The Killing Hands Read Online Free

find out more. Now, a lone uniformed cop keeps an eye on the area and even the tape will probably be gone by evening, certainly by this time tomorrow. Then there’ll be nothing to indicate to a passerby that someone’s life ended in this lot.
    As I walk toward the entrance, a dark-complexioned man in his late forties to early fifties gets out of his car and makes a beeline for me. He’s fit and healthy looking, with virtually no sign of middle-age spread. His black hair has a slight wave to it, and he wears it long for a man, coming down to his ears and the nape of his neck, Antonio Banderas style. Gray streaks add distinction and help give away his true age.
    â€œAgent Anderson?” He gives me a large grin, his white teeth contrasting against dark lips.
    â€œYes.” I take his outstretched hand. “Detective Ramos, I presume.”
    He nods and we both walk toward the cop and the crime-scene line.
    â€œYou’re letting the parking lot carry on business as usual?”
    â€œYeah. Except for the area we’ve cordoned off.”
    He points to the back of the lot, and I notice the sea of cars stops well short of the fence and building site.
    â€œIt’s a well-chosen location,” I comment.
    Ramos nods. “Little Tokyo’s usually busy, but this spot’s buried.”
    When we get to the crime-scene tape, the cop stands aside for us to enter and acknowledges Ramos by name.
    â€œThanks, Officer Saxon. Anything happening down here?”
    â€œNo, sir. Quiet since I took over shift at eight. Officer Graves said there wasn’t much action last night, either. Just a few curious citizens coming in for a closer look.”
    We both nod. Same old story the world over. The thing is, one of those nosy citizens could be our killer. Killers often return to the scene of the crime. Sometimes it’s just out of compulsion to see what’s happening, but hardened killers will get off on it, reliving the moment of death. They see murder as the ultimate power over their victim, and they want that sense of power to run through them again and again. But that trait is more something we see in serial killers, or other types of sadistic killers. If it’s a mugging gone wrong, or someone who took the victim’s ID just to prolong our discovery of his identity, they’ll keep a wide berth between them and the scene.
    Ramos holds the tape up for me and I slip underneath it. Looks like he’s old-school—I just hope he doesn’t mind a woman on his homicide case. Women are still well and truly outnumbered in law enforcement and some of the older cops don’t like our movement up the ranks. But so far there’s nothing to indicate Ramos is one of those.
    A few of the crime-scene markers are still on the asphalt, but most of the evidence has been removed and the corresponding markers with it. I recall some of the crime-scene photos and manage to fill in some of the blanks. Marker number six was a cigarette butt, and both the marker and butt are gone. Maybe the cigarette was the victim’s, maybe the killer’s or maybe some unrelated third party’s. The butt will be swabbed for DNA and compared to the victim’s. If that doesn’t give us a match we can run it against CODIS, the national DNA database. Sometimes we get lucky and get a direct match on our perp.
    Near the corner of the farthest parking space was marker number ten, which flagged the place where the witness urinated. It was from this point that he looked around and saw our vic.
    I move back to the place where the glass from the lightfell. “Has the match been confirmed?” I ask, gazing up at the jagged edges on the light post.
    â€œInitial visual confirmation, yes, but the lab’s still going to run the glass and reconstruct the light to make sure. The light’s being removed this afternoon.”
    I nod. “You want to take me through it?” I jerk my head to the wire