Stone Maidens Read Free Page B

quick-dry plaster kit impression. The killer liked to do his cutting by water. She swallowed hard. Time was ticking.
    Damp weather had inundated the Midwest for most of the spring and early summer—conditions appalling for the preservation of evidence, accelerating the decomposition of flesh. Prusik knew that it was unlikely she’d find anything worthwhile on the latest victim’s body or in the area surrounding the crime scene. The Blackie woods, a great stomach of damp forest, had surely already digested her case, eating with it whatever evidence the killer might have left behind.
    Tucking the slides into her lab-coat pocket, she stepped quickly around the desk, resolving not to let the case get away from her. She hustled past her secretary’s partition and walked briskly down the hall. “Back soon,” she called over her shoulder as an afterthought.
    Outside the lecture room, Prusik’s hand froze on the doorknob at the unmistakable sound of Roger Thorne clearing his throat a few feet behind her.
    She turned and met Managing Director Thorne’s piercing gaze over his tortoiseshell glasses. His fine navy-blue suit made Prusik feel frumpy in her so-so stretch knit, which had more than a few tired sags and stains from stooping and studying remains in situ. Its last excursion had been to another field agent’s crime scene, where a local deputy had done a miserable job fending off the weather with an umbrella, letting the small of her back become a nice rain catch.
    “Christine, may I speak to you for a moment?” Thorne’s tone was studied, formal. He bent his forearm, purposely displaying the gleaming new chronograph watch he was so proud of—aMontblanc, the same brand as the smart-looking fountain pen clipped to his shirt breast pocket. He tapped the watch crystal.
    “It’s getting late.” Thorne straightened his cuff back over the shiny chronometer, then arranged the jacket he frequently wore for his Washington trips, the chosen type of garment of all men who sat behind desks behind doors with brass name placards at the FBI. “I just got off the phone with headquarters. Told them about the
second
one, we think.”
    She nodded. “I’m on my way to update the team. There are important forensic similarities between both cases. The forensics
will
yield us results, I am confident.”
    Thorne smiled into her eyes. “Good, good. I’m confident you will succeed, Christine. It’s why I assigned you these cases in the first place. Stick-to-itiveness is one of your finer qualities.” He squeezed her shoulder. She stiffened at his touch, and he dropped his hand. “You are an astute scientist, one of our best. You know how much I respect your able observational skills. I doubt there’s another managing director in the agency whose forensic unit is superior.”
    She returned his smile, pleased by the compliment yet expecting to hear a “but” coming next. “Thank you for saying so, Roger.” Christine always appreciated hearing his praise. Thorne’s sincerity in acknowledging her accomplishments as a forensic scientist was unquestionable. That, his good looks, and sharp dressing style were all it had taken for her to fall in love with him.
    His straw-colored eyebrows rose a notch higher over the tops of his glasses. “So, now that you’re in charge, I can speak frankly.” His eyebrows lifted again. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that they’re a bit concerned I let you take the lead on such a high-profile case.” He put up his palm before she could respond. “Hear me out. You’ve been a prominent head of the forensic lab, doing a damn fine job for ten years—until now, that is. It’s your first lead, and their concerns are understandable given that you have no demonstrated experience managing all aspects of a case: thelogistics, directing personnel from different offices, interfacing with local police and political officials. You know what I’m talking about, Christine.”
    Let
me take the lead?