A glimmer of excitement caught in her brown gaze. “Yes, sir.”

Jackson left them and Ramsey followed Shepard to her office. The walls were bare, which he thought odd since he knew she had been in this office for two years. If not for the neat piles of papers along the wall behind her desk and the dust covering the shelves crammed with used investigative books and the odd certificate of merit, he would have assumed she had just moved in. She had not bothered with formalities like diplomas or the standard grip-and-grin photos taken with dignitaries at award ceremonies. He had read her jacket and knew she had been awarded two commendations, which were nowhere in sight. He was not sure yet if she saw them as an unnecessary bother or if she was making a statement. He guessed the latter.

“Why were you out there alone?” Ramsey asked.

“I wasn’t alone until the last couple of seconds.”

“I don’t consider an Episcopal priest proper backup.”

“You haven’t met Sarah.”

“Does she have law enforcement experience that I’m not aware of?”

“No. But she runs a halfway house in the Bottom. That’s not for the faint of heart.”

He had read her report multiple times and had almost memorized it. “Why didn’t you leave with the other two women?”

She raised her chin. “Sarah was very concerned about the missing women. I was on the street hoping to get a lead from one of the pimps or the girls. If I couldn’t find out where they were, I wanted to identify any individual that might have seemed off to them. I thought I’d give it just a few more minutes. And then your Key Killer rolled out of the shadows.”

“Key Killer?”

“Not the best name, as far as violent killers go, but the name seems to fit.” She grabbed her backpack and walked past him. He noted the slight limp. The rolled ankle must still hurt.

“I can drive,” she said.

“I’d rather take my vehicle. It’s my mobile office.”

“Like the Key Killer.”

He liked his creature comforts and he missed his own vehicle. “We’ll take my car.”

“Whatever works for you.”

They crossed the lobby and went out the main door to a black SUV.

“I bet it’s identical to the car you drive in Virginia,” she said.

“If you want to play the profiling game, I have a few assessments of you I can share.”

She met his gaze. “In due time, Agent Ramsey.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Monday, August 24, Noon

The last thing Melina needed was Ramsey rooting around in her brain. She sensed he already had several accurate observations to share. Looking in a mirror was not top of her priority list.

Still, curiosity had her stealing a quick glance into the back seat of his rented vehicle. There was a black roller bag, small enough to carry on. He would not have checked it because his files were too important to risk with baggage handlers. She imagined it contained a second set of socks, a few clean shirts still in their dry cleaner bags, and workout gear. He did not want to be here long, but he was prepared to stay as long as he was effective.

He was not wearing a wedding band, but a lot of cops did not. The less the bad guys knew about them the better. His suit was top quality and the stitching appeared custom. The gold watch on his wrist was a Rolex, expensive but old. Ramsey did not flaunt what he had, and she decided he had grown up with money. One did not measure success by material things if one always had them. She would bet a paycheck he could trace his lineage back generations.

She sat in the front seat of the rental car and clicked her seat belt. He slid behind the wheel, put on dark glasses as the soft scent of his aftershave mingled with rental car air freshener. The thick pine scent, like the bleach, was designed to mask the presence of previous occupants.

As Melina read off the address of the warehouse where the van had been found, Agent Jackson texted indicating he would meet them there. She acknowledged his message before punching the street number and name into the GPS.

This was the part where she was probably supposed to make small talk. Nope. She was going to let him go first.

“How long have you been with TBI?” Ramsey asked.

His tone was smooth, but the words were as practiced as a concert violinist’s notes. She imagined the honed script that came with an FBI badge. He was close to forty, which suggested he had worked with countless local law enforcement officers just like her.

“Seven years,” she said. “Most of it was in the Knoxville office.”

“Where are you from?”

She had one foot in the doghouse with Jackson and the other ready to race into this investigation. She reminded herself that her goals did not involve staring at the four blank walls of her office. “Nashville. My parents still live here. As I mentioned, Dad’s former law enforcement and Mom’s a retired schoolteacher. I have an undergraduate and master’s in psychology. I thought I wanted to be a social worker but found I didn’t have the temperament to hold hands and talk about feelings.”

“Nice to be back home?” He almost sounded sincere.

“It is,” she said honestly. “Mom makes enough food at Sunday dinner to fuel me for a week.” When he did not comment, she asked, “What’s your story? Your accent has a very slight southern drawl.”

A small smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “I thought I’d lost it.”

“Nashville has a way of reenergizing the faintest southern accents.”

He nodded as if making a mental note. “I’m from Virginia. Grew up near Alexandria.”

“Lots of tourist stuff. A lot of traffic, even then.”

“It’s worse.”

They wound their way around the beltway and soon found themselves headed toward the industrial south side. He moved down a series of side streets until they rounded a corner and came upon the collection of police cars.

“Are you sure no one else survived the Key Killer?” she asked. “Guys like him don’t come out of the womb knowing all the tricks of the serial killer trade.”

Killers evolved. Initial crimes were generally petty. Peeping Toms. Small fires. However, over time they honed their skills, graduating to animal cruelty, rape, and murder.

Like everyone else, killers practiced and learned by trial and error. Modifications to the Key Killer’s van had likely been ongoing as the killer learned, adapted, and evolved.

“If we can identify him,” Ramsey said, “we’ll most likely find someone who got away.”

“Catch-22. The woman could lead to this killer, but we can’t find her until we find him.”

“I had an agent search the crime reports in Georgia, South Carolina, Maryland, and North Carolina. We were looking for prostitutes who had escaped a violent john. There were many, but none mentioned a van.”

“You said ten victims. So far, I count five. Where were the other women killed?”

“Three in Atlanta between 1999 and 2004. And two in Savannah, Georgia, in 2002.”

“That’s a rather defined area,” she said.

“Serial killers often have geographical preferences. Even truckers, pilots, and salesmen have territories or routes.”

Yellow crime scene tape now roped off a generous area around the open bay of a gray warehouse dotted with signs reading FOR SALE.

Ramsey parked behind a marked car and the two got out, meeting in front of his vehicle before walking toward the uniformed officer controlling access.

Each showed their badge.

The officer noted both of their names in a log that tracked everyone coming and going beyond the tape that Ramsey now held up for her to duck under.

The warehouse was dimly lit, but she could see the outline of the windowless van shadowed in the far north corner. It looked just as it had when it had emerged from the shadows toward her. Her nerves tightened as she imagined what would have happened if she had not broken free.

Melina handed Ramsey a fresh set of latex gloves, and then she slid on a pair as Jackson walked up. She offered him a set and he did the same. Their footsteps fell in time, echoing up toward the rafters of the large room.

Standing beside the van was Matt Piper, head of TBI’s forensic department. He was a tall, lean guy in his early thirties. He wore khakis and a blue button-down with the department’s emblem over the right breast pocket. He wore his hair short and neatly combed, and his shirt’s and pants’ creases were sharp, the laces of his shoes double knotted, and his nails neatly trimmed.

“Agent Ramsey, this is Matt Piper, head of the forensic team,” Jackson said.

Ramsey extended his hand. “Good to meet you.”

A spotlight in the corner switched on, illuminating the van. The plates were missing and judging by the screws that lay on the concrete floor, they had been removed hastily.