BooksBarbecue
Back The Silenced Women Save as PDF
Chapters (50)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Contents
  5. Part I
  6. Chapter One
  7. Chapter Two
  8. Chapter Three
  9. Chapter Four
  10. Chapter Five
  11. Chapter Six
  12. Chapter Seven
  13. Chapter Eight
  14. Chapter Nine
  15. Chapter Ten
  16. Chapter Eleven
  17. Chapter Twelve
  18. Chapter Thirteen
  19. Part II
  20. Chapter Fourteen
  21. Chapter Fifteen
  22. Chapter Sixteen
  23. Chapter Seventeen
  24. Chapter Eighteen
  25. Chapter Nineteen
  26. Chapter Twenty
  27. Chapter Twenty-One
  28. Chapter Twenty-Two
  29. Chapter Twenty-Three
  30. Chapter Twenty-Four
  31. Chapter Twenty-Five
  32. Chapter Twenty-Six
  33. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  34. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  35. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  36. Part III
  37. Chapter Thirty
  38. Chapter Thirty-One
  39. Chapter Thirty-Two
  40. Chapter Thirty-Three
  41. Chapter Thirty-Four
  42. Chapter Thirty-Five
  43. Chapter Thirty-Six
  44. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  45. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  46. Read on for a sneak peek at the next Violent Crime Investigations Team mystery!
  47. Chapter One
  48. Acknowledgments
  49. About the Author
  50. Back Cover

Truro leaned back in his chair. “It’s funny. I’ve been going to art museums for twenty years. I never know what I’m supposed to see. Heck, it’s that way in life, isn’t it? We look at something and don’t know what we’re seeing. But on Sunday, Jen says this one thing, and, boom, I get it. In this Goya painting, the light looks cold and hard, and it illuminates just part of the cell’s inhabitants. The point of the painting is the quality of light.” Truro shook his head and smiled.

Mahler felt he should say something. Should he say, What the fuck does the quality of light have to do with the dead woman in the park or the killer who’s going to do it again in three days? He rose from his chair. “Guess I’ll have to see the exhibit.”

Truro beat a little tattoo with his fingertips on the edge of the desk. “Okay, Eddie. Feel free to reassign a couple of officers to help you out. I’ll schedule the press conference for three. Let’s do this thing.”

While Mahler watched, the chief stood and, as if he had forgotten Mahler, turned back to look out the window, his silhouette framed in the pale October sky.

Chapter Five

(i)

(TUESDAY, 1:15 P.M.)

Coyle stared at the grainy digital images on his laptop. The recording came from a tree-mounted surveillance camera at Spring Lake Park’s Violetti Gate. It showed the paved entrance to the park, a canopy of trees above the road, and one side of a ticket booth. A streetlamp made a cone of light over the booth and spread long shadows to its edge. Visible at the top of the screen was the tubular-steel gate that blocked access at night.

Coyle quickly mastered the software controls to accelerate or slow the recording, freeze a frame, or print a still image. The recording ran from 8:00 p.m. Monday to 6:00 a.m. Tuesday. With a motion-sensitive camera, the captured scenes were not continuous but a jumpy series of film clips whenever the sensor was tripped. A timer ran across the bottom of the screen.

A twentysomething hipster from the county IT department had delivered the recording. The kid wore black-framed Buddy Holly glasses, skinny jeans, and a T-shirt that said “Roadkill Diner.” His short hair was moussed into a hard ridgeline that ran down the center of his head like a tiny mountain range.

“You okay with this?” Mountain Head asked as he handed Coyle the flash drive.