by Cassie Miles
Noticing tension at the corners of her eyes, he asked, "Are you okay?"
"Fine," she muttered. "Do you think they're done with my car?"
"I wouldn't count on it," he said. "The crime-scene investigators will want to go over it with a fine-tooth comb."
She exhaled a sigh. "Of course they'll search for prints, fibers and hairs. A waste of time. The Fisherman won't slip up on something so basic."
He was inclined to agree with her, but procedure was procedure. "Maybe they'll get lucky."
"Okay, David. Tell me why Hunter's sick theory makes sense."
"Several unrelated events occurred at the time Eddy Adderly was arrested. You and Jake had the accident, taking you both out of the investigation."
"Jake? He wasn't involved."
"He's part of the media," David said. "He did a lot of photos around the crime scenes."
Though she was upset, she drove with her usual extreme caution. "What else happened at the same time?"
"O'Hara was transferred to another FBI office. It was a promotion for his good work on the Fisherman case. So he was removed from the area. It was election time, and a new district attorney came into office. A couple of cops retired. Anyway, it wasn't the same team."
"Why would that, affect the Fisherman?"
"In his mind he was playing a game with all of you. Outsmarting you. He felt like he had a personal relationship with each and every person who was trying to catch him. When the team fell apart, the game wasn't as much fun."
"That's what Hunter said. It wasn't fun for him anymore."
The equation between serial murder and fun was a difficult connection for David to make. No sane person would think that way. But the Fisherman had always been on a power trip, proving his cleverness. "It's all a game to him."
"And he uses dead women as pawns."
David nodded. It disturbed him that Hunter had taken the few minutes while he'd had his back turned to frighten Blair with his theory. She wasn't safe. This was another example.
No matter how hard he tried to protect her, constant threats bombarded them. And the clock was ticking. The Fisherman had promised another body in only three days.
When they pulled into the driveway in front of his town house, there was another car parked on the street. David had spotted someone behind the wheel, waiting.
"Stay here," he said to Blair. "Lock the doors."
As he left the car, his hand went to the Glock automatic in his shoulder holster. This wasn't his thing, but he was fully prepared to draw and shoot.
At the end of the driveway, David saw Kevin MacKay climb out from behind the wheel. His red hair spiked like the top of a flame as he charged toward David. "You son of a bitch," he said.
Apparently, swearing wasn't a problem for the ex-priest. "Nice to see you, too."
"I had a visit from the police today," he said. "Something about a swimming pool. And did I have an alibi for last night?"
"Did you?" David asked.
"Not that it's any of your damned business, but I was home alone."
No alibi. David tried to imagine this guy sneaking into Blair's condo and terrorizing her. It wasn't a huge stretch of the imagination. "Doesn't look good for you, Kevin."
"Damn you." He paced back and forth on the sidewalk. "I agreed to talk to you because I felt sorry for your loss. I wanted to help. And you pay me back by siccing the cops on me?"
"You know how investigations work," David said. "The cops are doing their job. They have to talk to everybody Blair came into contact with."
"This was her idea," he snarled. "I could tell she was ticked off at me yesterday. To think I wanted to go out with that bitch."
"Hold it right there." David stepped in front of him. They were less than a foot apart. "Don't ever call her that again. Don't even think it."
Kevin huffed like a steam engine. "The cops came to the hospital. It was humiliating."
David didn't like Kevin MacKay, didn't like his attitude toward women, didn't completely believe in his innocence. "Stop whining."
"You can't talk to me like that."
For a man who'd spent several years working for International Medical Aid and helping disadvantaged people, Kevin was short on compassion and long on ego.
"This isn't about your inconvenience," David said. "Seven women, including-your fiancée and my sister, have been murdered. Every lead has to be investigated."
"How can you suggest I have anything to do with those deaths?" His lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. "I ought to punch you right in the nose."
"Take your best shot."
David was usually good at talking his way out of any situation. Right now he'd welcome a fight. Any kind of action was better than wallowing around in unanswered questions and mucked-up clues.
Kevin stepped back and cocked his right arm. What a jerk! He telegraphed the punch more obviously than Western Union. When he swung, David sidestepped easily and fired a hard right to Kevin's midsection.
Immediately David retreated. He wasn't a brawler, and this particular fight could get nasty fast. While carrying a gun, he had no business throwing punches and allowing tempers to run high. "I'm sorry, Kevin."
The red-haired man doubled over, clutching his belly. He staggered to the curb and leaned against the hood of his car.
Before it had even started, this fight was over.
Chapter Eleven
David hadn't meant to hit him that hard.
Hacking and wheezing, Kevin MacKay braced himself against his car. His face was pale, and he looked as if he was going to puke. "I ought to sue you for this."
Not good. And David had the uneasy feeling that his problems were about to get much worse.
For starters, he'd punched one of his prime suspects. Was it possible to be a serial killer and a wuss? Either way, Kevin wasn't somebody David wanted to alienate.
And here came more potential trouble. Jake Zitti's sporty little Miata squealed to a stop on the other side of the street.
As if Jake's gadfly presence wasn't enough, law enforcement in the person of Detective Weathers and Special Agent O'Hara were on their way.
