Then the wave broke and she cried out. She wrapped her arms around his head and held him close as she rode it in, barely hearing his cry as his body went rigid, jerking against her. His shoulders sagged and he buried his face between her breasts, his muscles twitching as he came back to earth with her.
Without a word he sank back against his pillow, bringing her with him, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. A laugh bubbled up and out of her, a purely happy sound of delight. “Are you always so… functional, Detective Webster?”
“No.” He pressed a weary kiss to the top of her head. “You’re good for me, Eve.”
And somehow it was that simple. That easy. “You’re good for me, too.” Her arms slid around his neck and his hands moved down her back to close over her butt possessively, kneading so very gently. And finally, sleep came.
Thursday, February 25, 3:15 a.m.
He let out a shuddering breath mixed with a groan. God. After killing Virginia Fox, he’d needed that. His heart pounding in his chest, he released the throat he clutched and sat back, staring at the woman on the narrow, filthy bed in his basement. He didn’t know her name and he didn’t care.
He climbed off her, his body still twitching in climax. He’d nearly lost it at Virginia’s house, holding on by a mere thread as he’d silenced her for eternity. Because it hadn’t been Virginia’s face he saw, but Eve’s. He’d imagined it to be Eve’s throat, Eve’s terror.
As he’d dressed Virginia, staged the scene, then hoisted her body onto the hook in her ceiling, his hands had been shaking like a schoolboy’s. But he’d maintained control, even as he’d completed the final detail on his final victim. The pièce de résistance.
He had finished with Virginia, finished with his six, but a fire had raged within him, his mind churning too violently to think. So he’d driven blindly into the city, chosen another that no one would miss. Now, he could think again. He looked at the dead stranger in his bed. Soon, he wouldn’t have to pretend to see Eve’s face. Soon it would be Eve in that bed, her terror that propelled him upward.
Tomorrow, he’d have the look on Webster’s face when he gazed up into Virginia’s face. The sight of her remains would remain in the cops’ minds for a very long time. They would feel responsible. They’d been so certain that they understood him, that they could predict him. That they’d warned the potential victims.
They knew nothing. It would eat at them, taking apart their confidence brick by brick.
It had been a good night. Once he cleaned up, he could go home and sleep. He was tired, but it was a good tired. The sixth of his six was finished. The Hat Squad would be exposed for their hubris and incompetence. And he would relax and enjoy the show.
He pulled back the concrete slab and frowned. He’d have to lay off for a while after this. Apparently too many bodies at the same time slowed the process. He grimaced at the sight of Jeremy Lyons’s hand poking up out of the layer of dirt and lime.
He cut the ropes binding his latest prey, then stopped, staring at her face. But it wasn’t tonight’s dead hooker he saw. It was… Sunday’s. Wild dogs. He’d told her she’d be torn apart by wild dogs. Her eyes had been blue, the roots of her hair auburn.
His mind clear, the association clicked. He’d seen that face. Tonight. Where?
In the hospital. She’d looked tired and… terrified. Leaving the dead hooker where she lay, he went to the drawer next to where he kept all the old cell phones. It held dozens of wallets and driver’s licenses. He found the license from Sunday’s whore. Lindsay Barkley. He found her cell phone in the next drawer and turned it on, clicking through the photos she’d stored there. There she was. The girl he’d seen tonight.
Why was she at the hospital? He thought hard, remembered the tall young man who’d been with her, and drew a breath. The young man knew Eve Wilson.
Perhaps the girl knew nothing. But he would not take that chance. He looked at Lindsay’s license. He knew where she’d lived. He’d swing by on his way into morning meeting. Have a little chat with the girl. He’d take care of her easily.
He grabbed tonight’s hooker by the ankles and dragged her to the pit. It was pretty full, but he thought it could accommodate two more. Lindsay’s sister and Eve were both tall, it was true, but both were slender. They wouldn’t take up too much space.
And then no more for a while, he told himself. Which was not a problem. Once this endeavor was complete, his stress would recede to a manageable level and in a few months when he hunted his next prey, so would have the pit.
