Her name was neatly typed, along with the address of the cabin. Then her gaze shifted to the return address, not surprised to find the name of her PR firm. There were fewer than ten people who knew where she was staying.
She ripped open the envelope, only to discover another envelope inside. It was a plain manila one, with her name scrawled across the front.
She scowled.
Usually this would be a desperate plea for help from some unknown person.
Since the release of her book, she’d been besieged with requests for her to investigate the murder of some relative. Or pleading with her to use her contacts to get their beloved son out of prison, despite the fact he’d bludgeoned his girlfriend to death or shot a neighbor in the head. On occasion some enterprising soul managed to discover where she was staying and shoved the information under the door of her hotel, but usually the requests ended up on the desk of her agent, or even her editor, who sent them on to the PR firm.
The same firm she’d given strict orders to hold all correspondence until after the first of the year.
Which meant that they knew better than to pester her with unwanted mail unless they were hoping to be fired. Something she doubted so long as her book remained on the bestseller lists.
So why were they sending her an overnight package?
A Christmas present? An appearance on the Today Show they’d been desperate to book for her?
There was only one way to find out.
Running her finger beneath the sealed flap, she pulled out the sheet of paper. Her gaze impatiently skimmed over the handwritten note.
Holiday Greetings, dearest Carmen. The new year approaches and I offer a challenge. You can be the predator or the prey.
She scrunched her nose. Well, that was cryptic. Her gaze lowered to the signature at the bottom.
The Trucker.
From one beat of her heart to the next, her annoyance was replaced by a bone-deep shock. With a gasp she was on her feet, knocking over the chair as she took a sharp step backward.
Crap.
The Trucker.
Details from her investigation fired randomly through her stunned brain.
Neal Scott. A forty-two-year-old truck driver from Kansas City who’d hunted whores and runaways along 1-70 from Denver to Topeka. He’d killed at least twenty-seven women with a crowbar and dumped them along the highway. After his arrest in 1991 he’d admitted that he’d kept the bodies in the freezer of his semi truck until he found a new victim.
She pressed a hand to her racing heart, forcing herself to inch back toward the table. The envelope had been too heavy to contain only one thin sheet of paper.
Reaching out her hand, she grabbed the corner of the envelope and slowly tipped it upside down. There was a strange rustling sound and Carmen tensed. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t the stack of polaroids that fell out of the envelope and splayed across the table.
Her breath rasped loudly in the silence as she reluctantly leaned forward. She’d seen the pictures before. They’d been found on Neal Scott when he’d been pulled over by a highway patrol. They had helped to prove Scott was the mysterious serial killer the press had dubbed the Trucker. As if the dead hooker in his trailer hadn’t been enough.
Carmen pressed her lips together and reached for the pictures. She’d used copies of them in her book which meant she was intimately familiar with the gruesome images.
On the point of shoving them back into the envelope, she stilled, her gaze locked on the shattered face of the young blond woman.
The picture was grainy, and there was blood covering the woman’s brow from the brutal wound on her temple, but the rest of the features were visible.
Her face was thin, almost gaunt, with faint scars. There were newer sores on her chin. Probably from meth. And her long hair was tangled, as if she hadn’t combed it in a long time.
She looked forty, but she was probably closer to twenty.
A woman who’d lived hard, and died even harder.
Carmen’s hands shook as she shuffled to the next picture. Another blond. Her face was a little more square and had been tanned to the texture of leather. But she shared the same painful thinness. And the same bloody wound on the side of her head.
There were three more pictures. All of them of young women who’d been brutally murdered.
They looked exactly like the polaroids that’d been found on Neal Scott when he was captured. But not one of these had been used as evidence in the trial.
What the hell did that mean?
Had Scott been hiding the pictures? But where? And why send them to her?
Carmen dropped the polaroids, wiping her fingers on her robe as if she’d been contaminated.
She had to do something. That much she knew. Unfortunately, her brain was churning without spitting out any answers. Like it was stuck in neutral.
Her gaze darted from side to side, at last landing on the large envelope that was still wet from the snow. Yes. This had started it all. The destruction of her fairy-tale vacation.
And she knew precisely who to blame for that destruction.
Cautiously backing away, she kept her gaze locked on the table. As if pile of polaroids were a rattlesnake that might decide to strike. At the same time, she stuck out her arm, blindly searching for the cellphone she’d left on the kitchen counter.
She knocked off an empty plate and tipped over a vase of flowers. Minor casualties. Then her fingers at last clenched around her phone.
Lifting it to a position where she could glance at the screen while still maintaining a close watch on the polaroids, she hit the third button in her speed dial.
There was the sound of buzzing as the connection was made, then a pre-recorded voice floated through the air, warning Carmen that the offices were closed until after the New Year and that she was to leave a message so they could get back to her as soon as possible.
Oh, and then a bubbly wish for her to have a happy holiday season.
Perfect.
