“Noah. Over here.” His cousin Brock was waving from his table along the far wall. “You found him, I see,” Brock said quietly when Noah approached.
Noah nodded. “I need his eyes on the scene.” He thought about Martha Brisbane, still hanging from her ceiling, eyes wide open. “This is going to be a bad one.”
“Call if you need me.” Brock glanced to the bar where Eve was shaking a martini, her gaze constantly roving the bar. “On any subject,” he added, accusingly.
“I will,” Noah said and Brock shook his head in disgust.
“That’s what you always say. You gotta fish or cut bait, man. This has gone on long enough. You’re playing with fire, every damn time you walk into this bar.”
It was true. “I know.” Still he shrugged. “When I close this case.”
Brock’s jaw hardened. “That’s what you always say.”
That was true, too. Noah always promised that this time would be the last he’d walk into Sal’s, but he always came back. He’d spent ten years battling one addiction, only to find another. Eve Wilson was his weakness, dangerous in more ways than one.
“I know,” Noah repeated, reaching for the four packets of sugar he took in his coffee.
Brock pushed the sugar container away. “I’d taste it first if I were you.”
Noah did and drew a quiet breath. Eve had added it already. He’d ordered coffee maybe twice in the last year, and had added his own sugar each time. She’d not only watched, she’d remembered. The look on Brock’s face said he knew it, too.
“She’s a good bartender,” Noah said. “I bet she remembers what you always order.”
Brock rolled his eyes. “You’re a goddamn fool, Noah.”
Noah sighed. “Yeah, I know that, too. Tell Trina thanks for dinner. I have to go.”
Jack had just left, Katie clinging to his arm. He’d said he’d go home and change, then join Noah at the scene where they’d focus their full attention on finding out who’d killed Martha Brisbane. They’d do their jobs. For Noah, the job was all. When he’d hit rock bottom, the job was what led him out. He’d do well to remember that.
But Noah felt Eve’s steady gaze as he made his way toward the door and he stopped. He wouldn’t be coming back. Wouldn’t see her again. He hadn’t come within fifteen feet of the bar in six months, Jack eager to get their orders once Eve’s scar disappeared, shallow jerk that he was. And you? What are you? He’d sat there, and watched.
I’m a fool. Deliberately, he turned to the bar. Her eyes were quiet as he approached, but he could see the pulse hammering in the hollow of her throat beneath the choker she wore, and knew he hadn’t been wrong about that flash of hunger he’d seen before. He lifted the cup, a million things he wanted to say stampeding through his mind. In the end, he said the only thing that he could say. The only thing that made any sense.
“Thank you.”
She nodded once, swallowed hard. “It’s just a cup of coffee, Detective.”
But it was more. It was kindness, one more in a string of many he’d witnessed over the months, most when she thought no one was watching. But he’d seen.
Turn around and go. But he didn’t say anything, nor did he go, his eyes dropping to her hands. Her left cradled the right. A jagged scar wrapped around her thumb and disappeared up the sleeve of a black sweater that matched her short hair and dipped just low enough to be considered modest, yet still make a man look twice. And wish.
Calmly she splayed her hands flat on the bar as if to say, “Nothing to see here, please move along.” But for a brief moment her eyes flickered, and he glimpsed a yearning so profound it stole his breath. As quickly as it had come, it was controlled, gone, and she was back to guardedly serene. “Stay safe, Detective,” she said quietly.
He touched the brim of his hat. “Take care.” And good-bye.
Noah gulped a mouthful of the scalding coffee as he walked to his car, the sweet liquid sour on his tongue. Fish or cut bait. It would be the second one. As long as he’d clung to the belief that he was only hurting himself, he could go to the bar, just to see her. But tonight she’d nibbled, just a light tug on the line, but a tug nonetheless.
He’d reel in his line before he hooked her. And hurt her. Whatever she’d been through, it had been bad. I won’t make it worse by dragging her down with me.
Sunday, February 21, 7:15 p.m.