Thursday, February 25, 3:30 a.m.
Olivia’s cell phone rang, rousing her from what had been a very pleasant dream on the cot in the break room at the station. Dell Farmer was a tough nut to crack. Kane and Abbott had taken a turn questioning him while she caught a few winks. Blinking hard, she flipped her phone open. “Sutherland,” she said, swallowing a yawn.
“It’s Tom. Tom Hunter.”
Olivia sat up and turned on the light next to the cot. “Is David all right?” Of course he was. He had to be. The hospital would have called her if there’d been any issues.
“Yeah. I talked to him around ten and he was going to sleep.” On the other end, she heard Tom sigh. “This is going to sound so paranoid and you’re going to be mad.”
“I’ve got security on your uncle,” Olivia said as kindly as she could. “He’ll be fine.”
“Olivia, I was out tonight. With Liza.”
Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “Define ‘out.’ As in ‘on a date’? Or as in ‘hunting bad guys’?”
“The second one. Wait,” he inserted before she could explode. “We found what we were looking for. That guy the prostitute mentioned last night, Jonesy, we found him.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this to me?”
“You would have yelled because we were out looking.”
“Damn straight I would have yelled,” she yelled. “Your mother asked me to watch out for you, Tom. You’re making trouble for me.”
“I’m twenty,” he said quietly. It wasn’t bravado or posturing. Tom Hunter had been forced to be a man, to defend his battered mother, before his seventh birthday.
“All right,” she said, just as quietly. “You found Jonesy. Had he seen Liza’s sister?”
“Yeah. He said he’d been watching the cars picking up hookers, writing down license plates. If they were rich…”
“He’d blackmail them. Wonderful. So he saw Lindsay getting in a car?”
“Yeah, but he said he didn’t have the list anymore, that he’d sold it, and he didn’t remember what kind of car, but he remembered the date and time. I didn’t believe him, but I got him to tell me who he’d sold the list to.”
Olivia sighed. She knew Jonesy. “How much did you pay him?”
“A hundred.”
“Tom.”
“I know,” Tom spat, frustrated. “He said he sold it to some guy named Damon. Another hundred got me Damon’s ‘business address.’ ”
A shiver tickled down her spine. “You’re on thin ice, kid. Damon is a major dealer.”
“I figured that out. I found him, told him what I wanted. He looked at his list. And this is the paranoid part. He said he saw her get into a black SUV. Lincoln Navigator.”
Olivia blinked, wondering how many Navigators could be on Twin City roads.
“You know,” Tom said when she said nothing. “Like the one that hit David.”
“Yeah, I got it. That’s weird, but not impossible.” Besides, they’d gotten Dell Farmer. But not his SUV. He’d been driving a beat-up old Corolla and had just laughed uproariously when she’d demanded to know where he’d parked his Navigator.
“I know and I almost didn’t bother you with it. But I figured better safe than sorry.”
“Damon didn’t happen to share the license plate, did he?”
“No, and frankly I didn’t want to push it. He scared the bejesus out of me.”
“That’s the first smart thing
I’ve heard you say all night. Dammit, Tom, he would have stabbed you as easy as breathing. I’m shocked he told you anything at all.”
“He’s a basketball fan,” Tom said wryly. “I had tickets in my pocket. If you don’t pick him up sooner, I know where he’ll be sitting come game time on Sunday.”
Olivia massaged her temples. “Your mother is going to kill me.”
“My mother and Dana taught me. All those years in the shelter, the new identities, transporting women and kids in the dead of night… No way Mom can yell at you.”
“Good point. Okay. Here’s the deal. I don’t tell your mom what you’ve been doing and you don’t go out with Liza alone anymore.”
“She’s not going to give up until she finds her sister. Or her body.”
Sisterly bonds. That Olivia understood. “Tomorrow I’ll go with you. Where’s Liza?”
“I dropped her off at her apartment. I walked her to the door,” he added defensively.
