by Cassie Miles
"How can you be so sure?"
"The Fisherman is in jail." She nodded toward the other room. "We're ready to eat. Go sit at the table."
He left the kitchen but didn't sit. "I'm not letting go of this, Blair. Yesterday's victim was involved with the prior investigation. Just like you."
"Enough." She slammed the pop cans down on the table. "As of this moment, I'm officially declaring a moratorium on discussion of the Fisherman."
"You can't ignore this," he said.
"Accept my conditions or leave."
He pulled out a chair and sat.
Silently she counted to five, allowing her emotions to settle. "We're going to have a nice lunch. Just a couple of old friends, renewing our acquaintance."
She glanced at her small, round dining table that was old enough to qualify as antique but not polished. She should have covered the scratched-up veneer with a tablecloth or thrown together a centerpiece—something to make their lunch more cosy. But her tablecloths were stuck away in a linen drawer. What could she do to make this lunch more civilized?
"Wine?" she asked.
"No."
"Music," she said, turning on the radio, set to the classical station. "Rossini."
"Oh, yeah. Nothing like a good rotini."
"That's a pasta, David."
"Whatever."
She opened her vertical blinds. Daylight from the floor-to-ceiling windows splashed into her condo. On the fifth floor, she was just above the leafy green treetops. Her windows faced west, and it would've been a spectacular panorama if other high-rise buildings hadn't been in the way. As it was, she could only see slices of the Rockies.
Busily, she set lunch on the table. Tuna salad sandwiches and blue corn chips. Her fiesta-ware plates looked...festive, but the paper napkins were terminally tacky. At the very least, she ought to have decent glasses for the soda pop. Returning to the kitchen, she climbed onto the counter to reach the top cabinet shelf where she kept her crystal. The goblets were dusty.
"Blair? What are you doing in there?"
"Nothing." She climbed down and grabbed two plain water glasses that she filled with ice and brought to the table. "Should I light a candle or something?"
"Not on my account," David said.
But she wanted their lunch to be pleasant—free from thoughts about serial killers, free from the tragedies of the past. She wanted to pretend that David was here because he found her attractive and interesting. This casual lunch was the closest to a date she'd had in months. Pathetic! "I've got to get out more."
"Likewise." He took a bite of his sandwich. "I keep telling myself that I need a hobby, like golf."
"An old man's game," she said as she sat.
"Not since Tiger Woods."
David's expression seemed wary as he peered across the table and chewed. She sensed that he was waiting for the right moment to launch into more talk of the Fisherman, his personal obsession. Not just yet, old pal. She was determined to engage in polite conversation, and the topic was golf. "I used to caddy for my father," she said. "I think he uses a cart now."
"Where are your parents living now?"
"Near Tucson. Yours?"
"They're still here in Denver."
She asked if he'd read any good books or seen any movies. And he asked what she put in her tuna salad. Gosh, they were boring! If their small talk got any more amiably bland, they'd both fall asleep. "Okay," she said. "Tell me about your travels."
He raised an eyebrow. "Which bizarre crime scene would you like to hear about?"
Actually, she was rather interested in neurological damage in the Texas hammer murders, but she didn't want to start down a slippery slope that might lead to the Fisherman. "You were in Texas. Tell me about the wide-open spaces."
He wrenched the knot loose on his necktie. "How long are we going to dance around the issue, Blair?"
She tossed her napkin on the plate, symbolically throwing in the towel. "All right. The Fisherman. Talk."
David laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles like a concert pianist preparing to play Rachmaninoff. "Everybody assumes that the right man was convicted because the killing stopped when he was arrested. Like you said, it's not typical for a serial killer to take a break. But not unheard of. For example, the Green River murders in Washington. That guy killed more than forty women in two years. Then he stopped."
"He was recently apprehended," she said. "Was there an explanation for why he stormed?"
"He might have continued killing in a different location. The cops are trying to link him to various other unsolved crimes."
"What are some other explanations for a time lapse?"
"The killer moves. Or dies. Sometimes, they get arrested. Then, when they're released, they start up again."
Another possibility occurred to her. "Maybe yesterday's murder wasn't committed by the Fisherman. It might be a copycat crime."
"We'll find out soon enough," he said. "Part of the Fisherman's thrill was a power trip. He liked outsmarting the cops. Remember? He used to send notes to a columnist at The Post."
"Ted Hurtado." He was another friend of Jake's. "Wonder whatever happened to him."
"I'll look him up," David said. "Ted's a good place to start."
She was a bit confused about the logistics. David had contacted Adam at CCC, but it sounded like he had plans of his own. "Are you going to investigate? You personally?"
"That's what I've been doing for the past five years. Looking into crime and analyzing."
"What part does CCC play?"
"Adam said he would compile the old case files and court records. If I came up with questions, he would have volunteer experts who can help." He gave her a lopsided smile. "You were the first name he mentioned. He said you were the best at reviewing forensic medical evidence."
For a moment, she had a glimmer of déjà vu, remembering when she was a medical examiner working with the other forensics experts and detectives. She liked being part of that team, tracking down clues and putting together the pieces of a puzzle.
