“What about Juliet’s husband?” I asked. “Did he ever come up here?”
Rick’s eyebrows rose and he stared at us in surprise. “She was married?”
“Yes,” Jack said.
“Wow, I had no idea,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought she was as single as they come. She’s always dated around, you know.”
“Wait a second,” Jack said, leaning toward the monitor. “Let’s get a look at that guy.”
“Look at the cape,” I said, moving in closer. “Could be him. He’s tall.”
“Is there a way to get a clearer shot of his face?” Jack asked. “A different angle? The top hat is blocking the view.”
“Maybe,” Rick said, bringing up another camera. “These are the only two cameras.”
“He knows about the cameras,” Jack said, watching him. “His hat is tilted to cover most of his face, and he’s making sure to stay still.”
“You can see a partial of his jaw,” I said. “Maybe Carver can get a better image.”
“I doubt it,” Jack said. “You can’t make something out of nothing.” Then he asked Rick, “Could you make me a list of anyone who had a relationship with Juliet in the past? Maybe someone didn’t want to be jilted.”
“Sure, I can do that,” he said. “I can only think of a few anyway, but like I said, talk to Dan. He might be able to add a few more names to the list.”
We got a copy of the security feed and a short list of names, and we said our goodbyes to Rick Early.
“I’ll drop you at the funeral home and then meet up with Cole to fill him in,” Jack said.
“I’m going to go ahead and go home,” I said. “I’ve got nothing left to do at the funeral home, and I can start setting up the murder board and running some of the names on the list Rick gave us.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Jack said. “Maybe invite Carver and Michelle to dinner.”
“Do I have to cook?” I asked.
“God no,” Jack said, looking horrified. “Carver’s been through enough. We can order in.”
“I could learn to cook one day,” I said defensively.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Jack said. “I’ve seen you try to follow a recipe. We all have gifts. And yours is not in the kitchen.”
“That’s not what you said a couple of weeks ago,” I said, cutting my eyes toward him.
He grinned. “I stand corrected. You’re amazing in the kitchen as long as you don’t cook anything.”
I was mildly satisfied with that answer.
“I won’t be too late unless something comes up,” Jack said, pulling in behind the Suburban.
I was surprised to see it was already after four. “We still haven’t told Brian Dunnegan Juliet was pregnant.”
“I’ll tell him,” Jack said. “I’ve got to call and let him know her body will be released to him tomorrow.”
“Better you than me,” I said, giving him a quick kiss goodbye. “See you at home.”
Three hours later, I found myself alone in the house and enjoying the solitude. I was an introvert by nature, and unless I had to be out, I preferred to be home. It was one of the reasons I loved working with the dead—they never talked back.
Jack was the complete opposite. He thrived when he was surrounded by people and the more conversations he had, the more energized he was. I could mostly overlook that flaw in him because he brought me coffee in bed every morning and the sex was incredible.
Dinner with the Carvers had been a bust. Carver said they were neck deep in unpacking, but I wasn’t sure I was buying it. Something in his voice had been off. And Doug had decided to head off to the movies with a friend. When the friend had pulled up in the driveway, he’d bounded down the stairs, yelled goodbye over his shoulder, and shut the front door behind him before I could say a word. I had managed to get a glimpse of a cute blonde behind the wheel of a red Jeep before they’d driven off.
I decided to switch to tea and put on the kettle to boil while I went in the office and started setting up the murder board. I was a visual person, so seeing faces and names laid out was a huge help to organize my thoughts. And it helped that Jack’s office was equipped with some of the best technology in existence, mostly thanks to Carver.
The whiteboard that took up an entire wall was like a giant computer screen. With just a few simple commands Juliet’s picture showed in the middle of the board—it was a headshot she used for the programs from the theater. She was a beautiful woman and the way she looked into the camera spoke of confidence and independence.
The photograph next to the headshot was one taken at the crime scene. Gone was the vivaciousness of life, and in its place was the blank, cloudy stare of death. The rage in the attack was obvious. But he’d left her face untouched and only mutilated her body.
I thought back to what Sheldon had said about Jack the Ripper and did an internet search. The good thing about it was that he was such a notorious killer that all of the information about each of the crimes was online—crime scene photographs, evidence pictures, testimony. It was all available at the touch of a fingertip. The bad thing about it was that there’d been numerous copycats over the last century or so.
I used a section of the board to post the old crime scene photographs, lining them up in the order each victim had been found. There were similarities. Throats slit. Multiple stab wounds. And none of them had been sexually assaulted.
“But you got carried away,” I said, staring at the photograph of Juliet. “Jack the Ripper killed for sport.” I looked at the old photographs again, closer this time. “He picked his victims and did the job. The murders were almost clinical in a way. They even thought he might have been a doctor. But you were beyond mad. In a rage. You were really angry at Juliet.”
Something scraped against the windows and I jumped. The wind had picked up and I could hear the rain. “Just a branch,” I whispered, but just in case I moved behind Jack’s desk and took the revolver out of the drawer, laying it on the desk.
I checked my phone, but there were no messages from Jack except for his last text that he’d be later than he thought. And then the whistle blew from the kettle and I let out a screech.
“Good grief,” I said, my heart racing. “Get a grip.”
I was alone with dead bodies on a daily basis and I was letting a tree branch and a teakettle get to me. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans, grabbed the gun, and brought it into the kitchen with me. I tried to ignore the fact that the house had an inordinate amount of windows, and that it felt like eyes were watching me from the outside.
I knew what it felt like to be attacked in the place you should feel safest. I’d been there before, and I struggled to keep the memories at bay of what it felt like to be helpless against someone stronger. Jack made me feel safe, and I’d gradually let my guard down over the last couple of years.
Jack had taken precautions with our home—installing perimeter cameras, a high-tech security system, and a gate at the end of our driveway. I was safe. None of the alarms had been triggered.
I put the gun on the counter and poured hot water over tea leaves, adding milk and sugar, and then I defiantly looked out the windows and into the darkness.