She ended the connection and scrolled through her contacts to find the personal number of her PR person. Lucy Cordova was ten years older than Carmen, with the sleek beauty of a supermodel and the soul of a great white shark.
It was no accident she was the top in her field. She ate her competitors and spit them out.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Carmen muttered as the phone buzzed and then went straight to voice mail. “Dammit.”
She hit redial. Same result. She hit it again.
On the point of trying a fourth time, her phone buzzed with an incoming call.
Lucy.
Thank God.
“Okay, Carmen,” a voice croaked. Obviously Lucy had decided to sleep in this morning. “What’s the emergency?”
Carmen was forced to clear the lump from her voice before she could speak.
“The package that landed on my doorstep this morning.”
“What package?” Lucy demanded, then there was the rustle of covers as if the woman was crawling out of bed. “Oh, wait. I remember sending an envelope to you.”
Carmen licked her lips. Why were they so dry?
“Where did you get it from?” she demanded.
“It came by messenger three days ago,” Lucy told her.
“From where?”
“It was from the office of the public defenders who’d handled the Scott case,” Lucy explained, her voice echoing as if she’d put the phone on speaker.
No doubt the woman was pouring her morning coffee. She was a caffeine fiend who was never without her insulated cup in her hand.
“Was there a letter with it?” Carmen asked.
There was a slurping sound, then a soft breath of relief. Lucy had just had her fix.
A second later she spoke, her voice stronger as the caffeine kicked in.
“No, there was no letter. Just a handwritten note that said they’d been forwarded all of Neal Scott’s possessions after his execution and that they were j
ust now sorting through the box.”
Scott had been executed three months ago. “Why would they send it to your office?” Carmen demanded.
“The note said that they’d found the envelope and tried to deliver it to your condo. When there was no one home, they sent it to our office.”
Carmen’s gaze moved toward the nearby window. The snow continued to fall at a leisurely pace. As if it couldn’t decide if it intended to pick up speed or just call it quits for the day.
I should be drinking my coffee and enjoying the winter wonderland, she thought. Instead her peace had been shattered by visions of death.
Not the sort of Christmas anyone wanted.
“And you decided to send it here?” she demanded.
“I thought it might contain some new information from the killer,” Lucy told her. “You know, something you could add to the paperback version that would spice up sales.”
Carmen made a choked sound of distress. Having the polaroids in her home—actually touching them—somehow made them far more disturbing than the black-and-white-copies she’d used in her books.
These were more personal. Almost intimate.
“The deaths of those young women is a tragedy, not a spice,” she snapped.
There was an awkward silence before Lucy cleared her throat. “You know what I mean.”
Carmen forced a strained laugh. She didn’t know why she was angry with Lucy. The older woman had merely forwarded the envelope. She hadn’t known what was inside.
“Yeah, I guess I do,” she said.
“What’s going on, Carmen?” Lucy abruptly asked.
Carmen’s gaze returned to the table, her stomach clenching.
“There were pictures inside the envelope.”
“What kind of pictures?”
“Polaroids of dead women. Five of them.”
“Christ, I’m sorry, Carmen,” Lucy breathed. “I assume they were from the trial?”
Carmen shook her head despite the fact that Lucy couldn’t see her.
“No. I’ve never seen these before.”
“Wait.” The word sounded like it was wrenched from Lucy. She wasn’t a lady who was often shocked. “Are you saying there are pictures of dead women that haven’t been released to the public?”
Carmen shuddered. She was three feet away from the table, but she felt as if the unknown women were staring at her. Pleading for something she couldn’t give them.
Justice.
“I’m saying I’ve never seen them. And you know the research I did,” Carmen said. “I think it’s possible that I’m the only one besides Scott to know they exist.”
There was a sudden clatter through the phone, as if Lucy had dropped her coffee cup.
“God almighty, this is fantastic!” the woman said, not bothering to hide her burst of glee. “Do you know what will happen to your book sales if you can add in pictures from new victims?” There was a pause, and Carmen imagined she could hear the calculator in Lucy’s mind clicking away, adding up each new sale. “Hell, you could write a whole new book.”
Carmen grimaced. She would be a hypocrite to act shocked by Lucy’s response. The reason Carmen had hired her was because the woman was a ruthless master at taking advantage of any situation.
Even a situation that included dead women.
“These need to go to the authorities,” she said in firm tones.
“Fine, but first we need to make copies,” Lucy insisted. “It could be months or years before the cops will give back the originals.”
“Let’s worry about figuring out who these poor women are before we start cashing in, okay?” she said dryly.
As if sensing that Carmen wasn’t in the mood to discuss business, Lucy did her best to squash her excitement.
“What do you want from me?”
Carmen took a minute. She was still rattled and it was unnervingly difficult to think. Like her brain cells were wading through syrup.
“I want you to call the lawyers and find out everything you can about the envelope,” she eventually demanded.
Might as well start at the beginning.
“You got it,” Lucy said, the crisp determination easing a portion of Carmen’s unease. “I’ll get back to you.”
