Lover Beware

The place was clean of fingerprints other than those of the victim.” Anna looked to Donovan. “Is it still an isolated crime scene?”
    “Of course.” His tone indicated his annoyance over her asking about the obvious.
    “And you collected the bedding—sheets, pillowcases, blankets, coverlets—not just on the Cox scene, but the other murders as well? They could contain a strand of body hair, dead skin, saliva, or semen from the perpetrator.”
    “You’re not questioning my abilities to do my job, are you, Agent Travelli?” Donovan’s resentment at being questioned about his job was obvious by his sharpness of tone.
    “C’mon, Donovan. You know we wouldn’t question you or your investigation.” Jerry placed a foam cup of coffee in front of Anna. As she looked up, into his eyes, he said, “One sugar. No milk, right?”
    She looked away. “Gentlemen, the only reason I ask is, without evidence from the other prostitutes’ murder scenes, we won’t be able to make forensics match to tell if it’s the same killer.”
    As Jerry made himself comfortable at the opposite end of the conference table, Anna asked, “Do we have the other files related to these cases?”
    “I’ve got them all here,” Killroy said. “The four prostitutes and…the Damascus family.” He pushed the four folders in a stack down the table, then, as though not wanting to give it up, passed the Damascus file.
    Anna pulled her chair in, began perusing the first file. “I assume you gentlemen have cross-referenced this information through the Violent Criminal Investigation Program at the agency?”
    “Right, we’ve sent all information to VICAP,” Donovan replied. “Nothing back yet.”
    Killroy got on the phone, calling his second whip to find out the status on the Cox family’s notification of their daughter’s death, and Donovan discussed with Armstrong what their next move would probably be with the case.
    Relaxing in the chair and tugging his tie loose at the knot, Jerry watched Anna closely as she perused the crime scene photos of the slaughtered victims. If she experienced any squeamishness over the gory, disturbing mess, she didn’t show it. Then again, she’d always had the bullheaded fortitude of a brick wall.
    Six years. Still the dedicated Anna. Focused. Uncompromising in her ideals. Had she missed him in the beginning as he had missed her? Had she suffered? Regretted walking away from their relationship?
    If they had it to do over, would he give in on those ideals if it meant keeping her? Would she?
    Anna stood and removed her jacket, spread it across the back of the chair. She wore a shoulder holster over a crisp white blouse that fit close around her throat. Returning to the chair, she proceeded to read all four of the detectives’ observations, the crime scene unit’s notes, and the M.E.’s report—aside from the M.E.’s autopsy report on Bobbie Cox, which had not arrived yet—then looked over the pictures again. Rubbed her temple, her brow furrowing in contemplation. Then she reached more hesitantly for the Damascus file. Her hands brushed over the folder, her gaze lifting to his.
    “You sure you want to do this?” he asked.
    She nodded and looked back at the folder. He knew her thoughts. It was one thing dealing with the murders of strangers. It was another when such a tragedy came at you up close and personal…and two of the victims were children.
    Anna took a deep breath, then opened the offending file. Her eyes briefly closed. One trembling hand lifted to smooth back an errant strand of copper-colored hair that had fallen over her brow. Her face suddenly looked as pale as the folder under her fingers.
    Jerry’s first instinct was to reach for her, take her hand, as he once had. But the officers sitting at the table needed no reminders that they were being forced to work on this case with a female who, on the surface, looked as fragile as fine crystal. And neither did she.
    Get it together, baby, he thought. Come on, Anna.
    Anna reached for her hot coffee, took a cautious sip, then set it aside and cleared her throat. “Okay. J.D. seems to believe that we have two killers. That his family’s murderer was a copycat. An act of revenge. Opinions?”
    “We don’t agree,” Jerry replied.
    She nodded but didn’t look at him. “Why? The Damascus murders don’t reflect the identical signature of the unknown subject who killed the prostitutes. According to the reports you two wrote”—she