Her part in crime-solving wasn't often a source of pulse-pounding excitement. Rather, her work involved meticulous study, attention to detail, science and reasoning. But when she was able to contribute to an arrest, she experienced a deep satisfaction.
Should she attend the autopsy? Was there any way her presence would help unravel the past or solve the present crime?
David asked, "How did you get involved with Adam?"
One day he showed up on her doorstep without prelude or introduction. In direct, no-frills terms, he told her of his mission: reviewing old cases, offering expert evaluation when called upon by the police or looking into suspicious events. When Blair agreed to act as a consultant, CCC paid her expenses and, sometimes, offered a small stipend. But she didn't do this work for the money. Her disability insurance payments and savings were sufficient to live on.
"Adam came to me, and I couldn't say no." She believed in his goal to help the surviving family and friends find closure. "I have skills. They were going to waste."
"Have you thought about other work options?" David asked. "Like teaching?"
"I've considered teaching forensic medicine."
But she wasn't ready to settle for less, to take a diminished position. When the accident forced her to leave the Coroner's Office, she was at the top of her game. All the cops wanted to work with her. Her opinions were sought after.
She didn't want to return to the field as a pathetic loser—a has-been who never really was. It felt as if she'd failed. The thought of limping back to the Coroner's Office this afternoon seemed like an exercise in humiliation. "I think I'm going to take a pass on the autopsy this afternoon."
David nodded. "There's another issue I want to talk to you about. I'd like to see you again."
She couldn't imagine why. They obviously had nothing in common but a weird interest in violent crime. She and David were both damaged people, struggling to overcome the disaste
rs in the past. If she was smart, she wouldn't see him again. Why sign up for a voyage on the Titanic when you know it's going to run into an iceberg?
"Tomorrow's Friday," he said. "May I take you out to dinner?"
"Yes." The word popped out of her mouth. "What should I wear?"
"Something skimpy." He stood and pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket. He placed his business card on the table. "Call if you need anything. Otherwise, I'll see you at seven tomorrow night."
She accompanied him to the door. "One question, David. When I saw you a year ago in the grocery store, why didn't you call?"
"Timing." He had a ready excuse. "I was on my way out of town. When I came back, it seemed like too long. Why didn't you call me?"
"Because I'm old-fashioned. I believe in letting the man make the first move."
"Yeah, right." David doubted that she had one non-assertive, old-fashioned bone in her entire delectable body.
"There were other reasons," she said, "that you didn't call me."
"Right." When he saw her a year ago, David had pitched backward in time. She reminded him of the investigation, the Fisherman. "I wasn't ready."
"For what?"
"Memories. Keeping the past where it belongs."
"The past isn't all bad," she said.
"Not entirely." He remembered taking care of her after the accident, nursing her. There was something very satisfying about being needed. "We've been through a lot, haven't we?"
She nodded. "And we both survived."
He looked down into her turquoise eyes. "It's time to write a new chapter in our story—one that includes a lot of kissing."
"You sound awfully romantic for a true crime reporter."
"Tomorrow," he said as he closed the door behind himself and went down the hall to the elevator.
Her condo building had fairly decent security, but David didn't think it was enough if Blair was really in danger. No surveillance cameras on the floors. And there wasn't a doorman. Earlier today, he and Adam had gained access to the swimming pool by buzzing the resident manager and asking where they could find Blair.
Until he knew what was happening with the investigation, he wanted to make sure she was safe. Since she wouldn't let him hire a bodyguard, he'd take on that duty for himself.
At his Cherry Creek town house, David parked in front and ran up the concrete steps. He unlocked the door and charged inside, full of purpose. His gun, if he remembered correctly, was in a shoe box on the top shelf of the downstairs linen closet. He glanced past the sunken living room to the kitchen counter where Jake stood, eating pizza in the midst of scattered newspapers.
"Hey, bud," Jake called out. "What's up?"
"Shouldn't you be at work?"
"In about an hour. There's a press conference on last night's murder."
At the linen closet, David pushed aside the stacked sheets on the top shelf. He found the box, opened it and took out his black Glock automatic. The heft of the weapon felt good in his hand. He held the gun straight out and sighted down the barrel.
"What the hell?" Jake stood at the end of the hall. "What's going on?"
"I need protection."
"Is somebody coming after you?"
"Not me," David said. "Blair."
"Blair Weston?" Jake stumbled back a step. He looked like somebody had punched him hard in the gut, knocking all the hot air out of him. "Damn."
At least, David thought, his friend had the belated decency to realize he'd behaved badly toward Blair. After nearly killing her in the car accident, Jake had ended their relationship.
"She looks great," David said. "Her hair's short. Real cute. It makes her eyes look huge."
"What happened to her was a damned shame," Jake said. "Poor kid."
Disgusted, David turned away. He couldn't stand to look at this supposed fun guy—love-'em-and-leave-'em Jake Zitti. "Don't waste your pity on Blair. She's completely recovered."
"After the accident..." Jake's voice faltered. "I couldn't stand to see her all beat up like that. It wasn't really my fault. Some jerk cut me off. Hit-and-run. They disappeared."
