Maybe he was there. Maybe he took one look at you and ran the other way.
“Goddammit.” She stumbled up the sidewalk, tripping in the heels she’s spent next month’s grocery money on. You’re a stupid idiot, just like Jerry said. She struggled with her keys, hands shaking as her ex-husband’s voice rolled through her mind. Clumsy, ugly. You’ll never find anyone else willing to look at your face every morning.
He’s right. There’s nobody out there for somebody like me. She’d been suckered tonight, waited like a fool for an online asshole that never showed, who’d probably never intended to show. “John,” whoever he was, was probably laughing at her right now.
Just like Jerry had when she’d caught him with that slut. In my bed.
She shoved the front-door key into the lock, her eyes narrowing at a new thought.
“Jerry.” It made sense. Her ex knew computers, but he wouldn’t even have needed to hack in. She hadn’t logged out of Shadowland in God only knew how long. She’d changed the locks, but that wouldn’t have kept him out. He’d broken into the house. Her cheeks flamed. Read my Ninth Circle conversations. Why on earth had she saved them? So, like a loser, she could read them again and again, pretending to have a life.
“He set me up,” she hissed. “Sonofafuckingbitch set me up.”
She pushed the door open, furious. She’d get him, the lying, screwing SOB, if it was the last thing she— A hand clamped over her mouth and her heart froze. Jerry. Fury supplanted the fear. This was taking it too damn far. I’ll kill you for this.
Then fury evaporated away as she was viciously yanked back, her head smacking against a hard shoulder. Not Jerry, she thought wildly. It’s not Jerry.
“Hello, Gwenivere,” he crooned into her ear and she thrashed against him. Get away. Get away. She felt the jab of a needle into her neck. “Welcome to Camelot.”
She could hear him calmly counting back from ten as her body went numb. He let her go and she teetered for a split second before collapsing on the floor.
“Snakes,” she heard him say, from a distance. She was floating now. Get away. Must get away. But she couldn’t move. She heard him kneel beside her, felt his breath in her ear. “A pit of vipers slithering over your skin, Christy. No escape. No escape.”
No. No. Everywhere, they’re everywhere. It was a deep pit. Twisting snakes, all around. Hissing. Her heart pounded and cold sweat drenched her skin. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Oh God. One slithered across her foot, and she clenched her eyes shut. Another dropped from above to her shoulder and she screamed. Run. Get away.
Help me. Christy Lewis heard the shrieking and was suddenly aware it came from her own throat. She opened her eyes, heart pounding, lungs gasping for air. Just a dream. She was in her own living room. But not. Her eyes darted side to side as she took it in. Her furniture was moved. Pushed against the wall. She lunged. But not.
I can’t move. She struggled wildly, her mind fighting to clear the haze. No snakes, she told herself. Just a dream. But I still can’t move. Her arms hugged her body, her ankles burned like fire, her head… God, her head hurt. Stop. And think.
She blinked hard, but her living room was still changed. Her arms… She was sitting up, bound shoulder to waist, warm. Trapped. Horror flooded her mind as the mist cleared away. Her ankles were tied to her chair with rope and there was hideous pressure on her temples, like a… “A vise?” she whispered in disbelief.
“Indeed, my dear. And a straitjacket,” he said and it came back in a rush.
She’d gone to meet John. She’d waited for him, but he’d never come. But he was here. She jerked around to see, crying out at the shearing pain in her head.
“I suggest you not try to move,” he said dryly, still behind her.
“Why?” she begged, agonized. Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away.
“Maybe because your empty head is in a vise?” he said with contempt.
“No.” She wanted to sound angry, but instead she whimpered in fear. “Why me?”
“Because I needed you,” he said logically. “And because you’re here. And because I can. Pick one, it doesn’t matter which. Did you like the snakes, Christy?”
She shuddered. It was her very worst fear. How did he know? “Go to hell.”
He chuckled, sending another shiver racing coldly down her spine. “Ladies firssssst,” he whispered, hissing into her ear. Her insides rolled at the memory, at the total, immobilizing fear.
