Fuck.

She didn’t even hear what the reply to her question was from the officers. She was too caught up in the man and the woman who were sitting side by side in the front seats. The pair were prime-of-life candidates, although the whole “life” part of that descriptor was no longer applicable. And what do you know, the bodies had massive wounds in the centers of their chests, their clothes stained with blood, their laps soup bowls for all the congealing plasma.

Erika moved in closer to the safety glass, so she could see further into the vehicle. In between the seats, on the padded console, their hands were linked, the dead fingers intermingled. And up on the headrests, they were looking at other, their unseeing eyes focused on the space between their waxy, gray faces.

Erika swept the flashlight around. The young man was shirtless, a collection of tattoos randomly inked on his torso and down his arms, like someone had thrown a book of illustrations at his skin. He was muscular but thin, a wiry guy who was probably just around six feet. He reminded her of Pete Davidson. Next to him, the woman was voluptuous in her bustier, with some really good hair. Gold bamboo earrings. Nose piercing. Tattoos, but not as dense as the guy’s and much more curvilinear.

They looked like they belonged together, sexy, into the club scene. Probably dabbled in drugs, but not too often given their otherwise state of good health.

“My killer’s certainly got a type,” Erika said as she went to open the car door. “Who called this in?”

“Jogger,” one of the officers said from behind her.

The air that was released was dense, smelling like cologne, perfume, blood, and fecal matter.

Erika inspected the hole in the guy’s sternum. Then she touched his cold neck with the fingertips of her gloved hand. No pulse. No shit. “And when was this called in again?”

“About twenty-five minutes ago. Maybe thirty.”

“They’ve been here a while.”

“Expensive ride. I’m surprised it didn’t get stripped.”

Easing back, Erika inspected the vehicle. “Mercedes. Blacked-out rims, blacked-out windows. I wouldn’t have messed with it, either, for fear of which street dealer owned it—oh, and what do we have here.”

A Louis Vuitton wallet had fallen out of the guy’s pocket and was perched on the lip between the lower part of the doorjamb and the base of the driver’s seat. Reaching in, she took the billfold out, and handled it carefully. Opening the front flap, she slid free a driver’s license.

“Ralph Anthony DeMellio.” Address was in the Italian part of Caldwell. “Twenty-two. So damned young.”

She pictured the couple from the Commodore. And the two other pairs who had been killed similarly. All of the victims had been around this age, in their twenties. And all of them were part of the trendy, wealthy scene. And all of them had been loved up.

“He’s finding them in clubs,” she murmured as she slid the license back into its slot. “Maybe for sex. Or maybe that’s where they cross his path and get ID’d as prey. Then he follows them home or somewhere quiet . . .”

She glanced around the alley. In this part of downtown, things were pretty well kept and crime was low. So there were going to be security cameras that were operational—and there were also a lot of apartment windows, although most of them had shades or blinds down.

While she was starting her mental follow-up list, a gray Crown Vic came on scene, and as the uniformed officers put their arms up to shield their eyes, its headlights were turned off. After the unmarked rolled to a stop, all kinds of stereotypical FBI got out: Gray suit and a black tie. Buzz cut. 1950s jawline.

Special Agent Deiondre Delorean was a zero-body-fat, straight-shouldered man with a degree from Howard and a military intelligence background that was still very much in his foreground.

He immediately took a look inside the SUV. “Another one.”

“I’d say three couple’s a charm, but we’re up to four now.”

“That you know about.”

“Point taken.” She showed him the driver’s license. “I want to be the one who speaks with the parents. They’ve been waiting for him to come home all day long. You’re welcome to ride with me, but I’m going to do the talking.”

“And here I thought your reputation might be overexaggerated.” Deiondre inspected the ID and then leveled a stare at her. “I’ve done family informing a few times myself, you know.”

“And I’ve been on the receiving end of that horrible conversation with authorities. Have you?”

His eyes grew remote. “I’m sorry about your family.”

“It was fourteen years ago. I’m over it. And guess you’ve done your homework.”

“FBI, remember.”

On the periphery, the two unis started looking at their shoes, like Mom and Dad were fighting. But if Erika worried about how people felt around her, her days would be eight hours longer and her temper two yards shorter.

“And how do you know his parents are waiting for him?” Deiondre asked.

“Address is in the Jersey Gardens neighborhood. That’s not where young people live on their own. It’s where older people live with their adult children in the basement. I’ll bet his parents probably thought Ralph was at the girlfriend’s house all day and that’s why they haven’t heard from him. But they’re starting to worry now that it’s been over twelve hours since they’ve talked to him.”

Deiondre leaned into the car. “Same M.O. But maybe this pair are just a one-night stand and they were posed.”

“The other three couples were serious about each other, and our investigation is going to show the same here. My killer goes for people in love.”

Putting the wallet back where she’d found it on the floorboard, she went around the rear with her flashlight and then proceeded down the opposite side of the SUV, squeezing in between it and the sweaty wall of the taller of the apartment buildings. No scratches on the glossy paint job. No bumper stickers, parking lot passes, or even a dealer frame on the new-car temporary plate.

There wasn’t enough room to open the passenger-side door, so she exited the narrow space and came out around the front grille.

Deiondre had his cell phone up to his ear, and she had a thought that he was bringing in federal crime scene people.

Back next to Ralph DeMellio’s body, Erika stretched her arm under the steering wheel, making sure not to brush up against anything. The ignition button was on the far side of the steering column, and she had to poke around for it. When her fingers finally found the circular button, she pressed the thing.

A no-key warning flashed on the dash.

Carefully extricating herself, she shook her head. “They took the key.”

“What was that?” Deiondre asked as he ended his call.

“They left the car unlocked and took the key.” She opened the backseat door and trained her flashlight in. “Well, would you look at this.”

“You got a weapon?”

Deiondre tilted in next to her—and joined her in checking out all the neat-as-a-pin: No litter in the foot wells, no errant clothing wads or running shoes. No gym bag.

Erika breathed in deep. “Smells like new car. Or at least new to him. He must have just bought this vehicle—real pride-and-joy stuff.”