by Joanna Wayne
The second murder was no less gruesome than the first. Outwardly, Caroline had handled it better; though her stomach had heaved, she’d managed not to throw up. Inwardly, she was a wreck. The man who’d committed such a vile act was probably out there right now, watching her.
She leaned against the park fence, a short distance from where Sam was doing his investigation.
The no-nonsense detective hadn’t spoken a word to her at the scene, yet he’d acknowledged her presence with his eyes. He’d looked at her again and again, as if making sure she was still there and hadn’t gone off with the killer.
Strange. The killer’s intention was apparently to draw her into this with him, but instead, she felt she was being drawn into Sam’s world, almost as if they were unwilling partners. Same goal, but with conflicting ideas about how to achieve it.
Moments later she felt a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Want to get something to eat and talk about it?”
“I want to talk. I’m not sure I can eat.”
“I’m famished. The Grille is about the only place open after nine on a weeknight other than the fast-food chains. You can ride with me if you like.”
“Come to my house,” she surprised herself by saying. “I’ll make omelettes. They’ll be easier on the digestive tract.”
“You sure?”
“Why not?”
“No reason I can think of. Give me a few minutes to finish up here.”
“Take your time,” she said. “I’ll go ahead.”
“I’d rather you wait for me.”
“Because you think the killer might follow me home?”
He exhaled sharply, as if she was pulling confessions from him. “Just wait for me. I’ll follow you back to the house.”
She nodded, grateful for the concern and even more for the protection. But it would be only for an hour or so. After that, it’d be open season on her again.
She pulled out her notebook and a pen as Sam walked away and moved within the glow of a street-light. She’d write her article on her laptop after they finished the omelettes. John could hold off printing the front page for an hour since he knew the copy was coming. She needed to jot down a few notes, but it was the questions that haunted her mind that actually found their way to the pen.
Does the heart of a madman beat faster while he’s taking someone’s life? Does he get off on the blood? Or is it the terror in the victim’s eyes that gives him the sadistic pleasure? And what is it this madman wants from me?
Her fingers began to shake and she dropped the pen. A man who’d been standing nearby picked it up and handed it to her. “Not much reason to hang around now,” he said.
Her heart stopped beating for a second, then jumped to her throat. The man just stood there, non-threatening, smiling. She was definitely getting paranoid. This place was crawling with cops. No killer with a shred of sense would show his face here. “Are you with the police department?”
“Yeah. Matt Hastings, homicide detective. And you’ve got to be a reporter.”
“Yes. Caroline Kimberly with the Prentice Times. How did you know?”
“Cops can always spot a reporter. Your eyes have that beady vulture glow.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” he said, his tone growing more friendly. “Sam pointed you out to me. You’re the one who got the note.”
“Sam told you about that?”
“We’re partners on this case.” He looked back to where a couple of uniformed cops were stringing the crime-scene tape. “It’s pretty much all done around here for the night. You could clear out now and not miss a thing. I can give you a ride home.”
“No, thanks. I have my car.”
“You must be new at this,” he said, lingering. “I don’t remember seeing you at any of these soirees before the Sally Martin murder.”
“I’ve been at the newspaper for six months, but I just started getting the crime assignments.”
“Lucky you, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“Two murders in less than a week. Looks like you may just have yourself a serial killer.”
“I could have done without it,” she said.
“All the same, a story like this can make a new reporter. Get you noticed by one of the big dailies, maybe even one of the TV channels.”
“I’m not even sure I’m up to this job.”
“Hey, Matt,” one of other officers hollered from several yards away. “Sam’s looking for you.”
“Duty calls,” Matt said. “Nice to have you around. You do a lot to brighten up a crime scene.”
Her fingers fumbled with the notebook as she found her place again. But this time it was Matt’s words she jotted onto the page. You’ve got yourself a serial killer.
How did she get so lucky?
SAM SAT at the kitchen table, drinking a Scotch while Caroline broke eggs into a mixing bowl. He was dead tired, but not sleepy. He could never sleep after a murder. The details always ran in his mind like a movie trailer. Tonight was no exception. Only, tonight Caroline was the central figure in half the scenes.
The timing of the cookie delivery and tonight’s murder strengthened his belief that the man stalking Caroline was the actual killer. It was the cause and effect he wasn’t clear on. Had the crackpot just noticed her in that red dress at the scene of the first murder and been attracted to her? Had he killed tonight just to see her again?
But then, he didn’t have to kill to see her. He knew where she worked, what car she drove and where she lived. Plain and simple, he was stalking her. But maybe stalking was the prelude to his murders. He could be stalking several women, getting his rocks off watching them and frightening them. Then at some point that only he knew was coming, he killed them.
The chief would want a profiler in. Sam didn’t have anything against profilers, but he didn’t like them on his cases. They tended to narrow the field of suspects far too much.
