“I was undercover when I met you at the Pelican Club,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “And also at the Rose Café.”
“Undercover?” Jess said weakly, handing the ID card and badge back to Pete. Parker. Whatever his name was.
“May we come inside, ma’am?”
Jess opened the door wider, letting them in.
“My name is Parker Elliot,” Pete said, stepping into her living room and looking around. “I work with the Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico, Virginia. Do you know what that is, Ms. Baxter?”
Jess shook her head, no.
The stern-faced man wore his business suit with an ease and familiarity that had been missing when he’d dressed down as a bartender. He also looked far more comfortable with his hair neatly combed and his face cleanly shaven. Jess never would have guessed he was with the FBI. Never. Yet now it seemed so obvious. But what did the FBI want with her?
“May we sit down?” he asked.
She nodded, yes, and Parker Elliot sat on the edge of her couch’s springy cushions. Jess lowered herself into the easy chair across the room. The two men who were with Elliot stood near the door, just watching and listening.
“The Behavioral Science Unit works to apprehend serial killers—men who kill in patterns, with regularity.” Parker watched Jess steadily. “Ms. Baxter, how long have you worn your hair that length?”
Serial killers? Her hair…? Jess stared at him blankly. “What does that have to do with—”
“Some of the questions that I’m going to ask you are going to seem confusing, even strange,” Elliot said, his pale gray gaze moving around the living room. “Please, just do your best to answer them, ma’am.”
Jess was positive that this man missed nothing—the worn places on the couch, the stain on the rug where Kelsey had spilled a bottle of ink when she was three years old, the fact that the TV Guide was dated four weeks ago. Hell, he probably could tell that the last time she’d had a fire in the fireplace was Christmas Eve, 1990, just by the smell of the ash residue.
“We’re here because a number of details seem to tie you to what we know about the killer—or the victims,” Elliot continued.
Jess leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “What?”
“You live in the same geographic area as many of the victims,” Elliot explained, “and you fit the physical description of the victims almost exactly. But the reason we’re here is that you often appear onstage at the Pelican Club—at the same restaurant three of the victims had been known to frequent.”
Jess was aghast. “You don’t think I—”
“No, ma’am,” Elliot quickly interrupted. “You are not a suspect in this investigation. The perpetrator is definitely male. Each of the murders have been accompanied by sexual assault. Rape.” He paused, his eyes taking her in, memorizing the details, the same way he’d seemed to memorize the room. She was wearing blue jeans that were a little bit too big. Her T-shirt was a muted floral print with a wide scoop neckline that had slipped down slightly, over one shoulder. Her bra strap was showing. Green. It was green. Jess was positive her green bra was going to be written up in some official FBI report. She self-consciously pulled the neck of her shirt back up over her shoulder.
“We do have reason to believe that the killer is someone you know,” Elliot continued. “Maybe quite well, in fact.”
Jess shook her head, fear making her stomach churn. Someone she knew? How could that awful person be someone she knew? Sure, she’d speculated about Rob and even Ian, with his recently increasing harassment. But she’d never honestly believed either of them could be a killer. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t know any serial killers.”
“You wouldn’t know he was a killer,” Elliot said. “Unless you knew what to look for.”
“Bloody gloves under his bed?” Jess retorted in disbelief. “A collection of the victims’ body parts in his refrigerator?”
Elliot glanced at his two silent partners. “I know this is upsetting to you, Ms. Baxter,” he said. “And yes, serial killers have been known to take…souvenirs from their victims. But the Sarasota Serial Killer doesn’t have that particular habit.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “In public, he would come across as very normal. Average. Only in private conversation might you notice certain odd behavior, if even then.”
“So what are you asking me to do?” Jess said with a disbelieving laugh. “Give you a list of every man I know?”
“That would be a start,” Elliot said.
He was serious. Jess was silent, staring down at the floor.
Elliot shifted in his seat, clearly picking up on her unwillingness to subject all of her friends and acquaintances to an FBI investigation. “Let me give you a brief psychological description of this man we’re looking for,” he said, “and you tell me if you know anyone who fits.”
She met his eyes. “All right.”
“He’s white, male, twenty-five to forty-five years old, upper middle class,” Elliot recited. “He travels frequently, keeps a low profile, blends easily into a crowd—”
“That could be just about anyone I know,” Jess protested.
“There was a man,” Elliot said. “You spoke to him right before you left the Rose Café last night. You seemed upset with him.”
“Rob?” Jess laughed. The idea of Rob actually being the serial killer was ridiculous. Wasn’t it?
Elliot fished a small notebook out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and jotted a note with the stub of a pencil. “Rob’s last name?”
Jess shook her head in amazement. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “Rob’s not a serial killer.”
“His last name?” Elliot persisted.
“Carpenter. I can assure you you’d be wasting your time checking into him.”
“Is he your boyfriend? Former boyfriend…?”
“He’s my tenant,” Jess corrected him. “He lives in the apartment attached to this house.”
Elliot’s eyes seemed to pierce her. “For how long?”
“He moved in a few weeks ago.”
