Like magic, she thought.

And like magic, Raylan popped balloons with darts to win Mariah a huge stuffed unicorn. At the shooting range, he consistently pinged wolves, roosters, bears, coyotes as they rotated, taking away a robot for Bradley.

“No, seriously,” Adrian demanded. “How do you do that?”

He just shrugged. “It’s my superpower. Ball toss over there.” He pointed. “See anything you like?”

Adrian laughed. “Have some pity on the carnies, Midway Man.”

“I like the octopus,” Phineas told him. “Octo means eight, and they have eight tentacles.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

He bagged the octopus for Phineas, a stuffed snake for Collin.

“I got this.” Joe pointed toward the high striker. “Swing a hammer plenty. I’m gonna ring that bell.” He handed Maya the light-up sword he’d won, rolled his shoulders.

He swung the hammer up, slammed it down. When it stopped just short, he claimed practice round, passed off more tickets.

The second swing, the bell rang, lights flashed.

“My strong man.” Maya fluttered her lashes, and took the stuffed, big-eyed cow.

“Don’t look at me.” Laughing, Monroe waved his hands in the air. “I already won these magic crystals by pure luck. I’m a music man, not Thor.”

Before Raylan could step up, Adrian raised a hand. “I’ll try it.”

The operator smiled at her. “Good luck there, missy.”

The hammer had more weight than she’d anticipated, but she planted her feet, hefted it, brought it down.

The weight stopped a full ten inches short of the bell.

“That was a nice try, little lady.” The operator handed her a hair band with light-up, bouncy flowers.

She put it on, rolled her shoulders back, rolled them forward. “One more time.”

Raylan peeled off the tickets.

She gripped the hammer, took her stance, tipped her head side to side. Breathed in. Breathed out. Breathed in, and swung on the exhale.

The weight flew up, banged the bell, set the lights flashing.

“Little ladies don’t have these.” She flexed her biceps.

The carnie laughed. “Guess they don’t.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

About the time Adrian rang the bell, Rachael found two more dead women, making her total eight.

More than twenty percent, she thought.

No one could ignore that. No one.

She wrote it up, sent copies to the DC investigator assigned, to the FBI agent.

She left voice mails for both, pushing action on interviewing Nikki Bennett.

And the hell with it, she thought. She was giving that another shot herself.

She texted her husband.

Sorry. Sorry. And one more sorry. I know I’m already really late, but I have one more thing to deal with. Maybe another hour to hour and a half.

 

As she shut down the empty offices, he texted back.

Working too hard, Rach. All’s good here. Maggie’s hanging out at Kiki’s tonight. Sam trounced me twice in Fortnight so I’m taking my solace in a book. If you’ve got time, pick up some Butter Crunch ice cream. I may need more solace.

 

It made her smile as she locked the door behind her.

I’ll make time, and solace with you. Luv.

 

When her cell phone rang, she noted Caller Blocked on the display. In her line of work, she couldn’t just ignore.

“Rachael McNee.”

“Ms. McNee, this is Detective Robert Morestead with the Richmond PD, Major Crimes Unit.”

“Richmond,” she repeated as her blood chilled.

“Your name and number were found in the address book of Tracie Potter.”

Rachael leaned back against the locked door. “If I could have your badge number so I can check your bona fides?”

As he gave her the information, including the name of his lieutenant, she unlocked the door again and put on the lights.

“Just hang on a minute, please.”

Back at her desk, she used the landline to verify. Then sat back a minute, closed her eyes.

“Detective Morestead, I contacted Tracie Potter, and have spoken to her twice in connection with an investigation I’m conducting. What happened to her? Detective, I was on the job in DC for a decade. You can check on that. I’m currently working with Detectives Bower and Wochowski, MPD, and Special Agent Marlene Krebs of the FBI.”

She got up for a fresh bottle of water as she spoke. “You’re Major Crimes so I have to assume Tracie Potter is injured or dead.”

“Ms. Potter’s murder has been all over the news down here.”

“I’m in DC, not Richmond.” Goddamn it, she thought. Goddamn it, that’s nine.

“Potter makes the ninth homicide victim, female, on a list I have of thirty-four females. You make those calls, Detective, and give me a contact number where I can send you the data and evidence I have to this point. And when you make those calls, get those law enforcement officers off their asses. I’ve given them my prime suspect, and they have yet to interview her.”

“Where’d you get this list?”

“I’m going to send you copies of my files and reports. They’re very detailed.” She turned on her computer, waited for it to boot up. “These murders cover a number of years, a number of methods, and a number of jurisdictions across the country.”

“And the connection?”

“Retribution. I’ll answer any questions you have after you read the files, make the calls.”

“I’ll make the calls. I’ll give you a contact to send the files. And I’m going to ask questions. We’re already in the field and can be to you in under two hours.”

Nearly nine-thirty already, she thought. Well, fine. Just fucking fine.

“All right. I’m still at my office, but I need to get home shortly. You can talk to me there.” She rattled off her address. “I have one question myself, Detective. I’d like to know how she was killed. Whatever you’ve released to the media is enough.”

“The victim was killed between twenty-three and zero-one hundred hours last night. Her body was discovered in the parking lot of a strip mall a few blocks from her studio at approximately oh-eight hundred this morning. It appears to be a carjacking gone south.”

“It’s not. Contact?”

When he gave it, she began sending files.

“On your way here, run these individuals. Jonathan Bennett Junior, Nikki Bennett. Siblings. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

She hung up, sick, furious. No solace tonight, she thought. And no visit to pressure Nikki Bennett herself again. She needed to get home, calm herself down, prepare to talk to Richmond.

Before she did, she wrote up the phone conversation, the name of the Richmond detective, the times and dates. Then did a quick search on Detective Morestead.

Twenty-two years on the job, and the last nine in Major Crimes.

Good and solid.

She pulled up the Richmond papers and, holding the line on personal guilt, read the details of the crime.

“Carjacking, my ass,” she muttered. And figured Morestead knew it.

But he didn’t know her, she mused. In his place she’d hold back, too.