sean’s eyes held a hardness, a side effect of the job. “A patrol officer got the call about seven-fifteen. Couple of teens called it in. The officer arrived at seven-twenty-five and secured the scene until her supervisor arrived.”

  Victory felt some relief, knowing the scene had been preserved. Bright yellow tape snapped in the wind, attached to stakes hammered into the ground. The smell of fresh snow mingled with burnt flesh. The crisp air reeked of death.

  “Where are the teens now?” Victory asked.

  Sean pointed to a police van nearby. “In there, still being questioned.”

  “I’ll want to talk to them, too.”

  Sean nodded. “You two ready for this?”

  Victory fought to keep her eyes open against the brutal wind and driving snow. “Ready.”

  Ryan nodded.

  Dr. Moore from the Hamilton County Coroner’s Office, a man with a quiet voice and a passionate appetite, was on his knees inches from the body. He placed paper bags over the victim’s hands and secured them with rubber bands to preserve any possible evidence.

  He looked up. “Hello, Victory. It’s good to see you. Wish it was under different circumstances, though.”

  “Me too, Gregory.” Even though he was a huge man and looked like he could crush someone with his bare hands, Dr. Moore had the disposition of a pussycat. This job just didn’t seem to fit his nature.

  She bent over the body. The nude female had been left in a snowdrift, in a partial sitting position, her jaw wide, locked forever in a horrifying scream. Her nose was pretty much gone, except for bone. Greasy brown hair covered an empty eye socket. Bile crept up Victory’s throat. Breathe, McClane. She stepped back and composed herself.

  “You were right to prepare us, Sean.”

  “No one could ever be fully prepared to see something like that.”

  “The killer’s rage is escalating. Something set him off,” she said.

  Victory swallowed hard and tried not to think about the pain and suffering the woman must have endured. What little skin was left on the victim’s body glistened under the lights. Charred remains of what appeared to be bubble wrap were embedded in her shoulder, legs, and chest. Just like the others. The only lead they had from the beginning was the bubble wrap used by the killer, but the same wrap was used by thousands of stores, moving companies, and postal outlets throughout the country. Their only lead, useless. Sooner or later, The Wrapper would make a mistake.

  Victory glanced away from the corpse and spotted Ryan speaking with one of their ERT techs. By the tension in her partner’s jaw, their guys hadn’t found anything useful that could identify or lead them to the killer.

  “Cooked alive. See here?” Gregory pointed to the victim’s right breast. “Looks like gummy silicone gel. I think our girl had breast implants. Getting a serial number from it could be difficult but –”

  “It’s worth a shot,” Victory said.

  Then she’d have to notify the victim’s family. Days like this, she really hated her job.

  He climbed to his feet and stripped off his gloves. “She hasn’t been here long, relatively speaking. There’s rigor mortis only in the small muscles. Time of death, close to midnight, I’d say. Give or take. I’ll know more after the post-mortem.”

  “Thanks, Gregory. Let’s hope we finally get a solid lead.”

  His eyes darkened with sadness. “Pray we do.”

  Little did he know, she had prayed every day since her squad supervisor had designated her case-agent-in-charge of the investigation. Basically, she was the shit deflector, the one who took all the heat from her superiors, the media, and the public.

  “Well, I’m going to grab a smoke. She’s all yours, Victory,” Gregory said.

  He walked past her and lit a cigarette. An arctic gust of wind sent a chill down her spine. Victory stared at the victim’s remaining green eye, and it seemed to be staring back at her accusingly.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  One night. Two victims. Unlucky was an understatement, especially for Eddie Bullington and Jane Doe spread open on stainless-steel tables in the morgue.

  Victory didn’t want to think about the mountain of paperwork ahead, or the news conference she needed to schedule for this afternoon. Not to mention the worst task of all, notifying Jane Doe’s family once they had an ID. The thought twisted and turned inside her. Thankfully, Sean was contacting Eddie Bullington’s next-of-kin.

  Armed with egg and bacon burritos and two extra-large coffees from the Blue Devil diner down the street, she rushed inside the field office doors on Ronald Reagan Drive, a swoosh of frosty air trailing behind her. After checking in with security, she took the elevator to the third floor.

  At two-thirty in the afternoon, the four-storey concrete and glass building was buzzing with organized chaos. Maneuvering through the maze of cubicles, she found Ryan busy at his workstation, the tips of his unruly blond hair still damp from the snow. He looked as tired and frustrated as she felt.

  She plopped the bag of burritos and a coffee on his desk. “You and your damn coin tosses. I froze my ass off out there.”

