MOSAICS: A Thriller Read Online Free

she was attacked.”
    Satish shook his head. “If it is the same killer, his hunting grounds are quite broad, the cooling off time is less than a year, and the violence is escalating—which makes him very dangerous. If, on the other hand, it’s a copy cat, the motive is unclear: why copy the mode and manner of death, and then take the time to remove the skin flaps?”
    “What kind of MD was she?” I asked.
    “Internal medicine at UTech university hospital in Boyle Heights.”
    “Family practice?”
    “No, HIV specialist. They have a large clinic affiliated with the medical school.”
    Satish watched me sniff the floor with vague interest. We’d been partners for almost six years now and my modus operandi no longer surprised him. I inhaled, followed the vic’s path from the door back to the console, where the killer pounced on her, wrapped the ligature around her neck and pulled, leaving a smooth, almost anonymous indentation. No telltale of rope, chain, fibers—none visible to the naked eye at least.
    “ You said we don’t have telltale marks on the first victim?”
    “Only partials, nothing conclusive. The damage done by the acid in that case was too extensive.”
    “Why erase the ligature marks on victim number one but not on victim number two?”
    “Maybe he found a better ligature, one he felt confident it wouldn’t give him away. I tell you Track, if it’s the same guy, he’s getting better at this.”
    I sniffed the floor where her body had been found. “What were the M.E.’s thoughts on the skin carvings?”
    “Smooth blade, firm hand. He knew what he wanted.”
    A med, I thought, impulsively. And then I remembered the care with which I dress my game when I go hunting.
    Or a butcher .
    Anyone with some practice with animals could do that. 
    I let my thoughts wander back to the night of the murder. The clatter of conversation, the laughter, the music from the stereo. Did one of her guests come back after the party was over? Or maybe they never left? I could only imagine the bedlam of fingerprints, fibers, and what-have-you the Field Unit must have collected from this scene. Six guests, plus the victim, plus—or including—the assassin. Or assassins.
    I said, “Did you listen to the nine-one-one tape?”
    Sat crossed his arms and looked down at the tip of his shoes. “Fairly calm voice, given what he was supposedly looking at. One word he said, though— abraded . About the face.”
    “Interesting word choice.”
    “Agreed. We got a couple of blue suits trying to trace this guy.”
    “And six likely candidates.”
    “We’re keeping tabs on each one of them. We taped their voices and sent them off to Electronics. They’re all some kind of medical professionals.”
    “All quite familiar with the word abraded .”
    He shook his head sideways. “Suppose Joe Party Guest forgets something. A pair of reading glasses, a salad bowl, or maybe a question. Joe comes back, finds her dead and makes an anonymous call because—”
    “Because he’s got something to hide. Either he did it or he’s holding back.”
    Satish’s phone buzzed. “Gomez,” he mouthed, taking the call. “Yeah, we’re at the scene.”
    I took the chance to explore the rest of the house.
    A dark hallway with n o windows opened to the right from the foyer. The smells changed—the staleness of a vacant place and the victim’s scent—feminine, ambitious, seductive. The wall displayed wrought-iron sconces and a collection of photos of Amy: Amy in her graduation gown, Amy with friends, Amy with her cat.
    Her bedroom was orderly. There was a half-empty birth control kit in her nightstand drawer, but no boyfriend in her life, according to the friends and relatives interviewed, only an ex-husband who now lived in Oregon. Toiletries on her vanity table, regular clothes in her closet, a few garments in her drawers that told me she was no nun, but no distinctive masculine scent anywhere. If she shared her bed with somebody,