All these guys charging together was a formula for chaos, like throwing reactive elements into a beaker and shaking until it exploded. David glanced back at his driveway where Blair was following his instructions to stay inside the car with the doors locked. Good! At least she'd be safe.
Jake got out of his car and paused to assess the situation. Apparently, he figured that the fight had already happened. Then, and only then, Jake swaggered across the street. "Do you need some help here, David?"
"Everything's fine. No problem." Go away!
Ted Hurtado emerged from the passenger side of Jake's Miata. He didn't bother pretending that he would have joined in the fisticuffs. His crazy mother had probably taught him, early on, that good boys don't get in street fights. Ted ran a comb through his thick brown hair, repairing the damage done by riding with the top down. As he sauntered across the street, he looked down his nose, acting even more superior and aloof now that he'd been on television.
With a lurch and a groan, Kevin managed to stand upright. He glared at all of them. "So now it's three against one," he said bitterly. "This is typical of what I'd expect from you, David."
"Nobody wants to hurt you," David assured him. "But it might be best if you—"
"That's right." Blair joined the group. She homed in on Kevin like a robin to a worm. "If I were you, I wouldn't worry about them."
"Why not?" Kevin asked.
"Because I had the car window cracked, and I heard what you said about me. If there's anybody you need to be scared about, it's me, the big, bad b—"
"Enough," David said. "Kevin, it's time for you to go. Jake and Ted, what do you want?"
"I left a couple of CDs in the dining room," Jake said. "I wanted to pick them up. And, as long as I'm here, maybe I could get a photo of Blair to go along with the Fisherman stories."
"I do
n't think so," she said.
"Come on, Blair. We ran an old photo with today's story, and you look different now."
She glared at him. "Different how?"
Jake twitched his shoulders in a nervous shrug. "For one thing, your hair's shorter."
"Right, and so is my leg." Shoulders back and head high, she marched up the sidewalk toward the front door.
David wanted to run after her, offering assurance that she was beautiful and Jake was a jackass, but he couldn't leave these guys untended on the street.
He kept an eye on Kevin, who got behind the wheel of his car and drove away. Then he turned to the other two. "It's not a good time, guys."
"Give me a break," Jake said. "I'll be in and out before you know it."
From the porch Blair shouted, "From what I've heard, that's his standard technique with the ladies."
"Really not a good time," David repeated. "The cops are on their way over here to talk to Blair, and they won't want to see a reporter and a photographer."
"Wait a minute," Ted said. "You're a reporter. Why will they talk to you?"
"I'm off the record," David said.
"I can be off the record, too." He straightened his necktie. "I have a right to be here. I'm the one getting the Fisherman threat notes in the mail. Delivered to my house, damn it. You saw what that did to my mother."
David sympathized. Doris Hurtado was already loopy. It wouldn't take much to send her twirling off like a cyclone to Oz. "It's not up to me, Ted."
"David!" Blair called out from the porch. The door behind her was open; she must have used his house keys that were on the same key ring as the car keys. "How do I turn off the alarm?"
"Shit." David raced toward the front door.
The burglar alarm screamed louder than ten thousand Bronco fanatics after a touchdown. David's eardrums throbbed as he flew past Blair into the town house and punched numbers into the keypad to turn off the alarm.
But it kept on wailing. He'd changed the deactivation code and forgotten the new one. Think, you idiot. He tried his birthday. The alarm seemed to get even more shrill. The first digits of his social security number? No effect.
He banged his head against the wall, trying to jog his memory. Focus, damn it! Why hadn't he gone with an obvious code? Maybe he had. He punched the keypad numbers in sequence starting with three.
Silence fell with a thud. When David looked up, they were all standing there. Jake, Ted and Blair. Even better, they'd been joined by Special Agent O'Hara and Detective Weathers—both of whom had drawn their guns and were doing the two-fisted aiming routine, fully prepared to assassinate his sofa.
Are we having fun yet?
David raced to the kitchen. Using the phone on the counter—a direct line from the house was necessary-he called the security company, who informed him that their men and the cops were already on the way and he would be assessed a fee for accidentally tripping his own alarm. "I suppose it's too late," David said, "to call off the—"
From outside he heard the police sirens.
"Never mind." He hung up the phone.
A battalion of cops and security men burst through the front door. More weapons in hand. A couple of David's neighbors joined the crowd. Disturbingly, they were also armed. There was enough firepower in his living room to launch a preemptive strike on neighboring Boulder.
"False alarm," David said as he walked toward them. "Everything's okay."
He definitely needed to bring calm to this situation. Then, behind his back, he heard somebody in the kitchen. David pivoted and stared at Jake, who was opening his refrigerator. What made Jake think he had the right?
"Hey," Jake called out. "Anybody want a beer?"
That was it! The last straw. David's self-control snapped. "Out! All of you, get the hell out!"
They gaped, slack-jawed.
David was tempted to draw his own pistol. He settled for pointing with a cocked forefinger. "You, you and you. Security guys. Go. You're not needed. And the rest of you? Figure it out for yourselves."
A couple of the g-un barrels pointed in his direction. This was too much!