No. Stay focused. You have to get away. Pay attention. Remember important things to tell the police. When you get away. “They weren’t real,” she muttered.
“Those weren’t,” he agreed. “But he is.” A gloved hand came into her peripheral vision, pointing. She could see a gold ring through his opaque latex glove.
Remember the ring. Tell the cops about it.
But he is. His words suddenly registered as did the metal box on the floor. The size of a tool box, it had holes in the top. Tied to the latch was twine that ran along the floor, ending somewhere behind her. Behind her he moved and his hand reappeared in her line of vision, holding one end of the twine. He yanked and was then that she heard it.
A rattle. Ominous. Quiet. Her breath began to hitch. “Not happening. Not real.”
“Oh, he’s real,” he whispered, “and he’s hungry and he won’t like being disturbed. Shall we disturb him?”
“No,” she whimpered. She clenched her eyes closed but he forced one of her eyes open, pinching her eyelid hard. He smeared something cold under her eyebrow and quickly pressed her eyelid against it. Glue. She struggled to blink, and could not.
“You’ll watch,” he said, angry now. “Because I say you will.” He glued her other eye open, then brought something around her head. A cage. Inside was something white, and completely still. A mouse. “Not dead,” he said. “Blood’s still nice and warm. He’s sedated with the same drug I gave you. I wonder if he’ll be half as terrified as you.”
He took the mouse from the cage and placed it against her foot. She could feel its fur tickling her skin. She tried to flinch away, but her ankles were tied too tightly. He yanked the twine again. Again she heard the rattle. She panted, trying to fill her lungs.
Breathe. Can’t breathe. It’s coming. Run. She struggled, tried to draw a breath to scream, but all she could manage was a terrified mew. Trapped. I’m trapped.
He yanked the string again and the front of the box lowered with a clatter.
It lifted its head and stared. At me. Frozen, she could only stare back.
“It’s coming,” he whispered, his breath hot in her ear. “For you.”
Monday, February 22, 6:15 a.m.
Harvey Farmer was tired. He’d followed Noah Webster for hours, only to return home to an empty house. Dell was AWOL again. Unable to sleep, he was staring stonily at his front door when it opened. Dell closed it, surprise flickering in his eyes. “Where have you been?” Harvey asked, not kindly.
“Out.”
Abruptly Harvey lurched to his feet. “Don’t you talk to me like that, boy.”
Dell took a step back. “I’m not a boy. I can go where I like.”
Harvey’s eyes narrowed as he smelled leftover perfume. He grabbed his son’s arm, stunned when Dell grabbed it back. “Who is she?” Harvey growled.
Dell’s smile was tight. “No one you’ll ever meet. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
Harvey watched his son’s retreating back, his anger rising. “If you fuck up what we’re doing because of some slut…”
Dell didn’t stop. “I won’t. Now, I’ve had a long night. I’m going to sleep.”
Chapter Four
Monday, February 22, 7:25 a.m.
Captain Bruce Abbott stopped at their desks. “You two are here early. Progress on the Brisbane investigation? Did you get the report on Dix’s victim? The first hanger?”
“Samantha Altman,” Noah said, “was thirty-five, lived alone, recently divorced and recently unemployed. She was found by h
er parents, who said she wasn’t depressed.”
“Parents always say that,” Abbott said. “It’s a coping mechanism.”
Jack rubbed his hands over his face, trying to wake up. “Dix is ripped up, Captain. He kept going over his scene, trying to figure out what he’d missed.”
“Dix did what most of us would have done,” Abbott said. “It quacked like a duck, so he called it a duck. Did he remember anything that wasn’t in his report?”
“Only that the parents swore the clothes weren’t hers,” Jack said. “Dix gave them back the dress and shoes. We’re hoping the Altmans haven’t thrown them out.”
“Any connections between the two women?”
“Not so far,” Noah said. “Martha was a little older, self-employed. Samantha was downsized from a manufacturing job and found two days after she died, by her parents. Martha was dead at least a week, but no one reported her missing. We didn’t find an address book, but whoever hung her probably took it. Her desk was too damn clean.”
