“He looked what? What did he look like?”
She shrugged and the blanket slipped from one bare shoulder. “Normal. He looked normal—blond hair, kind of on the long side, jeans. Normal.”
“We’ll get to the rest of the description in a minute. So, what did you help him with?”
“A box.” She folded her arms across her stomach, where knots were forming and tightening. “There was a box on the ground that he was trying to get into his trunk.”
“And you helped him with the box?” His hand froze, poised over his notepad, where he’d been scribbling her every word since retrieving the pen.
“I didn’t get the chance.” She clutched her arms, digging her nails into her skin. “When I bent over the box, he hit me on the back of the head.”
Detective Brody jumped from the chair, knocking it to the floor.
“What’s wrong?” His sudden movement had caused her to jerk forward, and the blanket fell from her shoulders.
“A man with a cast asked you for help and then bashed your head in. Did he stuff you in the trunk?”
“Yes, yes. Has this happened before?”
Closing his eyes, he stuffed the notepad in the pocket of his shirt. His lips barely moved as he mumbled, “A long time ago.”
“What? A long time ago? Last year?” She hadn’t heard about any crazed killers in the news lately. Were the cops trying to hide a serial killer from tourists?
He righted the chair, brushed off his jacket and dropped onto the hard plastic. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, “How’d you get out of the trunk? How’d you get away?”
Did he plan to let her know whether or not somebody was running around San Francisco abducting women?
“M-my dress must’ve gotten caught in the trunk when he closed it. I came to, and there was a light in the trunk.”
“Wouldn’t there have been some indicator on the dash that the trunk was open, alerting him?”
“I told you. It was an older car. Maybe there was no indicator. Maybe there was and he didn’t notice it.”
“You pushed open the trunk and jumped out?”
“Not right away. When I woke up, I was a little groggy and a lot terrified. The car was going fast, too. I waited until he slowed down. Once he did—” she pushed her hands against the air “—I shoved open the trunk and rolled out.”
“Ouch.”
“It beat the alternative.”
“But he heard you.” He dipped into his pocket and retrieved his notepad again.
“Yeah, the trunk lid sprang up, so he would’ve seen it. After I hit the ground and rolled, I jumped up and started running toward the shoreline, running into the fog.”
“You had a couple of things going for you tonight—the dress getting caught and the heavy fog.”
“I could barely see the lights on the bridge, and we were right there.”
“The bridge?” A muscle ticked in the corner of his mouth.
“The Golden Gate. He was driving down that road along the strip of shoreline at the base of the bridge, or close enough to the base before you pull into the parking lot there.”
“I know it.” He tapped the end of the pen against his thumbnail in a nervous gesture. “You’ve described the car. What about the man? Did you get a good look at him?”
“He had shaggy blond hair.” She skimmed her hand on the top of her shoulder. “Long. He had a full beard and mustache.”
“Height and weight?”
“I have no idea. He was kind of stooped over when I joined him at the car. He could’ve been short, but I think he was probably medium height because he was bent over. I think he only straightened up when he was behind me.”
“And was he a thin guy? Big?”
“Seemed heavyset, but he was wearing a jacket so it was hard to tell.”
“Other clothing?”
“Jeans, dark shirt, that bulky gray jacket.” She snapped her fingers. “Wait. He was wearing a jacket with elastic at the sleeves and had both sleeves pushed up. That’s how I saw the cast. And on the other arm, the one not in the cast, he had a tattoo.”
“Perfect. What was it?”
“It was a bird, a bird with wings spread open.”
The detective lifted his gaze from his notepad and drilled her with his dark eyes.
A chill zigzagged down her spine. Had she hit on something? He must know this killer. This had happened before.
He unbuttoned the left cuff of his pressed white shirt and pushed it up. “Do you know what kind of bird it was?”
“No—dark colors. It was hard to see. I just noticed the bird’s wings.”
Then he extended his forearm toward her. “Was it like this?”
A tattoo of a dark blue bird spreading his wings, his claws rising from a flame, decorated the detective’s forearm.
Elise clapped a hand over her mouth and jerked back against the bed. “Exactly like that.”
The tattoo on Sean’s arm tingled and burned. Some killer had the same tattoo? And why this killer? The M.O. of someone luring women to his car by feigning an injury and then hitting them on the head was all too familiar to him.
Familiar and painful.
Now he’d gone and scared the color out of the victim—Elise, who was shrinking against her pillow, her face as white as the sheets. He’d already startled her when he jumped from his chair, knocking it over. No need for both of them to be freaking out right now.
Sean scooped in a breath and shook down his sleeve. “Similar to that, huh?”
“Similar? Exactly the same.”
Her blue eyes took up half her face, and she eyed him like a trapped animal.
He should’ve never shown her his tattoo. He’d completely misplaced his professional demeanor during this interview. A bird with spread wings—lots of tattoos like that out there.
“I doubt it’s exactly the same, Ms. Duran.”
“Elise.”
“Elise.” At least she still wanted him to use her first name. “You said it was dark. A bird is a bird.”
She chewed her lip and then relaxed her shoulders. “Can I see it again?”
He hadn’t buttoned his cuff, so he shoved the sleeve up his arm again and rotated his forearm.
She leaned forward and her blond hair tickled the inside of his elbow. She smelled salty—not at all what he expected from this blue-eyed blonde with the peaches-and-cream skin.
She wrinkled her nose. “I guess it could’ve been different. He had a bird tattoo. You have a bird tattoo.”
He smoothed down his sleeve and buttoned the cuff. “I’m glad we got that out of the way. I wanted to show you mine to see if it would prompt any more detail.”
Actually, he hadn’t been thinking at all. What did it matter if he and a killer both had a tattoo of a bird on their arms? Unless someone