"Face it, Jake. You had an accident because you drive like a madman."
And Blair had paid the price. Reaching into the shoe box where he'd kept his gun, David took out his permit to carry a weapon. He tossed aside the box and went into his first-floor office. In the bottom desk drawer, he had several clips of bullets filed among the computer discs.
He snapped in a clip and swiveled around in his desk chair to face Jake. "Now all I need is the shoulder holster."
"Tell me again why you're packing heat."
"I'm investigating," David said cryptically. "Which reminds me. Is Ted Hurtado still working at The Post?"
"Teddy's back. He took off for a while to write a book or something. But I saw him the other day." Jake glanced at the gun. "I can help you out with the holster. I've got one that should work. You just clip it onto your belt."
David raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You carry a gun?"
"Not all the time. But there was this girl that I dated. Great-looking woman. Long red hair all the way to her butt. Anyway, she was..."
"Married?"
"Right," Jake said. "I broke it off. But her husband was the jealous type and I thought he was going to kill me."
David shook his head. "Jackass."
After Blair made the call to Adam, telling him that she wouldn't be at the autopsy, she began second guessing herself. Should she go? If the murder yesterday was connected to the Fisherman case, she might be able to help. On the other hand, if David was right and she was targeted as a victim, she'd be smart to lie low.
Uncertain, she paced through her condo. The two-bedroom space had never felt so confining. When she stood outside on the balcony and peered at her glimpse of the mountains, she felt trapped as a baby bird in a nest, afraid to fly. Grow up, Blair! You can't spend the rest of your life hiding out. She needed to get out, even if it was only to go to the bookstore or grab an espresso.
She grabbed her car keys and backpack. While recovering from her many operations, a lot of her time was spent on crutches, which meant she needed both hands free. She'd gotten into the habit of using a backpack or fanny pack instead of a purse.
Heading out the door and down the hall to the elevator felt like a victory march. She didn't know exactly where she was headed, didn't have a plan. But at least she wasn't cowering.
Inside the elevator, Blair hit the button for the basement level where her car was parked. As soon as she opened the door to her Camry, she was met with a sickening stench. What was that smell?
On the passenger side, staining the upholstery, was a dead, gaping trout. Blood and guts spilled across the seat.
A cold dead fish. From the Fisherman.
Chapter Three
With a gasp, Blair yanked herself out of the car. Her gaze flitted to the far corners of the underground garage. "Anybody here?"
Her voice echoed back at her, and she could hear the sound of her own fear. Her panic. He could be anywhere. Hiding inside the stairwell. Ducked behind another parked car.
In spite of the stink, she climbed behind the steering wheel of her Camry and locked the doors. The inside of her head whirled like a centrifuge. She was about to black out. An overwhelming vortex dragged her down into darkness. She was falling, unable to catch herself.
She blinked, forcing herself to see. Through the windshield, the concrete wall wavered as her vision faded. The light and shadow blurred.
Fighting dizziness, she turned the key in the ignition. Her fingers shook. She had to get away from here. Slowly she backed from her slot, turned and drove up the ramp onto the street where May sunlight splashed in a burst of ironic cheerfulness.
Breathing hard, she drove to the corner, turned right, drove two more blocks and parked. The sense of vertigo began to ebb, leaving her trembling and confused. She stared out at the street. Quite literally, she didn't know which way to turn.
It wouldn't do any good to return to the condo, run upstairs and lock her door. He knew where she lived.
Call the cops? Eventually, she'd turn over the dead fish for forensic analysis. There might be prints or fibers. But right now she wasn't ready to face a police interrogation.
Escape? She could move in with a friend. Go to Tucson and stay with her parents. But what if he followed? She couldn't be responsible for bringing danger to someone else's doorstep.
Blair knew what she must do.
The dead fish in the passenger seat took precedence over her prudent, don't-get-involved attitude. Like it or not, she was a part of this inquiry. She needed to be at the autopsy.
And she wanted David at her side.
After a stop at a convenience store, where she bought a newspaper and used it to wrap the fish, which she stashed in the trunk, she got back into the driver's seat and rolled down all the windows hoping to blow away the stench. Ventilation didn't help. The disgusting odor clung to her, sinking deep into her pores, reminding her of the danger. He'd been close enough to put the dead fish in her car. And he could come even closer.
Checking the address on the business card David had given her, she aimed toward the Cherry Creek area. Though David lived only fifteen minutes away from her high-rise—close enough that they both went to the same grocery store—his town house was obviously in a higher tax bracket. The row of six two-story units, set back from the street, were expensively charming with molded stucco curves swooping around large windows. Each unit had its own attached garage. To afford a place like this, David must be doing very well for himself.
Walking up the sidewalk to his door, Blair hesitated. How could David help her? He wasn't a cop. What did she expect from him?
Comfort, she decided. Earlier today, when he'd held her and kissed her, she experienced a blissful relief For that one moment in his arms, she forgot about her failures, her scars and her disappointments. She felt nearly happy, and she needed that feeling again—something to erase the stinking miasma of threat and danger.
Jabbing with her index finger, she pressed the buzzer.