Carmen hung up the phone and forced herself to turn and head to the back of the cabin. She felt in dire need of a hot shower. It couldn’t erase the images from her mind, but it might wash away the feeling that she’d been contaminated.
Entering the small bathroom, she dropped her robe and stepped beneath the spray of water. She shivered as she waited for the hot water to kick in, not for the first time wondering if she’d made a mistake in writing THE HEART OF A PREDATOR.
It wasn’t like she’d started off her journalism career with the dream of spending her days in dank prisons interviewing monsters. And they were monsters—each of the five men she’d profiled had killed at least ten women, and most of them much more than that. But when her college professor had warned her that the articles she was writing for the school paper were too mundane to earn her any notice by any reputable newspaper or magazine, she’d forced herself to examine what she could offer that was different from every other wannabe journalist.
What truly made her unique?
The answer was simple.
Murder.
She was intimately acquainted with death. And the sort of man who could kill an innocent woman without mercy.
She’d reached out to Neal Scott, not believing for a minute that he’d respond to her request for an interview. He’d been on death-row for seventeen years and had never once spoken about his crimes. But her letter had been answered by Scott’s lawyers within the week.
“Yes, Mr. Scott would be pleased to meet with Ms. Jacobs at a time of your convenience.”
And that had been the start of her twisted journey through the minds of serial killers. A trail she thought would be over once the paperback book was released.
With a grimace she stepped out of the shower and dried off. Then, heading into the bedroom across the hall, she slipped on a pair of jeans and a heavy cable-knit sweater. Her blond hair was already curling around her face, making her look about twelve. She clicked her tongue as she pulled her hair into a tight ponytail.
Her grandmother might have thought that it was cute that Carmen looked like a perpetual child, but it was a pain in the patootie.
She’d just tugged on a pair of warm socks and returned to the kitchen when her phone rang.
Carmen hit the speaker button. “What did you find out?”
Lucy’s voice floated through the air. “Nothing.”
Her tension returned. Dammit. Had the older woman just pretended she was going to help in an effort to get Carmen to use the pictures in her book?
“Lucy, I’m not in the mood for games,” Carmen snapped.
“I wasn’t trying to annoy you, Carmen,” Lucy said. “I meant the word literally.”
There was no missing the edge in Lucy’s voice.
This wasn’t about making money. The woman was truly worried.
“Explain,” Carmen said, dropping into a kitchen chair and rubbing her aching head.
Lucy cleared her throat. “I called the law office that represented Neal Scott only to be told that they didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.”
Carmen frowned. “They don’t remember sending the package?”
“They don’t remember, because they never sent it,” Lucy clarified. “In fact, they had direct orders from Neal Scott that all his possessions were to be destroyed after he was executed. He didn’t want some prison guard selling his toothbrush on eBay after he died.”
Carmen’s gaze moved to the pictures that were still spread across the kitchen table.
There was no reason for the law firm to lie. At least none that made sense.
“You’re sure the package wasn’t from a different law firm?” Carmen asked.
“I’m sure. I even double-checked with the receptionis
t who keeps a log of packages we receive. Each one is labeled with who the package is for, and what company it’s from.”
Carmen felt an odd sense of dread lodge in the pit of her stomach.
“What was the name of the messenger company?”
“Dullus Express,” Lucy said without hesitation. No doubt she’d anticipated Carmen’s question.
“Do you have their number?”
“I already tried to contact them.”
“Tried?”
Lucy released an aggravated sigh. “The telephone number that was left on the sign-in sheet actually belongs to a Chinese restaurant,” she admitted. “And when I googled the name of the company I couldn’t find it listed anywhere.”
“So who sent the envelope?”
“I don’t have any idea.”
Carmen shivered. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” Lucy agreed. “Shit.”
Carmen disconnected the phone. Right now she needed to think. Something that would be impossible when she had Lucy chattering in her ear.
Wrapping her arms around her waist, she glanced at the envelope before shifting her gaze toward the note.
Was it possible that the polaroids had been taken by Neal Scott and never found by the cops? But who could have uncovered them? And why go to the trouble to make her believe that they were from the serial killer, including a note signed The Trucker?
Was this some sick joke? Her book had made her the target of all kinds of whackos. Could one of them have staged the pictures to attract her attention?
It was a plausible theory. There were all sorts of crackpots in the world.
But as much as she wanted to dismiss the polaroids as a prank, there was something deep inside her that warned this was no joke.
She paced the floor, a terrible fear beginning to form.
If they hadn’t been taken by Scott, and they weren’t a prank, there was only one explanation for them.
A copycat killer.
She paced the floor, the horrifying suspicion churning through her mind. Was it possible? Was there some maniac out there who’d decided to follow in the footsteps of Neal Scott?
Was he even now bashing in some innocent girl’s head?
Halting near the table, she reached to touch the picture that was lying on top, her dread hardening to determination.
Lord Mumford's Minx Page 19