  Ryan rocked back in the chair and shot her a crooked grin. “Guess you should have picked tails.” He opened the bag, grabbed two burritos and handed her one as if it were a peace offering.

  “Smartass.” After setting her breakfast on her own desk, she unzipped her coat, and fingered through her messages. One caught her attention.

  I need to talk with you. Please call me. It’s important.

  Melissa

  513-452-6791

  She scanned the rest of the messages. “D
o you believe this? Three messages already this morning from Melissa Mann. Thank God she doesn’t have my cell number.”

  Ryan shrugged and grinned. “Maybe Melissa wants to be your new BFF.”

  Victory rolled her eyes. “Not in this lifetime or any other. That woman is such a pain in the ass.” She crumpled the messages and tossed them into the waste basket. Settling behind her desk, she forced herself to eat, knowing she’d need as much energy as possible to get through the day.

  “I checked NCIC. No one matching our Jane Doe’s description has been reported missing yet,” Ryan said.

  The National Crime Information Center’s database was one of many resources they used to track criminal records, fugitives, the missing, unidentified persons, and other crime-related information. Everything inside her went still and cold. The young woman had family somewhere. She was someone’s daughter, sister, friend. She should have had a lifetime ahead of her.

  Victory tried to ignore the anger tightening in her stomach. “She’s got family somewhere, a friend. I’m sure we’ll get a match soon. Young women don’t exist in a vacuum.”

  She wanted nothing more than to catch the killer. She logged onto her computer, determined to get a head-start on her paperwork. Distributing information about both cases to the participating law enforcement agencies and the prosecutor’s office was a top priority.

  Angie Marston, their liaison between the local cops and media relations supervisor for the field office, stopped at Ryan’s workstation. “Morning. Looks like you two have seen better days.”

  Ryan ogled the angelic blonde. “There are other things I’d much rather be doing.” His gaze moved to her shoulders, then to her breasts.

  Angie smiled coyly.

  The thick sexual tension in the air pulsated with electric currents. If inter-office romances weren’t frowned upon, Ryan and Angie would have hooked up the moment they met five years earlier. Victory was convinced the two were secretly seeing each other after hours anyway.

  “You guys seen this?” Angie looked away from Ryan long enough to hand Victory a copy of the Cincinnati Enquirer.

  Victory took a sip of her coffee. Frustration swelled, and she shook her head as she read the three-inch headline:

  WRAPPER CLAIMS VICTIM NUMBER EIGHT. Cincinnati’s serial killer causing citywide fear similar to the Cincinnati Strangler panic in 1960s...

  “That should calm any panic,” she said wryly.

  Over the course of The Wrapper investigation, the newspapers annoyed her with dramatic, copy-selling headlines, and the television networks hadn’t been much better. They’d recruited self-declared experts who offered their opinions on a case they weren’t officially involved with the investigation. No wonder she disliked the media so much. Most of the time they were more of a hindrance to justice than anything else.

  “Check out the other story.” Angie pointed to the newspaper.

  Further down the page, Victory scanned the second major story of the day:

  CONTROVERSIAL RADIO HOST FOUND DEAD. Sources close to the investigation confirm Eddie Bullington’s death being investigated by the FBI.

  Victory passed the paper to Ryan.

  He gave it a quick read then tossed it on his desk. “Could’ve been worse. At least they haven’t caught wind of the magical mystery killer. Imagine the fun they’d have with The Shadow.”

  That should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. Information leaks happened more than Victory cared to admit, and once the news hit about The Shadow, her run-ins with the media would be circus.

  “Oh, they’ll find out, soon enough, I imagine.” She nodded to Angie. “Angie, please schedule a press conference for four-thirty. Also, find out who’s in charge of Eddie Bullington’s hate-crime investigation. Thanks.”

  “Sure thing.” Angie turned and strutted back toward her desk at the far end of the office.

  Ryan’s gaze was glued to the woman’s backside.

  Victory always found it amusing the way the woman wiggled her hips clearly for his benefit.

  She shook her head. “Hey, partner. You think we can get some work done now?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Vic.” He scarfed down his burrito in a few bites, crumpled the wrapper, and tossed it, free-throw-style, into the waste basket beside him.

  Victory stood, scooped up two files folders from her desk and grabbed her coffee. She looked at what was left of her burrito, her appetite pretty much gone.

  Ryan followed her into what was known as ‘The Death Room’. Victory closed the door.

