Detective Zack Travis pinched the bridge of his nose as if fighting back tears. But those who knew him stepped aside. The vivid pulse in his neck bespoke barely contained rage, anger simmering beneath the surface, a tangible force radiating from Zack’s hard body.

Nothing was worse than the murder of a child.

The scene had been secured before his arrival. He looked everywhere but at the ground and the bright blue tarp with the small bump beneath.

The body had been dumped in a garbage-strewn, light industrial area north of Interstate 90, near Quest Field, where weathered cinder-block and steel buildings stood sentry, dark and forbidding at night. During the day their wear and disrepair was a sad reminder that this area of town wasn’t going to recover anytime soon, city council platitudes, promises, and redevelopment funds notwithstanding. With clean, modern business parks popping up in recently developed neighborhoods, the dilapidated areas failed to attract new business. Half of the warehouse storefronts within Zack’s sight had FOR LEASE signs.

The sparse security lighting in front of each door turned the fog a sickly yellow. The illumination ended at five feet. The fog hung low tonight, this close to the water, the glow from the flashlights creating a dry-ice effect in the wide alley.

When Zack worked Vice, they had raided several of these warehouses over his three-year tenure. Desperate hookers foolishly strayed this far from the relatively safer streets north; Zack’s first month as a homicide detective, he’d found two prostitutes dead of an overdose, walking distance from where the current victim lay.

Breathing deeply, he squatted, knowing there was no way to truly prepare himself for what he was about to see. He pulled back the tarp.

No child should die, especially in a squalid alley in a decaying section of town. But Zack immediately determined nine-year-old Jenny Benedict hadn’t been killed here. There was little blood. And from the number of stab wounds, there would have been plenty.

He didn’t look long. He’d face her again in the autopsy, but right now he needed to focus on finding the bastard who killed her.

“Coroner?” he asked his partner.

“On his way,” Nelson Boyd said.

Zack sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Boyd was a rookie, Zack’s responsibility, and he didn’t like it one bit. He’d never wanted to be a field training officer, but when Rucker up and retired, Zack had been stuck with Boyd.

The kid was as green as they came, right down to his sparkly blue eyes. Zack would be surprised if he shaved daily. But Boyd had spent five years in uniform in quiet suburbia, and now that he had his shield, he’d been transferred to the big city. The chief had assigned Boyd to him, no doubt as revenge because his ex-squeeze had hit on Zack at the Guns and Hoses football game. The chief knew how much Zack hated being an FTO.

“What next, sir?”

“Can the sir,” Zack mumbled. Boyd made him feel ancient, reminding him that his fortieth birthday was only months away. Not that he cared about the number, but his body was beginning to protest his vigorous morning workouts.

He pushed his frustrations aside and asked, “Where’re the damn crime techs?”

“On their way,” Boyd said, bouncing. Yes, bouncing on his heels. His fidgeting drove Zack crazy, and they’d only been partnered up for two weeks. How the hell was he going to last six months?

“Where’s the guy who found her?”

“Officer Paul has him on ice inside the electronics company next door.”

Zack raised an eyebrow. On ice?

“I want to talk to him. Stay here and keep everyone away until the crime techs arrive.” He frowned. The fog and subpar lighting would make searching for evidence next to impossible, even if they brought in high-watt industrial lamps. They’d have to stay on scene until well after sunrise. But if this was a body dump like Zack suspected, there’d be little to find.

The witness, a young skinny guy with a long face, sat at a secretary’s desk inside the nondescript building. Zack looked around. This could be any business in the lot, the same dirty chairs, stained industrial-grade carpeting, beat-up metal desks worse than Zack’s back at the station. But the computers in the cubicles lining one wall looked state-of-the-art, and Zack noted a high-tech security system by the door.

“Travis,” Officer Tim Paul acknowledged and crossed over to the door, out of the witness’s earshot.

“Who do you have?”

“Reggie Richman, twenty, employee of Swanson and Clark Electronics. Said he was coming to run computer backups, does it twice a month after close of business. Checks out. I called his boss, verified his employment and his story. He’s been with the company two years, goes to Seattle Central Community College part time.”

Zack nodded, observing Reggie Richman, who looked down at his constantly moving hands. Drumming fingers, tapping pencils, flipping through papers without reading them. Nervous energy? Or guilt?

“What’d he say?”

“He almost rode his bike over her.”

“A motorcycle?”

“No, the kind you pedal.” Paul cracked a small smile, then grew serious again. “He lives in a walk-up a mile away, halfway between here and the college, doesn’t have a driver’s license though does have a Washington State ID. Says he went to class after work, grabbed a burger, and returned here, probably about 9:30. He didn’t see her until she was only feet in front of him. He came in the building, called 911. The call came in at 9:42. Urbanski and I arrived on scene at 9:55. We called it in and secured the scene.”

Zack glanced at his watch. Ten thirty-five. “Thanks. I’ll take it from here, but I’d appreciate you covering the door.”

“No problem.”

Reggie glanced up as Zack approached. “Can I go?”

“Not yet.” Zack sat in the metal-legged chair in front of the desk. The chair creaked, showing its age, and Zack hoped it held him. He wasn’t overweight, but he was a big guy. He leaned forward more to balance in the flimsy chair than to intimidate the kid, but he was pleased with the secondary effect. He’d get the truth.

“Reggie?”

“Yes?” The kid broke a pencil in half and stared wide-eyed at the two pieces, then dropped them like they burned. He crossed his hands in front of him. “Sorry.”

This kid didn’t look like a killer, but Zack didn’t have much faith in appearances.

“I’m Detective Zack Travis, Homicide. My officers tell me you found the body and called it in.”

“Y-yes. I did.”

“Could you go over what happened? When you got here, what you saw, when you called?”

“Um, sure. I told him.” He motioned toward Officer Paul standing by the door a dozen feet away.

“I need to hear from you how you found the body.”

“Oh. Okay.” He took a deep breath and started playing with a box of paper clips. “I knew she was dead, so I didn’t like, um, touch her. I wasn’t supposed to, was I? I wasn’t supposed to do mouth-to-mouth, was I?”

“You did fine. You say you knew she was dead.”

“Yeah. Her eyes were open and they didn’t look-you know, like they were alive.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I, um, I was riding my bike and-”

“Maybe it would be easier if you started from when you left work today. What’s the deal? Why’d you come back tonight?”

“I left at four, like always. I have classes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday: Computer Engineering at five o’clock and Advanced Database Programming at 7:15. That gets over at 8:45, and I went to McDonald’s after.”

“What’d you eat?”

“Um, two Big Macs and a chocolate shake.” He turned away.

This kid wasn’t a killer. Zack felt it in his gut. He’d passed the remnants of a McDonald’s meal on his way into the building. The kid must have puked at the sight of the body. Zack was glad he’d managed to get away from the crime scene before he lost it.