“Of course,” Noah said. “Call us when you get Miss Lee.”
“Thanks, Olivia,” Eve called. “This is the trendy part of the city,” she said as Greer strode confidently down a crowded street. “Martha’s Desiree lived well.”
“Is it always dark outside?” Abbott asked.
“No. It runs on real time. If you work real-world days, you play in virtual-world nights.”
“Or you can spend eighteen hours a day online like Martha did,” Noah said.
“Too many do.” Eve walked Greer down a hallway. “There’s Martha’s black wreath.”
It spanned the width of the door. “This wasn’t there yesterday?” Noah asked.
“No. You want me to go inside?”
“Depends,” Noah said dryly. “Do you need a virtual warrant?”
Eve smiled. “I have connections. If I need a warrant later, I can get one.”
“Then by all means.” But levity vanished when Greer opened the door and he stared, stunned. “Damn. It’s just like the real scene. Down to the shoes.”
Eve zoomed in on the avatar’s face. “Whoever did this accessed Martha’s online file. He made up her Desiree face like a hooker’s, which means he edited her avatar.”
“I thought it was your avatar,” Abbott said. “Your design.”
“Some designers lock their code so clients can’t alter anything. I leave mine open.”
“Don’t your customers go in and edit themselves?” Noah asked.
“Sometimes. Mostly they just change their dress colors. Whoever changed Desiree’s face was in Martha’s file and may have left something behind. Did you find her computer?”
“Yeah, but it was wiped,” Noah said. “We’re trying to lift data from the drive.”
“That would be a way,” she murmured, emphasizing the a.
Noah leaned forward a hair. “There’s another way?”
She leaned back a hair. “Well, sure. You can ask ShadowCo nicely to let you into her file or… your forensic people can hack their way in from another computer.”
“You wouldn’t know how to do that, would you, Eve?” Abbott asked.
“Eve,” Matthew warned from his seat at the table.
Noah had almost forgotten he was there. He wondered how to make him leave.
Eve smiled wryly. “It’s really not that hard. High school kids do it all the time.”
She hadn’t denied hacking, Noah noted. “Take us to the club. Ninth Circle.”
The club was a neon castle where flames burst from the turrets. Greer pushed her way in, stride confident. Eve moved that way, tall and sure of her own space. He wondered how she’d managed that given her past.
“The band sucks,” he said, wincing at the screeching noise.
“True. But nobody comes here for the music. What do you want to see?”
“Do you see who Christy was dancing with last night?” Noah asked.
She searched the room bursting with gyrating avatars. “No. He was one of Claudio’s. Claudio runs the most exclusive avatar shop in Shadowland. But the dancer-guy’s not here now. And I never spoke to him so I don’t know his screen name.”
“Write down a description,” Abbott said. “We can track him through his registration.”
“Maybe,” Eve said doubtfully. “If he used his real name. Hardly anyone does. The only place you’ll find real personal info is through the banks and money exchanges.”
“Follow the virtual money,” Noah said. “I guess that’s true everywhere.”
She logged off. “I’ll get on later from home. If I see him, I’ll call you right away.”
“Don’t approach him,” Noah said. “We’ll take it from here.”
She nodded, her dark eyes serious. “Of course.”
He knew she lied, but didn’t care. Let her hack in. It would save them a lot of time.
Matthew Nillson had also risen. “I’ll take you home, Eve.”
I don’t think so, Noah thought. He thought about the flash of hunger he’d seen in her eyes the night before. That their paths had crossed today could be no accident.
“I’d prefer if someone could take me to my car,” she said. “It’s still up at Christy’s.”
“Then I’ll take you. It’s still a crime scene,” Noah said when Nillson started to object.
“It’s okay,” Eve said to Nillson. “I’ll be careful of what I say.”
“For the record, I’m telling you it’s not wise,” he said and she smiled, then winked.
“Thanks for helping me. I’ll give Callie a good report. I’m ready, Detective. Let’s go.”
Monday, February 22, 9:00 p.m.
Webster’s inside source had been at Christy Lewis’s house and in all the excitement had dropped her keys. Careless of her, he thought as he crept up the three flights of stairs to her apartment. She wasn’t home now, but she’d be back. He could wait.
She’d have to catch a ride with someone else as she had no car key. He doubted Eve was as foolish as Christy, who’d kept keys under her doormat and under her car.
He hoped whoever brought Eve home would just drop her off at the front entrance downstairs, where he would be waiting. He hoped she’d be alone, for her companion’s sake and his own. He’d killed two at a time before, but it was logistically more difficult.
It would look as if she’d left town for a few days. Finding a dead body could be so stressful, after all. He wanted Eve silenced. He wanted no connection between her thesis and his six victims. She shouldn’t know of any connection. She shouldn’t know Christy was a participant in her study. And maybe she didn’t, but he wouldn’t count on it.
He opened her front door and slipped inside. She was tidy, but her roof leaked. If he had to listen to that constant dripping into pots, it would certainly make him insane.
Eve wouldn’t have to worry about the dripping for much longer. The gun in his pocket would ensure her compliance as he forced her into his SUV. The syringe in his other pocket would keep her quiet during transport. Disposal in his pit would ensure no one would ever find her. And whatever happened in between… Icing on the cake.