Inexperienced cops tended to overlook suspects who strayed too far outside the artificial boundaries the profilers set up for them. And if the profiler was wrong, citizens were wary of the wrong guys and frequently left themselves exposed to the real danger. It had happened to him once in the early days.
Caroline opened the refrigerator door, leaned over and rummaged through one of the compartments. The soft fabric of her sweatpants draped across her buttocks, outlining them so that the lines of her panties showed. Bikini, cut high—and low. His body reacted swiftly, a twinge he wouldn’t have thought it capable of after the past two hours.
“I can make a Spanish omelet if you like,” she said. “Or just ham and mushrooms. Your call.”
“Let’s go with the Spanish. No mushrooms. No spinach or any of that other rabbit food, either.”
“Not a health-food nut I take it.”
“No. Beer nuts is as healthy as I get. Need some help?”
“You could build a fire in the fireplace in the drawing room. And set up the card table so we can eat in there.”
“The drawing room?”
“Second door off the front hall,” she said. “One of the few rooms with furniture. Most people would call it a living room, I guess, or a family room. The original house plans refer to it as a drawing room, and I like the sound of that.”
“Then we shall dine in the drawing room,” he said, faking a sophisticated drawl. It sounded more like a poor comic routine.
“There are logs on the grate and kindling in a basket on the hearth.”
“No gas starter?”
“Afraid not. Doesn’t fit with the idea of historic preservation.” She nudged the refrigerator door closed with her hip, her hands overflowing with sausage, cheese, bell peppers and onions. He rushed over to help her, putting his hands under hers to catch the onion just before it rolled from her grasp. They both backed away at the same time, as if the mere meeting of their hands had caused an electrical shock. He laid the onio
n on the table.
“I’ll get the fire started.”
“Okay. And the card table’s in the hall closet. Don’t bother with the chairs. We can use the ones in the drawing room.”
He escaped the kitchen and the crackle of whatever had happened between them. When he did, his pulse returned to normal. Only, sensual sparks were like a called third strike in the bottom of the ninth of a losing game. They hung around to haunt you.
He found the drawing room. He’d expected a large open space. The room was actually cozy with lots of old photographs on the walls, comfortable chairs under the tall windows and an antique organ in one corner. He stooped in front of the hearth, rearranged the logs to his liking, then struck a match to the kindling.
The fire caught quickly, shooting flames to lick at the logs. A crackling fire in the drawing room. A beautiful woman cooking in the kitchen.
And a killer walking the streets of Prentice, Georgia.
He shook himself. He had to keep his mind on what really mattered here, and that wasn’t his libido. He had a murderer to catch. And a spunky reporter to keep safe.
CAROLINE SAT ACROSS from Sam, nibbling a slice of toast she’d made from a loaf of crusty bread she’d picked up yesterday at McClellan’s Bakery.
She and Sam had talked little during the meal. She imagined he was as hesitant as she was to spoil the food with talk of bodies and killers. But they were basically through eating now, and the silence had grown awkward.
“Do you live here alone?” he asked, finishing his second Scotch of the evening.
“Except for the ghosts, and they don’t help any with the housework or expenses.”
“Ghosts? Don’t tell me you believe in that unearthly hype?”
“Are you so sure they don’t exist?”
“I don’t really care if they do or not. As long as they don’t commit crimes on my turf.”
“I’m not sure they exist, either,” she admitted, sipping a glass of wine that she hoped would help her sleep tonight. “But if they do, I think this would be the ideal place for them.”
“So why did you buy the house?”
“I didn’t. I leased it from Barkley Billingham. The Billingham family were the original owners, and that’s one of the reasons I like the house. It cradles a family’s past.”
“But you’re not a Billingham. So it’s not your history.”
“They’ve adopted me, or I’ve adopted them. I’m not sure which. Not legally, of course, but since I’ve moved in, I feel connected to them, especially to Frederick. He was the builder of this grand old house.”
Sam frowned. “Do you feel that same kind of connection to the killer?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“A fair one, under the circumstances.”
“If you’re asking do I somehow feel responsible for his killing that girl tonight, the answer is no. But I do keep wondering why he’s fixated on me. I think he may be calling out to me for help.”
“He doesn’t need your help. He needs to be arrested, and you need to take a break from the newspaper until he’s behind bars.”
“That’s not the way I see it.”
“Then you better get some glasses to help your vision. You can have all the connections you want with the Billingham ghosts, Caroline. Sleep with them. Eat with them. Have tea with them in your drawing room. That’s your decision. But connecting with the man who carved up his second victim tonight comes under the heading of my business. And I’m not going to just stand by and watch you get sucked in by this man.”
“You surely don’t think I’m developing some kind of improper fascination with the monster, do you?”
“Yeah, I do.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, expelling the steam that was building inside her. “I’m not stealing your case from you, Sam, if that’s what you’re worried about. I won’t print anything he tells me without talking to you first.”