Lindsay Barkley woke screaming. Dogs. Snarling, baring their teeth, chasing. Run. But she couldn’t run. She was tied and couldn’t run. They were on her, teeth ripping…
She screamed and the jagged teeth disappeared, the snarling abruptly silenced.
A dream. She was panting, gasping for breath. Just a bad dream. A nightmare, she thought, as her mind cleared. She tried to move and the terror returned in a dizzying rush. This is no nightmare. The bed to which she’d been tied was real, as was the dark room. Ropes bit into her wrists and ankles. The air was dry. Her mouth was like chalk and the pillow beneath her head smelled of sweat and vomit. Her eyes burned like fire.
She tried to blink, but her eyes merely stared straight ahead into the darkness. Her eyes were glued open. She was naked. And so cold. No. This can’t be happening.
“Help.” What in her mind had been a shrill scream escaped from her throat in a hoarse whisper. Dry. Her throat was too dry to scream. He’s going to kill me.
No. I’ll get away. Think. Think. The last thing she remembered was being pushed to the backseat floor of his black SUV and the jab of a needle on her neck.
He’d looked so… respectable. Clean. Trustworthy. When she’d quoted her price he’d smiled politely. So she’d gotten into his SUV. She didn’t like getting into cars with her johns, but it was cold outside, so she had. I’m so cold. Somebody help me.
He said he had a hotel, that he’d take her someplace warm. Nice. He’d lied. He’d pulled over, dragged her from the front seat to the back, holding a gun to her head. Then he’d jabbed a needle into her neck. And he’d laughed, told her when she woke, she’d be torn apart by wild beasts, limb from limb. And that she’d die tonight.
He’d been right about the dogs. I don’t want to die. I’m sorry, she prayed, hoping God would still hear. You can’t let me die. Who will take care of Liza?
Upstairs a door opened, closed, and she heard the click of a dead-bolt. He’s coming. He flicked on the light and she could see. And her thundering heart simply stopped.
Shoes. The walls were lined with shelves that held more shoes than she’d ever seen outside a store. They were grouped by the pair, heels out. Dozens of shoes.
At the end of the top row was a pair of stretched-out pumps with a tiny heel next to the five-inch leopard skin stilettos she’d pulled from her own closet, just hours before.
My shoes. God, please help me. I swear I’ll never turn a trick again. I’ll flip burgers, I’ll do anything. Don’t let me die here.
Desperate, Lindsay yanked at the ropes as he came down the stairs, but they were too strong. She drew another breath to scream, but again it came out hoarsely pathetic.
His expression went from expectant to furious the instant he came into view. “You’re awake. When did you wake up? Godammit,” he snarled. “I was only gone five minutes.”
“Please,” she begged. “Don’t kill me. I won’t tell. I promise I won’t tell.”
Pain speared through her when the back of his hand hit her mouth. She tasted blood.
“I didn’t say you could speak,” he snarled. “You’re nothing. Less than nothing.”
Terror clawed. “Please.” The pain was worse the second time, his ring hitting her lip.
“Silence.” He was naked and erect and she tried to get calm. It was just sex. Maybe this was a bondage fantasy. She dropped her dry, burning eyes suggestively to his groin. “I’ll make it good for you. I’ll give you what you need.”
She cried out when his palm struck her cheek.
“Like I’d put anything of mine in anything of yours,” he said with contemp
t. He climbed on the bed, straddling her. “You give me nothing. I take what I need.”
His hands closed around her throat, tightening his grip. Can’t breathe. God, please. Lights danced before her eyes and she flailed, trying to draw just one breath. Just one.
His laugh was faraway, tinny. Like she was in a tunnel. The last thing she heard was his groan as he climaxed, his seed hot on her frozen skin. And then… darkness.
Breathing hard, he stared into her face, now slack in death. Withdrawing his hands from her throat, he clenched them into fists. It should have been better. He’d needed it to be better. Dammit. She’d woken earlier than he’d calculated and he’d missed her postsedation hallucinations. During the hallucinations was always the optimal moment.