He strode across the room, grabbed Blair's hand and dragged her up the stairs to his bedroom. He slammed the door behind them and turned to her.
The hint of a grin teased the corners of her mouth. "Are you okay?" she asked.
"I'm just dandy. There's a herd of nutcakes and cops in my living room. I'm making zero headway in solving anything. Zero, Blair. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. There's a psycho serial killer closing in."
Her hand covered her mouth. Her shoulders quaked with suppressed laughter.
"Not funny," he said.
"I love it." A light chuckle escaped her lips. "You're usually calm and controlled, the guy who takes care of everybody else. And you yelled. You walked away and left all those people in your living room."
She was right. His usual behavior was to be the peacemaker, the stand-up guy, the nice guy. He could always be counted on to do the right thing. Why the hell had he punched Kevin MacKay? "What's going on with me?"
Blair came closer, reached up and straightened the lapels on his jacket. Teasing, she said, "Tsk. Tsk. Not very responsible, David."
"Nor is this." He pulled her into his arms and planted a firm kiss on her warm, smiling lips. She gasped in surprise, and he allowed her just enough time to catch her breath before he kissed her again. It felt so good to hold her, to press her supple body against his. Oh, yeah. This kiss was the smartest thing he'd done all day.
He looked down into her shining green eyes and whispered, "I'm going to take you away from here. Away from all this craziness."
"What about our investigation?"
The threads of an idea knitted together in his mind. "I have a plan."
There was a sharp rap on the door, and Ted Hurtado stepped inside. He stared coldly at their embrace. "Isn't this sweet."
"Bite me," David said.
"But I'm sincere," Ted said with a heartfelt sneer. "The lovely but injured former M.E. and the aggrieved brother of a victim. You have so much in common."
"A word of advice," Blair said coldly. "Stick to your restaurant reviews. You don't have the heart to be Dear Abby."
"Ouch!" he said. "I never knew you could be so sarcastic, Blair."
"Is there some reason you came barging in here without knocking?"
"Detective Weathers wants to see you both in the living room." He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the door open.
"That was strange," David said. He'd known Ted for years and had worked with him. It was the same with Blair. They'd had a lot of shared experiences. But when Ted saw them together, he identified them with their roles in the Fisherman case. Maybe Teddy Boy was more involved in this investigation than he liked to admit.
"Let's go," Blair said.
"But I want them all gone," he said.
"We don't always get what we wish for."
They went down the hall and sat together on the living room sofa where they'd almost made love last night. David adjusted the shoulder holster under his jacket. Though it was probably safe to shed his gun, being armed in this group seemed prudent.
Detective Weathers perched at the edge of his chair, ready to flee at a moment's notice. He was probably a good cop, but he always looked uncomfortable, as if his underwear was too tight.
In contrast, Special Agent O'Hara radiated his usual coolness and authority.
Ted sat in an armchair with his legs crossed and the crease in his trousers razor-sharp. Apparently, he'd convinced Weathers and O'Hara to let him stay.
Blair spoke first. "How's my car?"
"Too damn clean," Weathers said. "Our guys found no decent forensic evidence."
Not a surprise. The Fisherman never left clues.
Weathers exhaled a ragged sigh. "Listen up, people. Everything we say here is off the record. Is that clear?" His glance flicked from David to Ted to Jake who stood behind the kitchen counter, sipping Coors from t
he can.
David nodded.
"This wasn't my idea," Weathers continued. "I think you all know how I feel about the press."
That they were sleazier than snail slime. David was amazed that the detective would even tolerate their presence, much less take them into his confidence.
"This is my plan," O'Hara said. He stood, immediately dominating the room with his mature presence. "I decided it would be useful to talk to you people since you all have a connection to the prior crimes. I want fresh input on the Fisherman."
"You want us to speculate?" Ted asked.
"That's right."
David suspected a ruse. The FBI didn't consult with former witnesses for theories. "I thought the official line was that the murder of Pamela Comforti was a copycat crime."
"Right," O'Hara said briskly. "That ties this case to the prior serial killings. And, according to the note sent to Mr. Hurtado, we have only three more days to figure it out before he kills again."
"Or two," Blair said. "In one of the prior cases, the Fisherman held his victim for at least a day before drowning her."
"Theories." O'Hara snapped his fingers. "Let's start with you, Mr. Hurtado."
Ted tilted back his head and frowned thoughtfully. He posed himself like a pundit on a television news show. "The first thing that comes to mind is a prison connection. Possibly, someone who was in jail with Eddy Adderly decided to take up where he left off."
"Why?" O'Hara asked.
"The fame of being a serial killer. The copycat might have learned details from Eddy." Ted warmed to his own theory. "If he pulls this off, he can also claim responsibility for the other murders."
"You think he wants to get caught?"
"Ultimately, yes." Ted gestured gracefully. "Don't all serial killers?"
O'Hara turned to Jake. "Any thoughts?"
"I dunno." Jake took another swig of his Coors. "The Fisherman was nuts. The copycat must be crazy, too. Maybe you should check with local shrinks."
"Oh, please." Ted rolled his eyes. "Information from psychiatrists is privileged."
