Shit. When had his little guy grown up? Vaughan thrust out his hand. “Good luck, son.”

The boy took it.

Vaughan wondered when the kid had gotten so tall and his grip so strong. He pulled him forward and embraced him. “Call me if you need anything.”

Nate relaxed a fraction. “I will.”

He reluctantly released the kid.

With a wave to Sam, Vaughan navigated through the sea of people in the dining hall and strode to his car. He looked back, half hoping to see Nate one last time, but his boy had been swallowed up by his new life.

The car felt empty when Vaughan cranked the engine. Two hours ago, it had been crammed full of Nate’s things, the radio had been blaring the kid’s playlist entitled Freedom, and they had both been chowing on fast-food burgers.

Vaughan turned up the radio as he pulled onto the interstate, but the song’s electric guitar riff did not banish the silence. Even the scent of McDonald’s burgers and fries was fading.

The kid was doing what he needed to do. And like it or not, it was time for both of them to begin a new phase of their lives.

He punched the accelerator.

Two hours later, Vaughan arrived at the motel on South Bragg Street. It was a two-story structure with the room doors facing out toward the parking lot. The room rate was less than forty bucks a night, a near steal in the Northern Virginia market, and attracted a steady stream of pimps, prostitutes, and drug addicts. He had responded to a homicide here last year.

The room was roped off, and a uniformed officer waited outside the crime scene. The forensic team had arrived, and judging by the camera flashes, they were working the scene.

He reached in his glove box and removed his weapon and badge, hooking both on his belt in one fluid motion. He stepped out of the car and braced against the coiling afternoon heat, dense with humidity. He pulled on a navy-blue sport jacket, slightly frayed on the inside from the constant friction of the holster and weapon. He fished gloves from the coat pocket and worked his fingers inside the latex.

Several sets of curtains fluttered along the string of outward-facing rooms as guests stole peeks at the scene. No one appeared ready to talk, but he would be knocking on doors soon.

He shifted his attention from the windows to the scene and the officer standing watch. Officer Shepard Monroe was in his early fifties and wore a buzz cut and a thick droopy mustache. “Get the kid dropped off?”

Vaughan’s son had been a fixture at the station and knew everyone who worked there. “He was discussing a cute coed with his roommate when I left.”

“That’s our boy.”

“Text him occasionally, Shep, and remind him to study hard.”

Monroe rested his hands on his gun belt. “Let the kid have some fun.”

“He’ll have plenty. But school is first.” Vaughan tried not to think about the student loan papers he had signed to cover Nate’s tuition. It was a good chunk of change, given his pay scale. “What do we have?”

“Looks like a sex worker tangled with the wrong john. Cut her up pretty good.”

“Do you know who she was?”

“No identification yet,” Monroe said. “There’s a purse under the bed, but it’s covered in blood. I left it for the techs.”

“Anyone see the guy? Hear sounds from the room?”

“I knocked on the surrounding doors. If anyone saw or heard anything, they aren’t sharing.”

The dark-gray door sported the tarnished brass number 107. “Who rented the room?”

“Girl did. She paid enough cash to cover twenty-four hours.”

“That’s a long time for a place like this. Was she working multiple clients out of the room?”

“Manager says no. Said only one guy showed.”

“Description?”

“Medium height and build. Sandy blond or brown hair. Dark clothes. Thinks Caucasian, but isn’t sure.”

“That’s it?” Vaughan asked.

“No one asks questions here, including the management.”

“Did the girl give a name?”

“Elizabeth Taylor.”

She wouldn’t be the first to use an actress’s name. “Let me guess, not her real name.”

“Not likely.” Officer Monroe’s gun belt creaked as he shifted.

Finding an ID in the purse was not a given. Many of the working girls did not carry one, just in case they were busted.

“I might ask the guests what they know.” Sometimes the homicide badge loosened tongues.

“Good luck.”

Vaughan stepped into the room, now illuminated with a portable light that cast a harsh brightness on a place accustomed to shadows. A constellation of blood was splashed on the bed, walls, and carpeting, and a thick coppery scent combined with decomposing flesh enveloped him. Ten years on homicide had hardened him, but he still was not immune to the gruesome scenes like this or the accompanying stench.

Knowing emotions would not serve this victim, he detached from the carnage and shifted into assessment mode. The room had brown carpeting, beige walls, two double beds, a long dresser with a television, and a vanity. A small bathroom adjoined. Low-wattage bulbs spit out light, now supplemented by a lamp brought in by the forensic team.

The two techs, both in Tyvek suits, blocked his view of the body. One sketched the scene, and the other took pictures.

“What do you have?” Vaughan asked.

The shorter of the two turned, and Vaughan recognized Bud Clary. He had a thick waist and a stocky build. In his late forties, he had twenty years in the department, and they had worked dozens of homicides together.

“I thought you had the day off?” Bud asked.

Nate’s college campus was now light-years away. “No rest for the wicked.”

“Tell me about it.” Bud glanced at his notebook, which featured a rough drawing of the room. Cases often did not go to trial for months or years, and sketches helped jog memories. “Jane Doe was in her late teens and was stabbed five times in the chest and neck.”

Vaughan looked past Bud, toward the victim’s long, pale, thin leg painted in blood. Her toenails were purple, and a long scroll tattoo coiled around her left ankle.

Bud held up his hand. “I wouldn’t get too close. The carpet around the bed is soaked. Whoever killed her knew how to bleed her out quickly.”

“Officer Monroe said there’s a purse by the bed?” Vaughan asked.

“I’ll check.”

The other tech, Fiona Tate, was in her late twenties, with short brown hair and sculpted cheekbones. She snapped photos while moving from the bed toward the bureau and a pizza box.

Vaughan’s first unobstructed view of the female victim challenged his resolve to remain emotionally distant. The girl was about Nate’s age, and she reminded him of the young kids he had just seen in the college dining hall earlier today.

Those fresh-faced, smiling kids stood in stark contrast to this girl, whose sallow complexion and drawn skin stretched over her face. Her eyes remained open, staring with a cloudy, unseeing gaze that echoed panic and fear.

The life span of a sex worker was only a few years. If she had not died tonight, chances were good she would have been dead by her twenty-first birthday. He had seen too many girls like Jane Doe get used up and spit out by the streets. Already he wondered if this case would ever see trial.