Whatever he whispered as they were going under, they experienced as they awoke. The abject terror in their eyes when they were waking… He’d learned long ago that their fear was far better than any drug, sending his orgasm into the stratosphere.
That had been denied him today. His breathing began to slow, his racing thoughts to settle. Which was the primary objective. The orgasm was just… incidental.
Nice, but completely unnecessary. He climbed off her, staying away from the blood sullenly oozing from her lip. He was always careful with the trash he collected. Hookers and addicts, crawling with disease. Disgusting.
It was late. He’d shower her stink off of his skin, get dressed, and do what needed to be done. He hoped somebody had found Martha Brisbane. He’d been waiting for days, the need to move forward to the next victim growing every hour. He couldn’t move to the next victim until the police found the last one. That was his own rule.
Rules kept order and order controlled chaos. The higher the chaos, the greater the chances of discovery and that wouldn’t do at all. So he’d follow his own rules.
He looked at the body on the narrow bed. She’d served her purpose. A diversion, a means to keep his mind clear while he waited for someone to discover Martha. Once he got his mind prepared for a kill, he had to move. If he didn’t, his mind raced too fast.
Options, scenarios, outcomes. It was distracting, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted. In his line of work, he had to be sharp, every day. Now, more than ever.
He grabbed the steel handle in the concrete floor. The slab moved silently on well-oiled bearings, revealing the pit where he’d disposed of dozens of bodies over the years. Hookers. Addicts. Trash nobody would miss. The world is a better place without them here. Dozens of victims and the police had never had even a whiff of suspicion.
He sniffed in disdain. “Modern-day heroes,” he muttered, quoting the shallow, pathetically written article all the detectives claimed embarrassed them, but he knew better. They’d secretly preened, thrilled to be so elevated in the public’s regard.
They were simply thugs with big guns and very small brains. Easily manipulated. He should know. He’d been manipulating them for years. They just didn’t know it.
That was about to change. He’d bring them down, humiliate them. Show everyone what they really were. The premise of his plan was quite simple. He’d do what he’d been doing for years—killing women right under their noses. He looked into the pit. But not like this. Not quietly. Not discreetly. And not the dregs of society no one would miss.
He considered the six women he’d chosen. Single women who lived alone, but who had family and friends who’d grieve their loss in sound bites covered by a sympathetic press who’d quickly lose patience with their precious Hat Squad.
Which was the point of it all. The six he’d chosen would capture the public’s attention, command their ire in a way no skanky, lice-infested prostitutes ever could.
Of course the irony of his choices wasn’t lost. His six had never walked a street or shot up, but they were hookers and addicts just the same. They simply plied their trade and fed their addictions in less traditional venues. They were women, after all.
He’d had to change his MO in other ways. No bringing them here where he had disposal down to a science. Instead he’d posed them in their homes, leaving clues of his choosing. He didn’t touch them, couldn’t risk putting his hands around their necks. He’d correctly anticipated the loss of the tactile would detract from the experience.
And he’d had to hold back. He couldn’t release himself on them. Any killer that left DNA behind was a fool. The strain of killing without the physical release had been a bit more difficult than he’d expected, but this hooker had taken off the edge.
It would be worth it. Headlines would scream SERIAL KILLER UNCHALLENGED and COPS CLUELESS. So true. A serial killer, the people would quail, in their own midst. Oh my. If they only knew he’d killed in their midst for years. Oh my.
How many victims would it take before they wised up? Martha was the third of his six. But they hadn’t found Martha yet and he was growing impatient. Fortunately he was disciplined enough to stick with his plan, falling back on the tried and true for relief.
He dragged the hooker’s body to the pit and rolled her in. He threw her clothes in after, except for her shoes. Those he would keep, as he’d done dozens of times before.
He donned the coveralls he’d taken from the man he’d hired to dig the pit, twenty years before. Who, bullet in his head, had become its first inhabitant. He shoveled lime from the steel drum into the pit, covering the body.
Quicklime hastened decomposition of flesh without the fuss and muss and foul odor, but one had to be careful. It was powerful stuff, highly reactive with moisture. He kept his basement dry with dehumidifiers, with a side benefit the preservation of his shoes.