“The lab’s going over her computer, checking emails, contacts,” Jack added. “She was a computer consultant, so we should at least find a client list on her PC.”
“Motive? Any suspects?”
“Martha’s mother knows something,” Noah said. “We’ll pay her another visit today.”
“And we still haven’t heard from Mrs. Kobrecki, the building manager,” Jack said.
“Grandmother of the panty pervert,” Abbott said.
“He’s got a jacket,” Noah said. “Three complaints from former building residents, all improper advances. Nothing came of them. It was always he said, she said.”
“Go get the ‘she said’ from the women who lodged the complaints. See if anything pops. And find out if the grandson would have any contact with the first victim.” Abbott hesitated. “So for the million-dollar question. Do we think there are any other victims?”
“No,” Noah said. “We’ve gone through the reports on all the suicides in the Twin Cities going back two years. No scenes resemble the two we’re dealing with.”
Abbott looked relieved. “That’s something, at least. Have you heard from the ME?”
“Not yet,” Jack said, “but we’re expecting to any moment. Ian normally starts autopsies after the morgue’s morning review. He knows this one’s a high priority.”
“Well, hurry it up. I don’t want the press getting wind of this until we know what’s what. We just got rid of all those damn reporters from the magazine.”
“I saw reporters last night,” Jack said. “They’ve been shadowing us for three weeks.”
“They’re shadowing everyone in the department.” Abbott pushed away from Jack’s desk. “Don’t do anything exciting and maybe they’ll go away.”
The phone rang and Jack picked up. “Ian’s got something,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Monday, February 22, 7:30 a.m.
Liza Barkley frowned at her cell. Lindsay had never come home. She hadn’t called and she wasn’t picking up. If her sister was going to be late, she always called.
Liza bit at her lip, wondering what to do. She didn’t know any of Lindsay’s friends anymore and had never called the cleaning service where she worked.
But if she didn’t leave the apartment now, she’d miss her bus. Maybe Lin met a friend for breakfast. Liza hoped so. Lindsay worked so hard, her social life had become more endangered than the blue whale, the subject of Liza’s second-period science test. She slipped her cell into her pocket. Call me, Lin. Let me know you’re okay.
Monday, February 22, 8:15 a.m.
He folded his newspaper. Martha’s suicide was way back in the Metro section, but it was there. Soon Martha’s murder would be headlines, maybe as early as tomorrow. That would depend on how skilled the ME was, he supposed. And then, he’d be front-page news, every day. Coverage would explode when they found Christy Lewis hanging from her bedroom ceiling. SERIAL KILLER STALKS WOMEN, the headline would read.
He’d have to keep clippings. He smiled. Frame and hang them in my basement.
That the dynamic duo had caught Brisbane’s case would only help. They were media darlings, after all. The press would hang on their every word, put every missed clue under the microscope. Then the headlines would change. POLICE CLUELESS.
He wondered how long it would take someone to find Christy Lewis. She’d be missed faster than Martha. Although she was divorced and her parents were deceased, she had a job and daily contact with people in the real world. Unlike Martha, who had lived in Shadowland.
Christy should be discovered by tomorrow when she failed to show up for work a second day. He didn’t have time to rest. He had to start preparing for his fifth of six.
Monday, February 22, 8:32 a.m.
“You work fast, Ian,” Noah commented. “I didn’t expect a ruling until later.”
“I don’t have anything official yet,” Ian Gilles said. “Where’s Jack?”
“Right here.” Jack came through the door, perturbed. “I got delayed outside by a reporter. Wanted to know why we had two CSU vans at a suicide last night.”
“What did you tell him?” Noah asked.
Jack shrugged. “ ‘No comment.’ What else could I say? So, what do you have, Ian?”
Ian tilted Brisbane’s head so that her throat was exposed. “I haven’t started the autopsy yet, but I thought you should see this. Right in the middle of the ligature marks is a needle puncture. The rope was placed precisely so the puncture would be hidden.”