That wasn’t the answer Parker Elliot wanted to hear. He seemed disappointed and scribbled another note in his book. “That doesn’t work,” he said. “The killings started six months ago. Any other candidates? Former lovers? Anyone who might have a reason to be angry or obsessed with you?”
“My ex-husband, Ian Davis,” Jess answered.
“We’re aware of him,” Elliot murmured. “He doesn’t quite fit the type we’re looking for, although there’s no absolute rule.” He frowned down at his notebook. “Tell me about your musical career. Any overly enthusiastic fans? Anyone you’ve noticed at every one of your performances? Anyone who’s always there, maybe sitting in the back…?”
Only Rob.
Jess shook her head, no.
“Serial killers often feel inadequate, and as a result are paranoid. Someone or something is out to get them. As a result, for their supposed protection, they carry some sort of weapon.” Parker Elliot was watching her very closely. “They also almost always come from a home with an abusive parent…. I’m striking some familiar chords here, aren’t I?”
Jess shook her head. “No.”
Yes. Rob carried a switchblade knife. Rob’s father had abused him as a child.
But that was insane. Rob wasn’t a serial killer. Not all abused children become serial killers. And as for his knife… Well, Jess couldn’t explain away his blade, but there was surely some sort of logical explanation for it. There had to be.
Parker Elliot was watching her, his sharp gray eyes picking up every emotion that flickered across her face. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said.
Jess crossed her arms, leaning back in the chair. “I think you’re on the wrong track.”
Elliot nodded, glancing briefly at his watch. “Keep in mind what I said,” he advised, reaching into his pocket and taking out a business card. He stood up, holding it out to her. “Call me if you can thin
k of anything that might help us.”
The business card had only his name and a phone number printed on it. There was no mention of the FBI, no official seal, nothing.
Elliot gestured to the men standing by the door, and one of them handed him a copy of the Sarasota Herald that he’d been holding under his arm. He snapped the paper open and handed that to Jess, too.
“Serial Killer Death Count: Fifteen,” announced the headline.
“Another victim,” Elliot said. “Fifteen women. God only knows the horrors they endured before he killed them.” He held on to the paper for a second or two after she’d reached up for it. “I know you don’t want to inconvenience your friends, Ms. Baxter, but keep in mind every day you delay helping us could mean another woman’s life.
“I want to catch this man,” he added, his voice soft but deadly. “I am going to catch this man. And I think you can help.”
Jess stared blindly down at the newspaper.
“I’m going to have to ask you to keep our conversation confidential,” Elliot continued. “If this man gets wind of our investigation, he won’t stick around and wait for us to catch him.”
Confidential? Jess looked up at him.
“I’m asking you not to tell anyone of this visit,” Elliot said, his gray eyes nearly drilling into her with their intensity. “Not anyone. Do you understand?”
Jess met his eyes steadily. Yes, she did understand. “I have no intention of lying to any of my friends.”
“I’m not asking you to lie,” Elliot said. “Just…don’t bring the subject up.” He flipped his notebook open again. “I need your phone number. It was unlisted.”
“Don’t tell me the FBI doesn’t have access to unlisted phone numbers,” Jess said.
Elliot gazed at her expressionlessly. “Of course we do,” he said. “But it’s much easier to get it this way.”
Jess gave him her phone number and watched as he wrote it into his notebook. He was a lefty, she noticed, and that really surprised her. He seemed so totally right-wing, by-the-book, that it didn’t seem possible he could have come out of the FBI agent mold with a deviation from the norm.
“Any other numbers where you can be reached? Work number?”
“No, I work at home,” she said.
“Any plans to be out of town?” he asked.
Jess shrugged. “I don’t have any gigs scheduled for the next few days, but I’ll give you the number of my parent’s beach house on Siesta Key. If a job comes up out there, that’s where I’ll be.”
He wrote down that number, too, then shut his notebook, slipping both it and his pen back into his breast pocket. He fixed her with one last piercing look before he turned toward the door. “I’ll be in touch.”
ROB DROVE AROUND the block five times before pulling into the driveway.
It was late, nearly midnight.
He drove around for hours after work, trying to clear his head, trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do.
He knew he shouldn’t go back to Jess’s house.
He knew he should get a room at one of those cheap motels off Route 75.
He knew he shouldn’t subject himself to any more of her sweet temptation.
Last night had been mind-blowing. He couldn’t have stayed away from her if his life had been at stake.
But his life was worthless. It was Jess’s life he was playing games with.
He’d decided, somewhere out near University Boulevard, that he would just never go back. To hell with his clothes and the other things he had in the apartment. He’d leave ’em. He’d leave it all—including his job. He’d leave town. Tomorrow morning he’d be nothing but a bad memory.
He’d send Jess some money to cover the rent for the rest of the year, and that would be that.
Eventually, she’d forget about him.
Eventually, he’d forget about her—yeah, like when he finally died. No, the truth was that her sweet smile and mysterious dark eyes were going to stay with him for the rest of his sorry life.
It wasn’t fair—but it was the right thing to do.
So why did he end up back here in Jess’s neighborhood, circling her house? Why did he pull into the driveway and cut the engine of his car? Why did he get out and walk up those wooden steps to the back deck?