To his surprise he saw her laptop on the arm of a stuffed chair. He hadn’t expected she’d leave it behind. He’d definitely be taking that with him. But there should be more. Papers. Notes. He needed everything connecting to her thesis. He was searching her desk when he heard a door slam below. Damn. He’d wanted to catch her downstairs.
“Evie?” A man was coming. Footsteps pounded as the man ran up the stairs. “Evie?”
Her door stood ajar and there was no time to close it. He darted into the coat closet empty-handed, listening, pulse racing. I should have grabbed the laptop first and run.
“Evie?” The man pushed the front door open. Through a crack in the closet door he watched him come into the living room and stop a foot from where he hid. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart as he lifted his eyes, higher, assessing the stranger. The man was big, far too big to overpower long enough to get a syringe in his neck. Shoot him. Now. But that would leave quite a mess and getting that gorilla body down three flights of stairs would be difficult to say the least.
Perspiration beaded his forehead and he stood poised, his finger on the trigger.
“Evie. You left your door unlocked. Again.” The man’s annoyance became fear and he rushed back to the bedroom. “Evie?”
Get the laptop. He slipped from the closet and took a step toward the stuffed chair when he heard footsteps returning. Damn. Leaving the laptop, he ran through the door and down the first flight as Eve’s visitor came rushing back to the living room.
He crept down the remaining stairs and climbed into his SUV, adrenaline pumping. A red pickup truck was parked on the street. It had not been there when he went in.
He brought up a license plate lookup site on his BlackBerry and keyed in the man’s Illinois plate. His name was David Hunter. Means nothing to me. Maybe he’ll go away.
He certainly h
oped so, because if not, he’d have to get rid of him, too. Because eliminating Eve was of paramount importance. She knew far too much.
Monday, February 22, 9:15 p.m.
“I can bring you back tomorrow, and you can search for your keys in the daylight,” Webster said as he pulled away from Christy’s house.
“I must have dropped them when I got cuffed.”
He hesitated. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
Treating her carefully was a common reaction of people on learning of her assault. Normally it annoyed, but tonight, coming from him… it hurt.
“No,” she said sharply, then sighed. “I can always tell when someone knows what happened. That you found out is okay, but it’s not okay to treat me like I’m broken, because I’m not.” She smiled to soften her words. “Everyone wants to know about my scar, and the evil villains, and what it was like to die, and did I see bright lights and God. You’ve got questions. Stop tiptoeing around and ask them.”
He shot her one of his unreadable glances before returning his eyes to the road. The minutes ticked by as she waited for him to ask what he really wanted to know, but he didn’t. Instead the air between them grew heavy. Charged. Dangerous, even.
Which seemed dichotomous as she actually felt safer right here, right now, with him, than she had in years. The danger was the same she sensed every time she watched him framed in Sal’s doorway. That feeling of standing on the edge. A precipice.
Of putting out her foot and feeling only air.
Hot, heavy air. It was intoxicating. Her skin tingled and her body throbbed even as she told herself it wasn’t going to happen. Still, it compelled her to ask what she’d wanted to know for a year. “Why do you come to a bar and drink tonic water?”
He started. “What?”
“I’ve filled your drink order for a year. You never drink anything but water. Why?”
“Because I’m a recovering alcoholic,” he said, then glanced over, as if surprised he’d told her. “That’s not in my personnel jacket.”
“Bartenders don’t tell. But that wasn’t really my question. Why come to Sal’s at all?”
She knew, but felt a perverse need to hear him say it out loud. That’s cruel, Eve. Making him admit he wants you might make you feel better, stronger, but it’ll hurt him. You can’t give him what he needs. You can’t give any man what he needs. So let it go.
His jaw tightened. “I guess I like to people watch.”
“So do I. Now, your partner, on the other hand… Jack’s not a watcher.”
“He’s a live wire,” Webster murmured. “Life of the party.”
“That’s what he wants everyone to believe. But I think he’s alone, even in a crowd.”
“I don’t think he’d like to hear that.” But he agreed, she could tell.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t. But I can see it in his eyes, every time he hits on me when he fetches your tonic water for you.”
His hands tightened on the wheel. “You want me to tell him to stop hitting on you?”
End this right now, Eve. Don’t hurt him. “It doesn’t really matter, the result would be the same. I’m not… available. For anyone.” It was as kind as she could make it.
He blew out a long breath. “I see.”
She could see he did. “I’m sorry, Noah,” she said softly. And she was. Very much so.
He kneaded the steering wheel. “I never would have said anything to you.”
“I know. And I’m flattered, but I didn’t want you wondering. You’re too nice for that.”
His smile was grim. “Sometimes,” he said cryptically. “I’m ready to ask my question.”
She studied his profile, clinically, she told herself. But it wasn’t true. Normally she clenched her hands to keep from touching her own scar, but at this moment she did so to keep from touching his face. Just a few feet away. His cheeks were stubbled and she wondered how that would feel. Against her fingertips. Against her own cheek.
That she’d never find out was a bitter pill to swallow. “So ask.”
