Death Night. Todd Ritter

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       7 A.M.

      Kat sat in her Crown Vic, listening to the idle of the engine while trying to make sense of the situation. It was so strange that it bordered on the surreal. Yet the proof was there, and it pointed to one thing: the ominous message on Constance’s hand hadn’t been from the killer.

      While Kat was relieved not to be facing another Grim Reaper scenario, it still left too many questions for comfort. Why had Constance written on her hand? And what was she referring to? Was she predicting more murders? More fires? More bones? Running through all the possibilities gave Kat a headache.

      When she called Lieutenant Tony Vasquez with the news, he seemed equally flummoxed but none too surprised.

      “One of the CSI techs found a black Sharpie in the crawl space,” he explained. “It was on the floor, right next to the trunk.”

      “Even more proof that the message was the work of Constance herself,” Kat said. “You guys find anything else?”

      “Nope,” Tony replied, disappointment evident in his voice. “What about you?”

      Kat briefed him on the state of the bones. Old. Female. Burned. Then she dropped the other bombshell that Wallace Noble had provided—not only had Constance known about the bones in the trunk, but she had been the one to dig them up.

      “Why would she do something like that?” Tony asked.

      “Beats me,” Kat said, “but I imagine it had something to do with the historical society meeting she had planned for tonight.”

      And that was only a guess. Kat had no clue why the bones would be important; nor did she have an inkling about where the digging took place. The first location that sprang to mind was Oak Knoll Cemetery. She assumed someone would have reported a gaping hole in the ground, but just to be on the safe side, she radioed Carl Bauersox as soon as she was done talking to Tony.

      “I need you to check out Oak Knoll Cemetery,” she told him.

      “What am I looking for?” the deputy said.

      “Disturbed graves. Signs of recent digging. Anything suspicious. I’ll meet you back at the station in twenty minutes.”

      Once Carl signed off, Kat started the car and flicked on the stereo. The coffee from the diner had worn off, and a postcaffeine crash was coming on. She needed a great song to get her energy up. What she got was “Disco Inferno” by the Trammps. Not great, even for disco, but appropriate. So Kat cranked up the volume and sang along. By the time the song ended, she was in her driveway.

      She checked her watch as she got out of the car and crossed the front yard. She couldn’t stay long. Fifteen minutes tops. She just wanted to check on James and arrange for a different babysitter, if necessary. Finding child care on short notice was one of the toughest aspects of being a single mom.

      Inside, she found her son awake and sitting on the living room couch. Scooby, his beagle, was curled up next to him. The TV was on, broadcasting one of those obnoxiously bright cartoons that were a staple of Saturday mornings. The animated creatures arguing with each other were easier to take with eight hours of sleep under her belt. Without it, they just seemed shrill and spastic.

      “Hey, Little Bear,” Kat said, tousling James’s hair. “You’re up early.”

      “I couldn’t sleep.” He yawned for added emphasis. “Not without you in the house.”

      Kat felt a familiar twinge of guilt in the pit of her stomach. It happened whenever she realized her job was affecting her son’s home life. Making it worse was James’s condition. Although he was more functional and self-reliant than many other children with Down syndrome, he still needed extra attention. When Kat couldn’t provide it, he often got sullen as a result.

      During the Olmstead case, for instance, James’s behavior had reached new and frustrating levels. When he was born, a pediatrician who specialized in children with Down syndrome said they tended to wear their hearts on their sleeves. James had decided to wear his on his fists. The result was a suspension from school, a very long grounding, and a nagging worry that more behavioral problems waited just down the road.

      “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I had to go to work. Something bad happened.”

      She skipped over what exactly that bad thing was. She tried to shield James as best she could from the perils of her job. Still, she suspected he knew more than he let on. A mother could only have so many brushes with death before kids at school started to talk.

      “I know,” James said. “Lou told me.”

      Hearing her name, Louella van Sickle swept into the living room carrying breakfast on a tray. Professionally, she was the police station’s dispatcher. Personally, she was James’s surrogate grandmother, always willing to watch him when Kat was tied up with work. Lou was the person Kat had called at one in the morning when the museum fire СКАЧАТЬ