He threw up his hands. “See? You’re already thinking about talking to the man. You’ll probably invite him in for tea if he shows up at your door tonight. Make him an omelette. Hell, maybe he can just spend the night.”
The memory of finding the package at her door flashed in her mind. The terror returned with the image, and a cold shiver trailed her spine and brought a spattering of gooseflesh to her arms.
“I’m sorry, Caroline.”
The apology was unexpected, though his voice was still gruff with the anger that had driven him moments ago. Or was it something else that strained his voice? She started to pick up her napkin, then realized her hands were shaking.
“I don’t want to fight, Sam. I can’t. Not tonight. I just can’t take any more tonight.”
A second later he was beside her, pulling her up into his arms. Her emotions were all mixed up. Fear. Anger. Need. She started to push him away, but his lips were mere inches away, his breath hot on her flesh.
She knotted her fingers in the front of his shirt, pulling instead of pushing, caught up in a hunger that was so new and unexpected she didn’t begin to understand it.
And then Sam’s lips touched hers and the hunger exploded into flames.
Chapter Five
Sam’s body pressed against Caroline’s as his mouth claimed hers. She was consumed by the kiss and her need to be feel something warm and passionate that didn’t begin and end with terror. The kiss was too sudden, too unexpected, yet she gave in to it so fully that she was trembling when Sam pulled away.
“I didn’t mean to do that.”
She stepped back and caught her breath, smoothing the front of her shirt with the flat of her hands. “Hey, no big deal,” she lied, her heart still pounding and her body weak from the onslaught of unexpected emotions. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I’m not sorry I kissed you. I just didn’t plan for it to happen—not like that.”
She had no idea what he meant. Was it the timing or the intensity he hadn’t expected, or was it her response? It didn’t matter. The mood was broken and she felt awkward talking about it after the fact. Kisses like that weren’t supposed to be analyzed like evidence at a crime scene.
“I think you should go now,” she said. “I have to write the copy for tomorrow’s headline story.”
“Yeah. Gotta keep the public informed.”
She leaned over and blew out the candle in the center of the table, then started clearing away the plates.
“I’ll help with the dishes,” Sam offered.
“No. I’ll just rinse them tonight.” She didn’t want his help, didn’t want to risk his getting too close again. Her emotions were raw, and if they kissed again, things might get out of hand.
Sam picked up the empty glasses and followed her to the kitchen. “What kind of locks do you have on your doors and windows?”
His voice was all business. From passion to cop in far less time than it was taking her heart to still. “The outside doors have dead bolts. The windows have standard locks. I had them all checked when I moved in.”
“Are they all locked now?”
“I keep them locked, except when I open them to let in fresh air.”
“Good.”
His concern sparked a nebulous dread that seemed to choke the oxygen from the room. “You think the killer may be planning for me to be one of his victims, don’t you?”
He leaned against the counter and faced her. “I can’t read this guy, Caroline. All I know is what I’ve seen of his handiwork, and that’s enough reason for me not to take chances with your life.”
“But you talk as if the note and cookie are part of some kind of weird foreplay. That’s not how he works, Sam. The other women had no history with him.”
“That we know of. Dead women don’t talk.”
Crapola! She hadn’t thought of that. The forks slipped from her hands, clattering into the sink.
“There will be a surveillance cop watching your house tonight and every night until this guy is arrested. He won’t
stay parked in the same spot all the time, but he’ll be out there somewhere. If there’s any problem at all, even if you hear a noise that’s unfamiliar, call 911. The patrolman can get to you almost instantly.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve already talked to the chief and he’s okayed it. It will keep you safe and help us find the killer if he’s snooping around. Now I need to go and let you get your story written.”
And that was Sam. Hard to figure. Tough, but protective. Hot one minute, cold the next. Sensual, then detached, as if he peeked out from behind some invisible barrier only to crawl back behind when she got too close.
“You better go,” she said, “before the patrolman on watch sees your car and wonders what you’re up to.”
He smiled. “He’s probably already wondering that.”
She walked him to the door.
“There he is,” Sam said.
She scanned the street. Sure enough, a squad car was parked three doors down, beneath a magnolia tree. She breathed a grateful sigh. “Thanks, Detective.”
“You’re welcome, Reporter.”
For a split second she thought he might kiss her again, but he turned and walked away, his feet clapping on the wooden steps. Heavy. Solid. Not at all like her ghosts, but she liked the sound.
SAM WAS WIDE AWAKE as he left Caroline’s and climbed behind the wheel of his unmarked car. He stopped for a minute and chatted with the surveillance cop, then drove back to Cedar Park. He wanted to see it deserted, the way it had probably been when the killer struck.
He parked by the gate, but didn’t get out of the car. The park wasn’t lighted, but the night was clear and moonlight dappled the shadowed area with splotches of illumination.
Hopefully by tomorrow morning the victim would be positively identified. Then he’d have the miserable task of going to the family. He could send someone else, but those first moments of grief were frequently the telling ones, when everyone’s guard was down.