He turned to look at her, his eyes intense. “Why are you not available for anyone?”
Her chest hurt, but she kept her face impassive. “If I told you that was too personal?”
“Then I’d accept that. I understand about keeping secrets to yourself.”
But he’d told her a secret and she felt compelled to do the same. “I lied,” she said simply. “I am broken. Therefore, unavailable.”
A muscle twitched in his taut jaw. “I don’t believe that.”
Her throat grew tight. “You don’t know me.”
He was quiet for a beat. “That’s fair. But that can change. Let me know you.”
“Do you know how much I wish that was possible?” she said, very quietly. Her voice trembled and she firmed it. “But it’s not. I’d appreciate if you would accept that. I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can with this case. But it has to end there. I’m sorry.”
She watched him swallow, his jaw clench. “All right,” he said finally, harshly. “Then tell me about the women in your study who become addicted to this virtual world.”
“Why?”
“Because your study is the link, Eve. Whoever killed at least two of these women hunted them in your game. He understands them, or that part of them at least. To catch him, I have to think like him. So help me see the victims the way he does.”
She almost smiled. In helping him understand his victims, she’d be sharing a great deal of herself. And she was certain he knew that. “All right. That I can do.”
Monday, February 22, 10:00 p.m.
Bitch. He backed away from the blinged-out, bleached-blonde bimbo avatar, tempted for a brief moment to abandon his plan and take her out next, wherever she lived.
Drop dead, she’d said. Women were rude when they thought they were anonymous. He hadn’t wanted to buy her a drink. It was just his way of keeping his avatar moving. In Ninth Circle, the avatar that stopped got attention. He did not want attention.
He was furious that he’d missed Eve, more furious that he’d been forced to run. He’d logged in to Shadowland before he’d properly calmed down. That was a good way to make a mistake. He couldn’t afford any mistakes.
The cops knew Eve, so they knew about Shadowland. Right now there wasn’t much they could do about that. No one knew he was here and if they did, no one knew who he was. Importantly, no one knew who he’d target next.
The blonde bitch wasn’t on his list. He made his way through the crowd, searching for the one he’d come to see. Rachel Ward. He’d been looking forward to this one.
Rachel married young, but never reached her fifth anniversary. She’d botched it all, having affairs while her husband drove a truck to support them. The husband found out and, appropriately angry, had set fire to the motel in which Rachel met her lovers.
Her lover was killed. Rachel had nearly died of smoke inhalation. Now, five years later, Rachel’s husband sat in prison and she had a very understandable fear of fire.
Rachel worked hard all day. But at night, she played—in the virtual world. She was Delilah, a cabaret dancer performing four times a week at the Casino Royale. Tonight she was off, which meant he’d find her here, in Ninth Circle. She’d go “home” with whoever was first to buy her a drink. He’d been first a few times.
She’d fallen for the sweet virtual pillow talk afterward. He was shy, he’d told her, with women in general. It was why he’d never had a real date, why he worked all the time, on the road five nights a week, filling his lonely nights in cheap motel rooms with virtual dancing and virtual sex. She’d pitied him. She was lonely, too, she said. And needy.
He guessed so. Five years was a long time to be celibate when she’d been such a whore, and virtual sex had to pale in comparison to the real thing.
If you’re ever near Minneapolis, give me a shout, she’d said. We’ll have a drink. Maybe do some real dancing. Tonight he’d give her that shout. He’d tell her he was
coming to the Twin Cities on business, but for only one night. Tomorrow night.
That would give him time to pull everything he needed together.
She set the virtual dance floor on fire, but tomorrow it was Rachel who would burn.
He glanced up, startled by the beam of headlights. He closed his laptop, hoping the driver had not seen the glow of his screen. It was Noah Webster. Driving Eve home.
He glanced at his clock, surprised by how much time had passed. He’d thought he had been in the game for only a few minutes, but the software ran slower, took longer when he used his wireless card. I shouldn’t have been searching for Rachel. I should have been watching for Eve.
With that man still in her apartment, his only chance to grab Eve would have been at the downstairs door as she went inside. Now she was already home, and, as expected, she was not alone. Unfortunately, he doubted Webster would just drop her off and drive away. Webster was too much the white knight, he thought bitterly.
There would be no opportunity tonight, unless he shot her from where he sat, but he’d have to take out Webster first. He hated to do that. Not that he was averse to killing a cop, of course. But if Webster dies now, his death will overshadow my case. The press would be sympathetic to a cop killed in the line of duty and all the wonderful outrage he was about to whip up would be gone before it started.
There wasn’t much choice. To get to Eve tonight, he had to go through Webster.
Unless he waited. He had her keys. He could return to her apartment once the guy with the pickup truck left. He frowned. If he left. Hunter might sleep over. He might be Eve’s boyfriend. So be it. If Hunter didn’t leave, he’d kill them both. He’d wait until Hunter was asleep. Horizontal. Once Hunter was out of the way, transporting Eve to his basement would be much easier.
He liked that idea better. Better to save cop killings for the end, when the public would think they’d gotten what they deserved. He slid his laptop into its case, put his SUV in gear, and drove away. He’d be back later.