“Take one of the uniforms, get to her place of employment, her residence, talk to the person who reported her missing, to—”
“I know the drill, Dallas.”
“Right. Move on it, Feeney.” She clicked off. “Goddamn media.”
“You have to tell him, Dallas. You’ve got to tell Roarke about this.”
“I know, I know. I’ve got to get through this media crap first, and think. I have to think. Roarke will deal. He’ll have to deal with it.”
She’d think about that part later. At the moment, she could only think that it might be too late for Gia Rossi. She could only wonder what might have been done to her already.
H e cleansed her to Falstaff. It always put him in a happy mood—this music, this little chore. His partner needed to be absolutely clean before the work began. He particularly enjoyed washing her hair—all that lovely brown hair.
He enjoyed the scents, of course—that hint of citrus, the feminine fragrance mixed with the smell of her fear.
She wept as he washed her, blubbered a bit, which concerned him just a little. He preferred the screams, the curses, the prayers, the pleas, to incoherent weeping.
But it was early days yet, he thought.