  The room was divided by fixed whiteboards, bulletin boards, and two wall maps. The left side of the room was devoted to The Wrapper, and the right side was for The Shadow case. A series of thick books containing all the pertinent investigative information were stacked on tables on each side of the room.

  While Ryan checked the fax machine, Victory uncapped a black marker, wrote Jane Doe on one of the whiteboards, and Eddie Bullington on the other. Her thoughts veered back to Bullington’s bedroom.

  Something had touched her cheek. It wasn’t her imagination. She admitted to herself that she’d been tired and knew that could often have odd effects on the senses, but no; she knew what she had felt. It was real, in some way. It wasn’t a bug. More like breath against her skin, but no one was near her. A shiver drove up her spine. Now she was just creeping herself out.

  “This is going to sound off the wall,” she said, “but—when we were in Bullington’s house it felt as if someone or something was there with us, observing. It just felt…weird.”

  “Now you’re really losing it, Vic. You’ve never been into that paranormal crap. Might as well jump on the Bullington paranoia wagon while you’re there. It’s exhaustion, nothing more.”

  She was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” Her gaze traveled to the whiteboards. “Two murders from two high-profile cases in one night. We’re just lucky as hell, huh?”

  Ryan nodded and handed her a fax. “Ballistics confirmed that the gun found at the scene is the gun used to kill Bullington.”

  No surprise there. She thought about The Shadow’s previous victim, Steven Rothman, victim number fifteen, owner of the largest pharmaceutical company in the country. His eleven-year-old daughter had called 9-1-1 because “her daddy wouldn’t come out of the bathroom”. While relaxing in the tub, his throat had been slashed from ear to ear with his own straight razor. The bathroom door was locked from the inside and the room had no windows. At first glance, it had appeared Rothman had taken his own life, but the razor was found in a closed drawer on the other side of the bathroom. No prints were on the weapon, only the victim’s blood. The man couldn’t have slit his throat, got out of the tub, made it across the room to put the razor back and cleaned up the water and blood on the floor before bleeding out. The evidence response team had sprayed the bathroom with Luminol and only found blood in the bathtub and blood splatter and spray on the wall next to the tub. Even if it were possible, there would’ve been evidence. There was none.

  “Twenty years this bastard has been toying with us,” Victory said.

  “There’s no way he could get into Bullington’s place, never mind get upstairs and into that room.”

  Victory frowned. She had no clue. “It still could be something normal. Someone with specific skills, experience with security systems, and the know-how to bypass them.”

  Ryan looked skeptical. “And be able to hack into Alternate’s elaborate system without the company knowing. From what Lynch told us, that doesn’t seem too likely. I’ll give them a call and get a list of the past and present employees. On the off-chance.”

  “It’s a place to start anyway.”

  Victory didn’t believe they would discover anything and she knew Ryan didn’t either. It was the only theory she could come up with at this point, though. They needed more facts.

  While Ryan made the call, Victory sipped her coffee and eyed the bulletin board lined with photographs of each of The
Shadow’s victims.

  They were all well-known for whatever reason, good or bad, and in the public eye, including Eddie Bullington. Was that why there were targeted? It just didn’t make sense. What were they missing?

  Her phone rang. The high-pitched sound made her flinch. She pulled the phone from her pocket and noticed the screen displayed the coroner’s number. “Good morning, Gregory.”

  “We got lucky, Victory. We managed to get a serial number from one of the breast implants and traced it to a local cosmetic surgeon. I’ve got an ID for you.”

  “Shoot.” She snatched a pen and paper from the desk and jotted down the information.

  “12981 Dickens Avenue.”

  The street name sounded familiar, then it hit her. “That’s only a couple of blocks from where her body was dumped,” she said, more to herself than to him.

  Dr. Moore continued. “I already notified her mother. She’s on her way in.”

  She glanced at Ryan, still on the phone with the security company. “We’ll be there in thirty. Thanks, Gregory.”

  “Wait, Victory. There is something else you need to know.” A long pause of airy silence on the other end of the line. “Nicole Henderson was eight weeks pregnant.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The news of Nicole Henderson’s pregnancy traveled through Victory like a high-voltage shock wave. She dropped her cell phone on the desk, relieved that the screen didn't break. The Wrapper had to be stopped. The monster had killed an innocent child. A death sentence would be too easy for him. She wanted to see the killer spend the rest of his life in solitary confinement, as his body and mind withered and wasted away.

  “What’s wrong?” Ryan asked.

  “We got an ID on our Jane Doe. Her name is Nicole Henderson, twenty-four years old.” She paused for a moment “Ryan. She was eight weeks pregnant.”