Murder Mountain by Stacy Dittrich Page B

these files?”
    “Nope. Just get ’em back to me before retirement,” he smiled.
    “Okay. If anything turns up on these girls I’ll let you know.”
    “Take care, Cecelia.”

Chapter Four
    Sitting in my office, I was wondering how Boz was doing with Andrea Dean. I started looking through the files I had taken from Nick. He was right. Out of the six women, only Karen and Lisa had similar characteristics. There was nothing in either file that indicated that they knew each other—something that I was immediately curious about.
    Something else—these girls had absolutely nothing in common with Lizzie Johnston. Well, maybe in her last six months, but not before then. Karen and Lisa were in their late twenties, grew up in foster homes, and apparently didn’t have a lot of friends. They also both had lengthy criminal records, mostly minor drug offenses and thefts. Lizzie had a loving father, lots of friends, and no record. I had to find a connection somewhere.
    Just as I was gathering up my paperwork and calling an end to the day, the portable radio that was sitting on my desk started screaming with voices. I heard the 10-3 yelled out and my hair stood up on end; probably how the other officers felt when I called it while Delphy was kicking my ass. My portable’s volume had been down so I hadn’t heard anything leading up to this.
    As usual, about twenty other cops got on the radio, talking over each other, asking what was going on. I grabbed my phone and called the communications center, yelling before the dispatcher even said anything, “It’s Detective Gallagher; what’s going on? Who’s in trouble and where’s he at?”
    “It’s Detective Boscerelli, Ma’am,” the dispatcher’s flat voice telling me just what I didn’t want to hear. “They found him in a clearing in the woods at the dead end of Hahn Road. We had a report of a suspicious car in the woods, and when the uniforms pulled up and did a license plate check, they recognized his car. They called the 10-3 a couple seconds after that and then called for an ambulance.”
    I barely let her finish before I dropped the phone and ran out of my office. Please let him be okay, I said over and over in my head. I was in a dead run across the parking lot toward my car and saw a marked cruiser pulling out of the compound. I immediately flagged him down and jumped in the passenger side. I knew I would get there a lot quicker running with lights and sirens on.
    The deputy driving was clearly upset, and we didn’t say a word to each other; he was too busy driving at least 90 miles an hour through the city streets to get to Roseland. I wished he would go faster. My heart was racing and I was shaking like crazy. Words can’t describe this feeling: you can’t get there fast enough, you feel helpless, you panic, your imagination runs wild, and you pray hard. All I kept thinking was that they’d called for an ambulance, which is a good sign.
    If someone is clearly dead, the coroner is called out. The panic in the voice of the deputy who called the 10-3 told me that whatever condition Boz was in was not good.
    In what seemed like an hour, but was actually less than three minutes, we turned onto Hahn Road and saw the numerous flashing lights. The scene was horrific, like it usually is, with everyone running around, some not knowing what to do. An enormous crowd of citizens had gathered on a corner and had to be watched by uniforms, which is the last thing they wanted to have to do at a time like this.
    The cruiser had barely stopped before I jumped out and went running towards the edge of the woods where the ambulance was parked. I literally almost ran directly into Captain Kincaid. How she beat us there is beyond me, but I stepped back because she stopped.
    “Where’s Boz? Is he okay?” I almost shouted.
    For the first time in my career, I saw Captain Kincaid lose her composure. She was shaking, her eyes were red, and she looked on the verge of tears. This scared