The pumps he’d taken from the feet of his first victim nearly thirty years ago were in as good condition as the shoes he’d taken from victims over the last three weeks.
He finished the hooker’s burial by adding dirt to cover the lime, pulled the handle on the slab to cover the pit. Just as he’d done dozens of times before.
But although this killing had fulfilled its purpose, it was a shadow next to the triumph he’d feel when the police realized they had a bona fide serial killer on their hands.
Chapter Two
Sunday, February 21, 7:55 p.m.
Sorry again. I gotta get a new phone,” Jack said, crossing Martha’s bedroom.
Noah had been waiting, stewing for half an hour. Jack had said he’d change clothes, but his eyes held a satisfaction any man would recognize. He’d had sex with Katie. While a victim hung from her damn ceiling. That was it. I’m going to have to report him.
“Whatever, Jack,” he said coldly, but if Jack detected his fury, it didn’t show.
“So, introduce me to the lady with the Bette Davis eyes and get this party swinging.”
The ME techs were impatiently waiting to cut the body down, but Noah had wanted Jack to see the scene. I shouldn’t have bothered. I might have a new partner soon.
“Martha Brisbane,” Noah said tightly. “Forty-two, single. Found by her neighbor.”
“It’s cold in here. Did the neighbor open the window or did Ms. Brisbane?”
“The neighbor said the window was open.”
“Well, it could be worse. It could be August. Shit. Are her eyes glued open?”
“Yes,” Noah bit out. “They are.” Just like the other one.
“That’s one you don’t see every day.” Then Jack shrugged. “At least this should be quick. I might even get back to Katie in time for dessert. If you know what I mean.”
Noah bit his tongue, saved from a response by ME tech Isaac Londo. “So now that Detective GQ’s finally here, can we finally cut her down?”
“No,” Noah said sharply.
“I got twenty on tonight’s game,” Londo grumbled. “I want to get out of here.”
CSU’s Micki Ridgewell looked up from putting her camera away. “What’s the big deal, Web? The vic strung herself from the ceiling, kicked the stool away, and died.”
Jack frowned, as if finally realizing something was up. “What’
s wrong here?”
You want a damn list? “This scene,” Noah said. “I’ve seen this scene before.”
“Well, of course you have,” Micki said reasonably. “After fifteen years, you’ve seen almost every crime scene before. So have I.”
“No. I’ve seen this scene before, down to the placement of the victim’s shoes.”
“I haven’t,” Jack said, dead serious now. “When did you see it and why didn’t I?”
“Friday morning, a week ago. You were home… sick.”
Jack tensed at Noah’s hesitation, flags of angry color staining his cheeks. “I was.”
Noah let it slide. This was not the place for confrontation. “It was Gus Dixon’s scene. I’d borrowed his mini recorder because mine broke and I needed to interview a witness.” For a case he’d closed without Jack, because Jack had been sick. “On my way back from the interview, Dix called. He needed his recorder at a scene, so I took it to him.”
“And it was this scene?” Jack asked, eyes narrowing. “A hanging?”
“Exactly. The stool was overturned, same distance and angle from the body. The vic wore this dress and the same style shoes. One shoe lying on its side, the other standing straight up. The type of hook, the noose, the open window, everything is the same.”
Micki frowned. “Déjà vu all over again.”
“But this victim was hung,” Londo said. “Petechiae in the eyes, the ligatures on her throat… All the injuries are consistent with a short-drop hanging.”
“Dix’s was the same,” Noah said. “But her eyes are glued open just like Dix’s victim.”
Jack winced. “I was just kidding about the Bette Davis eyes.” Studying the scene again, Jack pointed to the stool. “You done with it, Mick?” He picked it up and, placing it directly under the body, stepped back, and Noah’s suspicion was confirmed.
The stool sat two full inches lower than the tips of Martha Brisbane’s toes.
“Holy fuck,” Londo muttered. “Was that the same on the other hanger, too?”