Once there he had no choice. He had to knock on Jess’s kitchen door.
The curtains moved, and then the door swung open.
She was wearing a bathrobe. Her hair was damp around the edges, as if she had just taken a shower. She looked otherworldly, angelic. Her dark eyes and hair were a perfect contrast to the white of her bathrobe. The neckline dipped down between her breasts, and he knew that she was wearing nothing else. She made no move to adjust the lapels. She just looked at him.
Rob could feel his hunger for her stretched tightly across his face, burning in his eyes, in his soul.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he rasped. Something was wrong with his voice—it wouldn’t come out louder than a harsh whisper.
“Then why did you come?” she asked.
“Because I can’t stay away.”
He could see the gladness, the triumph, shining in her eyes, and he knew that he had given her false hope. He couldn’t stay away tonight, but sooner or later he would have to leave.
She stepped back, letting him into the kitchen.
Rob could smell the faint scent of ginger. Jess and Kelsey had probably baked gingerbread after dinner. The kitchen smelled like home—a real, wonderful, lived in, delicious, loving home. It smelled safe and secure.
But that was just an illusion. There was nowhere Rob could go that was truly safe or secure.
Still, he followed Jess inside and watched as she locked the door behind him. She pushed the curtains back in place and turned to look at him.
She held out her arms, and he lunged for her. He kissed her, on the mouth, on the face, on her long, slender neck, pulling her in tightly to him.
“Oh, Jess,” he whispered, delirious from the sensation of her soft body pressed against his. “Jess.”
The belt of her robe was only loosely tied, and he yanked it open. He slipped his hands inside her robe, half-mad from the feel of her smooth, clean skin.
She moved away, clasping her robe together with one hand as she pulled him with the other down the hallway to the dimness of her bedroom.
She locked that door behind them, too, and opened her robe. It slid down, off her shoulders, and puddled onto the floor.
Jess was naked, and so beautiful Rob could barely breathe.
He had to touch her. His hands swept across her body and she kissed him and molded herself against him.
He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted Jess. He’d never felt this uncontrollable desire, this feverish need.
He felt her hands unbuttoning his shirt as he fumbled with his belt and fly.
He had to have her now.
Somehow he remembered protection. Somehow he managed to cover himself with a condom before pulling her up into his arms and plunging deep inside of her.
He heard her cry out with pleasure, felt her legs lock around him as she threw her head back. She rode him wildly, meeting each of his desperate thrusts with a downward motion that drove him closer and closer to sheer annihilation.
He felt her release, felt it grow and consume her. She kissed him hard on the mouth, trying to muffle her cries of pleasure. Still she moaned—soft keening sounds from back in her throat.
It pushed Rob over the edge. He exploded in a flash of brilliant light, a mushroom cloud of sensation and pleasure, scorching him, burning him, branding him with Jess’s scent, her smile, her liquid heat forever.
ROB CAME OUT OF THE shower, toweling his hair dry. “Your bathroom window was unlocked,” he said to Jess.
“I had it open earlier today. Before it turned humid, it was cool enough to have the air conditioner off and—”
“You’ve got to keep the windows locked,” Rob interrupted. “Especially
at night. It’s not safe.”
“I thought it was locked,” Jess said. “I’m sorry.”
“Did you ever call the police about that guy—the bartender—you thought was following you?” he asked.
The bartender. Pete, who in reality was FBI agent Parker Elliot, who thought Jess was somehow linked to the Sarasota Serial Killer, who had warned her not to tell anyone, anyone, of his suspicions.
Short of an out-and-out lie, Jess didn’t know what to say. “No,” she said. “I…haven’t seen Pete in a long time.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth, either.
“When Frank gets back from Atlanta, I’m going to ask him to stay in the apartment again—until you find another tenant,” Rob said.
Jess couldn’t hide her surprise. “Frank Madsen?” she asked.
Rob wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Yeah.”
Jess was silent, remembering Rob’s outburst of jealousy over Frank at the Rose Café.
“Frank will stick around if you want him to,” Rob said quietly. “He’s not a bad guy.”
“My Lord,” Jess finally said. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“I want you to be safe.”
“I don’t need a man around to be safe,” Jess countered.
“It would make me feel better,” Rob said. “Knowing that—”
“It would make you feel better?” Jess repeated. “You’re the one who’s walking away. If you’re that worried about me, stay and ‘protect’ me yourself.”
“I can’t.” Rob reached for his clothes, but Jess pulled them off the bed and held them, as if they were hostages, in her arms. He met her gaze steadily, and she could read sadness and resignation in his eyes. He was going to tell her goodbye again.
“I should go,” he said quietly.
“You should stay.” She couldn’t keep her pain from cracking her voice. “Stay with me tonight.”
He sat down next to her on the bed, as if he were suddenly weary. “I can’t.”
“All these things you say you can’t do,” Jess said. “I say that you can.”
He turned to look at her and his eyes held a profound sadness. “I can stay the night,” he conceded, “but I can’t stay forever. I want to, but I can’t.” He closed his eyes briefly as if gathering his strength—or his courage. “Jess, I’ve done some terrible things. Things that can’t be forgiven.”
No Ordinary Man Page 14
