Catherine thought he knew; she’d said as much in her preliminary report. But did it mean something?

The next three didn’t fit a pattern, either—other than the last victim was a cop. An Asian nurse. A black college professor. A Caucasian cop. They were killed in Missoula, Montana.

And Victoria Manners, Caucasian female nurse, the first—and hopefully the only—victim in Liberty Lake, Washington. Three different cities now, with no obvious link among any of the victims.

Matt needed more coffee and a good two hours to process the details from the crime scene and reread Catherine’s report carefully.

A sound distracted Matt. He gazed back up toward the trail. Since a jogger had discovered the body, he wouldn’t be surprised if he encountered one or more this morning on the path. He could barely see the trail from his vantage point. Still, he didn’t see anyone.

He walked slowly back up the slope. The last thing he wanted to deal with was the press. If a photographer was out here trying to document the crime scene for some lurid report, Matt would go ballistic. Internally, at least. He was exceptionally good at controlling his temper. He’d learned the hard way.

Matt sensed he was being watched. Killers, on occasion, returned to the scene of the crime.

He had his hand on the butt of his Glock.

When he reached the top of the slope, he saw a petite blonde in black skintight jogging pants with a bright green stripe down the side and a matching Dri-Fit jacket. She wore a fanny pack and was drinking water from a neoprene bottle. She looked right at him. He adjusted his hand so she didn’t see his gun. No use scaring the locals, though this was the West and rural communities generally had their fair share of gun owners.

“Hope I didn’t startle you,” Matt said. She was the first person he’d seen on the trail.

“You didn’t. Andy said he’d called in the feds, figured you’d all be sniffing around, so I thought I would check out the situation.”

“You on the job?” Local police, he figured. Most civilians didn’t call FBI agents “the feds.”

“Kara Quinn, LAPD.”

Quinn. That was the name of the witness. She looked barely old enough to drink. Rookie cop stumbles across his DB?

“Matt Costa, SAC of the Mobile Response Team.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Special Agent in Charge? In the field? Never seen that before. Every ASAC and SAC I’ve met is a dick. Boys and girls both.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that. “LA as in Los Angeles?”

“Yep.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“Cliché.”

“Vacation?”

“Of sorts.”

Why wasn’t she giving him straight answers? “You found the body.”

“I did.”

He glanced at his watch. He still had an hour before the autopsy; he could spare another fifteen minutes before heading back to his car.

“I planned to talk to you after the autopsy. But since you’re here—” odd, he thought, but didn’t ask her about it “—could you walk me through it?”