“Injected with what?” Noah asked.
“Don’t know yet. Urine tox didn’t show anything. I’m expecting results from the blood test this afternoon. So far, no other obvious injuries, the X-rays show no broken bones, and I found no evidence of any sexual activity.”
“Did you check the suicide Dixon processed last week?” Noah asked.
“Janice did that exam. She’s at the national ME’s convention, but I read her report.”
“What do MEs do at a convention?” Jack asked. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”
“Probably not,” Ian said without a trace of humor. “Janice noted that establishing time of death was difficult as the deceased’s window was open.”
“Same as Martha,” Jack said, nodding toward the body on the table.
“Right. Samantha’s eyelids were glued open with super glue, same as this victim.”
“Didn’t that send up any alarms?” Jack asked, and Ian shrugged.
“We see people do weird things. All the other signs of suicidal hanging were there.”
“What about the puncture wound?” Noah asked. “Does Samantha have one?”
“I think so. Janice took a photo of Samantha’s ligature wounds. I blew it up. You lose resolution, but I’m pretty sure I saw a puncture wound. I’ll need to re-examine the body to be sure. Unfortunately we released the body to the funeral home a week ago.”
Jack grimaced. “Exhumation?”
Noah nodded, resigned. “How long to get an exam on Samantha Altman?”
“I’ll start as soon as the body arrives. I had the blood samples from her autopsy pulled from storage this morning and they’re already submitted for the same blood tests I ordered for Martha. That’s all I can do until I get the body back.”
Noah put on his hat. “We’re going to interview the Altman family today. We’ll grease the skids for the exhumation order. You’ll call us when Martha’s autopsy is finished?”
“Absolutely.” Ian pushed the gurney into the examination room.
“Next stop Altman family?” Jack said.
“I’ll drive.” They’d gotten to Noah’s car when his cell rang. “Webster.”
“It’s Abbott.” Who sounded displeased. “Brisbane’s suicide hit the papers and I just got a call from a reporter who said he would’ve called it a homicide on page one, but his editor wouldn’t allow it without corroboration. Apparently he got corroboration because he’s saying his next headline will be ‘More Than a Suicide.??
? Which of you corroborated?”
“Neither. Jack was approached, but said ‘no comment.’ Who was this guy?”
“Name was Kurt Buckland. How close are you to having an official homicide ruling?”
“Ian’s doing the autopsy this morning, but he found signs that Brisbane was drugged. We’re going to interview the Altman family while Ian files for exhumation.”
“Good. I’ll give a statement as soon as Ian rules it a homicide. That’ll take some of the wind out of the reporter’s headline. Be back at four. Tell Micki to be here.”
“Will do. What about a shrink? We need to start a profile.”
“Carleton Pierce will be here at four. I’ve put Sutherland and Kane on standby.”
Noah dropped his cell in his pocket. “Let’s move. We have a deadline.”
Monday, February 22, 9:35 a.m.
Eve carefully placed the receiver in the cradle on her desk in the graduate office. “Fuck you, asshole,” she muttered.
A chuckle had her swiveling her chair. Callie sat behind her, laughing. “I knew you couldn’t hold it in. What was that all about, then?”
“I got a new leak in my roof, right over my bed. I moved my bed, but then it dripped into a bucket for the rest of the night. I didn’t sleep a wink.”
“You have to find a new place.” Callie brightened. “My building has a vacancy.”
“Your building costs twice as much as I can afford.”
“The concept is called a roommate.” Callie drew the word out. “My roommate and I split the rent and utilities and everybody is happy. You should get a roommate, too.”
“No.” After years of living with others, she wanted privacy. “My rent’s cheap.”
“Your rent is a gift. You’re just lucky that old woman liked you.”
Eve smiled sadly. “Mrs. Daulton liked everybody.”
“I know. And I know you miss her. How much longer till your lease runs out?”
“Six more months. And I’ll be damned if Myron Daulton gets his greedy little mitts on my house a second before that.”