River of Glass Read Online Free Page A

children in the photo Frank had shown me.
    “Poor kid,” I said.
    Frank nodded. “He wanted to hurt her. But he didn’t want her permanently disfigured. Looks like he’s been at her for at least a month or so.”
    Her eyes were open and had begun to flatten as the fluids in them dried out. Fresh bruises at her throat and small broken capillaries in her eyes said she’d been strangled, though it was too early to say if that was what had killed her. Her head lolled at an impossible angle, a tell-tale bulge at the throat where her killer had broken her hyoid bone.
    One hand lay open, fingers curled toward a bloody palm. Probably the hand that had held the photograph. The other arm was twisted behind her, where it must have fallen when her killer pushed her in.
    Horrible way to die. But then, the list of good ways to die was a short one.
    Harry said, “Look at her feet.”
    They were bare, crusted with dirt and blood, bits of glass and gravel embedded in the flesh. “She walked a long way,” I said. “But from where? And why come here?”
    “You don’t know her?” Frank said.
    “I don’t know her. When did she die?”
    “Sometime between one and five this morning. Much earlier, and the rain would’ve washed away the footprints. Any later, and someone would’ve seen him dump her.” He nodded to a small clapboard house across the alley. “The woman who lives there came out at five to eat breakfast on the back patio. Not much chance to dump the body after that.”
    I nodded. The neighborhood wasn’t exactly a bustling metropolis, but with Vanderbilt’s campus and West End Avenue just a few blocks away, we got our share of joggers and other foot traffic.
    I pointed to a scar in the cleft where the girl’s neck met the collarbone. “What’s that?”
    Harry pulled out a penlight and shone it on the mark, a raised white scar, pink around the edges and shaped like something you might see on a Chinese menu.
    “Looks like a brand,” Frank said.
    “You think he’s a collector? Marking his property?”
    “Maybe. Or could be traffickers.”
    “I read about that big ring you guys busted up. Bunch of Somalis?”
    “It’s not just the Somalis.” He rubbed his palms over his face. “Turns out those three interstates that make us all so happy during rush hour also make us a trafficking hub.”
    “That’ll look good in the tourist brochures.”
    I looked at the woman again, the wasted body and misshapen face. The thin, bloodstained fingers that had plucked glass from her wounded feet and then fingered my father’s photograph. A rush of anger slipped beneath the curtain of detachment I’d pulled up over my mind. Someone had brutalized this girl, systematically and over time. Whoever he was, I wanted to snap his neck.
    Frank said, “Could have been her pimp. There’s one over on the east side brands his girls. But he uses a double helix. Like DNA.”
    I found my voice, pushed the anger down. “Interesting choice.”
    “His name’s D’Angelo Norton Albert. Initials DNA. Guess he thought it was clever.”
    “Clever pimps. What’s the world coming to?”
    “Sign of the apocalypse for sure.” Frank cracked a grin. “You’re sure you don’t know this girl? Never met her, never dated her best friend’s sister’s cousin?”
    “I don’t know her.”
    “’Cause we really need to catch this guy.”
    “I can’t help you, Frank. I don’t know who she is.”
    “She’s connected to you,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Your dad’s picture, your address and phone number. This isn’t random.”
    “I get that.”
    “Maybe somebody’s sending you a message.”
    “Somebody who’d have a decades-old picture of my dad? Why wait this long to pull it out of the hat?”
    We looked at the body in glum silence. When I thought I’d paid due respect, I said, “Can I go now? I can still make Paul’s meeting.”
    He glanced at Harry, who signaled his acquiescence with a twitch of the