Jackson’s face tightened. “We can’t say at this time.”

“But do you know who it is?” Louisa gave Jackson a direct stare.

His lips flattened, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “We have a suspicion of who she is, but we’re waiting for confirmation to make an official ID.”

“The victim is female?” Louisa’s mind traveled back to the photos, then to her memories of Riki.

“Yes.” Detective Jackson frowned. “All I can tell you is that the victim is a Caucasian female, probably in her early twenties. A homeless man found her in the basement of an abandoned building a few hours ago. We were lucky to get a jump on the press, but the stories are breaking now.”

In the weeks since Riki disappeared, seven bodies had been discovered in the Philadelphia area. After the first three, museum employees had stopped speculating each one could be Riki.

“Do you suspect the victim is our intern?” Louisa pressed.

But Jackson’s eyes gave away nothing but irritation.

“Do you have photos of the dagger replica?” he asked, ignoring her question and leaving her to assume the worst.

“Yes, I have pictures.”

The detective gave her a pointed look. “We don’t give the press all the details of the case. We would appreciate you keeping our discussion in confidence.”

“Of course.” Louisa crossed her arms.

Next to her, a grim-faced Cusack nodded.

Jackson handed them each a business card. “Please call us if you remember anything or if you notice anything unusual.”

The police took drawings, measurements, and photos of the dagger reproduction so the medical examiner could determine if the museum replica was the likely murder weapon. As soon as the detectives finished with her, Louisa retreated to her tiny office and sank into her chair.

Dear God, not again.

She couldn’t believe this was happening. For the second time, items stolen from her museum had been used by a killer. Six months ago in Maine, a madman had used stolen museum pieces in bizarre Celtic rituals that killed several people. Now it was happening again.

Conor Sullivan had pulled her into the investigation. He’d connected the missing artifacts to an elaborate mass murder attempt, and she’d gone with him to help solve the case. Conor, and her reaction to him, had been nearly as disconcerting as being swept up in a violent murder case.

She opened her bottom desk drawer, pulled a folder out, and set it on the desk. Opening the cover, she spread newspaper articles across the blotter. The last story wrapped around a black-and-white photo of Conor escorting her to her car after the police had finished with her interview. She was barely visible in the picture. The angle of his big body blocked most of hers from media intrusion. Looking at it now, she could almost feel his protective stance, his powerful body touching hers. Her toes curled at the memory.