“You’re a good man. Maybe too much so. No more sleuthing by yourselves. Deal?”
“Deal. Thanks, Olivia.”
“Tom, wait. Where are Liza’s parents in all this?”
“Her mom’s sick, and Liza doesn’t want to worry her yet. No dad in the picture.”
“Okay. Let me see what I can find. Get some sleep.” Troubled, Olivia hung up, then placed a call to an old friend in narcotics. Hopefully they’d have enough to bring Damon in and she could find out what he really knew.
Chapter Twenty-two
Thursday, February 25, 4:00 a.m.
He was so tired. He parked his car next to his wife’s BMW and was tempted to go to sleep right there in the garage, but his wife would wonder where he was when she awoke to an empty bed. He didn’t hate his wife. They had a mutually beneficial relationship. She received a generous allowance for her support, showed up on his arm at all the right functions, never expected sex, and conscientiously kept his secret.
Or what she believed to be his secret. Through twenty years of marriage, she’d believed him to be gay. It wasn’t the optimal solution, but it did explain to her satisfaction why he never touched her. He closed the door into the kitchen, frowning when he switched on the light. Something was different. It took him only a second.
She’d moved the cat’s bowl. He didn’t like it when she changed things. She knew this. It had been the only occasion he’d needed to strike her during their marriage. She’d learned quickly and kept things the way he liked ever since. Until tonight.
He opened cupboards, careful not to wake her. He didn’t care a whit if she got her beauty sleep, but she was his cover. That’s all she’d ever been. The cat’s bowl was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she’d broken it and hoped he wouldn’t know.
He always knew, could always instantly see any item out of its place. He climbed the stairs, his temper seething. It was exhaustion and he reined his temper in. He’d deal with her in the morning, after she’d woken to see him soundly asleep beside her.
He’d brought her a cup of tea tonight, as he always did. Laced it with enough narcotic to have her sleeping through the night, as he always did when he was going out. As he’d done every night this week. He closed the bedroom door behind him.
And stopped. She wasn’t in the bed. Carefully he turned. And stopped again.
She was sitting in one of the chintz chairs by the window and in her hand she held a gun. His heart began to beat harder. He recognized the gun. It was one of the many he kept at his place. She’d been to his place. “What’s this?” he asked quietly.
“I didn’t drink the tea tonight,” she said. “Or last night. Or the night before.” She paused meaningfully, tilting her head. “Or the night before that.”
Sunday. “Why didn’t you drink your tea?” he asked, injecting a note of hurt into his voice. She was small, manageable. Taking the gun would be no issue.
“Because of your cat. I was sneezing all the time, so I took an allergy pill.”
“What does this have to do with the tea?” He took a step forward and she brought the gun up, smoothly. Interesting. They’d been married twenty years and he never knew she could handle a weapon. Looking back, he probably should have asked.
“Don’t come any closer,” she said and he could hear the underlying fright. Panic. Disgust. “And keep your hands where I can see them. The allergy pill interacted with whatever it is you put in that tea. It made me sick. I threw up the tea. And I was awake when you came in on Sunday night. Monday morning, actually. You were out all night.”
“I was with a patient,” he lied.
“You had sex. I can always tell. I thought you’d gone discreetly about your business with your newest boy of the month. Which was fine, but then you were gone Monday night, too. You slipped into bed, thinking I was asleep. I smelled perfume. Ladies’ perfume. I could accept your alternate lifestyle. I was willing to be your cover. But you were cheating. With women.”
He tilted his head, feigning puzzlement. He needed to get to the gun in his pocket. “Let me get this straight. You’re angry because I’m not gay?”
“Don’t,” she said, disgusted. “Don’t even try to charm me. I followed you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And?”
“I know what you did. I saw you last night. I followed you to your other house, saw you change cars, then I watched you wait for that woman outside that bar and follow her home.” She sat back and leveled him an even stare. “I thought, ‘He has another home. Another life. Maybe even another wife. That’s why he doesn’t want me.’ I couldn’t stand wondering, so I went back to that house today.”
