Page 72 of The Grave Artist
Pratt stood and pointed out the window. “There. Can you see it? The lawn.”
She suppressed a sigh. The crime scene techs couldn’t lift footprints from grass.
Not that they’d be much help anyway.
“Where should my family go? My mother-in-law in San Diego?”
Was he asking permission? “That’ll be fine,” she said, then asked, “Do you know which boat he took earlier to deliver the wine and candy?”
Pratt said, “There’s just the one at that dock. The one I was in.”
Maybe they could lift prints.
Pratt frowned. “You know, there’s one thing I can say about him. One thing I noticed.”
“What?”
“He wore gloves. Those blue latex ones the bad guys always use on TV. So they don’t leave fingerprints. The wife and I, we watch all those shows.”
But of course. Why should anything be easy?
“Get on home,” she told him.
“Look, I’m sorry I lied.”
“It’s all right. If you remember anything else, give me a call.” She handed him her card.
He hurried out.
She and Heron met with the manager, who looked a bit more edgy and a bit less coiffed than earlier. Carmen supposed a tactical operation on the grounds of your hotel will do that. She assured him Pratt was in no trouble.
“Will this ...” Zebrowski began hesitantly. “Will this make the news?”
“Doubt it,” she said. Police scanners were generally legal in California, but HSI used specially dedicated frequencies so reporters could not pick up transmissions about operations. That was the reason the Hollywood Crest killing was not yet public knowledge. Carmen’s—and Williamson’s—theory was you kept the media out of the picture for as long as possible. On the whole, reporters screwed up investigations more than they helped.
“Why is he doing this?” Zebrowski asked. “What’s the point?”
“I wish we could answer that,” Heron said.
“So he’s a serial killer. Like Ted Bundy.”
“Smarter, more careful. But yes, similar.”
“Lord.”
She and Heron walked outside into the cool night.
She called Williamson to give him a report and was surprised to hear a message that he was out of town for a few days. Send any reports in writing to him, copying Destiny Baker, his assistant. For emergencies, call HSI’s or DHS’s regional offices. He gave the numbers. She left a message.
“Williamson’s out of town. I’ll write up a report and send it over to you to fill in, then can you get it to him?”
“Sure. Tonight.”
They walked to their respective vehicles, parked beside each other and stopped before getting in.
The operation had been so consuming, she had not had time to check personal messages. She did so now and felt a surge of relief reading the first one.
“Frank’s okay. ‘Satisfactory condition,’ whatever the hell that means. But I’ll take it.”