His fists clenched. “You had no right.”
She laughed, hollowly, dully. “My God. You can stand there and speak to me of rights? I saw your basement. Your… shoes. My God. You’re a monster. How long? How long have you been killing?”
“Thirty years,” he said, oddly pleased that he could finally tell someone.
She shook her head, helplessly. “I… opened the pit. I can’t stop thinking about it. I see that hand, sticking up, every time I close my eyes. Why did you do it?”
“Because I wanted to,” he said simply and she shook her head in disbelief.
“You’re a monster. And no one will believe that you’re capable. You have everyone fooled. Everyone but me. I know what you are and you aren’t going to get away with this.” She started to pull the trigger, but he was faster. He leapt forward and wrested the gun from her hand, her cry of pain barely registering. He tossed the gun to the bed and dragged her up against him, his arm over her throat. Her gun had no silencer and the shot would wake the whole neighborhood.
Pulling his own silenced gun from his pocket, he pulled her to the bathroom and shoved her into the tub, holding her as she fought. “Just one question. Where is my cat?”
She twisted to stare up at him, defiant in her fear. “Dead,” she spat.
He clenched his jaw. “You bitch.” Then he shot her in the head, stepping back as she slumped. “I should have stayed single,” he murmured, panting. “Dammit.”
Now he’d have to explain to their friends where she’d gone.
Thursday, February 25, 7:00 a.m.
Coffee. Noah drew a deep breath, the aroma teasing him awake. Sex and coffee. He wasn’t sure a man needed a whole lot more than that. He rolled out of bed, a little creaky after tackling Dell, but his mind was alert. He hadn’t gotten any calls during the night, so Natalie Clooney and Kathy Kirk, Eve’s last two red-zone cases, were all right.
He still didn’t believe Donner had killed five women, but he had the very bad feeling that Farmer’s mocking “pow” and “night-night-Noah and his pretty Eve, too” were more than petty taunts. Donner was involved, or he wouldn’t have run.
Pulling on pants, he found Eve sitting in his kitchen wearing only his shirt, frowning at the morning’s newspaper headline. He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck and stole a look down the shirt at her breasts. “I like you in my shirt,” he murmured.
She looked up over her shoulder, her dark eyes troubled. “Sit down.”
She gave him the front page and he hissed an oath. “I guess we expected this,” he said grimly. HAT SQUAD MURDER-SUICIDE, the headline read. He scanned the article, keeping his temper in check. “They make it sound like we know Jack did it.”
She got up to pour his coffee, then set a mug next to his elbow and leaned over his shoulder, her cheek pressed against his. It was the support and affection he’d craved, and greedily he took it in.
“They mention Farmer’s capture,” she murmured, “and his father’s murder a few pages in, but nobody’s tied their motive to Jack and Katie.”
“We should have tied it together for them last night.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It’s an internal investigation now. They’ll have to clear Jack.”
“I called the hospital this morning. They’re not giving out any information.”
“Abbott said he’d call when he heard something. I guess no news at this point is still good news. I wish MSP never published that damn article. When you were untying Brock last night, Dell was screaming that the magazine made us look like gods.”
“I thought ‘white knights,’ when I first read it.” She kissed his temple. “You want some eggs? I can’t do omelets because I couldn’t find the knives.”
“You started talking in your sleep, so I got up and locked them in my gun safe. I’ll make you a key so you can get to them when you’re awake.”
She sighed wearily. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We both bring baggage, Eve. We both have nightmares.” He hesitated. “Mine are especially bad whenever I go to the bar.”
Now she looked away. “So if we…” She picked at the shirt of his she wore. “If this continues, I’d have to quit.”
“I wouldn’t expect that, Eve. I know what Sal and Josie mean to you, and you to them. But I can’t visit you there.” He tugged on the tail of his shirt, pulling her to his lap. “If this continues, we’ll both give and take. In the grand scheme, your job, my knives, not a big deal.”