by Jill Jones
But her instinct told her there was more to it than that.
Yes, he’d done it to get attention. Her attention. It was a warning, as if she’d been put on notice that one day, it would be her liver he wrapped in a gift box.
A wave of nausea washed over her as she acknowledged that Mike was right. She did fit the killer’s profile. Her father was a prominent attorney, her mother a matriarch of Washington society. She was from wealth and privilege, the same as his victims in the United States. She was chilled that a stranger had that kind of knowledge about her background. He must have spent a lot of time researching her personal life. Perhaps he’d even stalked her. She shivered. Had he followed her to London?
But that was impossible. How would he have known she was going?
Because she’d told him.
Victoria couldn’t believe she was such a fool. The killer had known all about her plans because she’d shared them openly with other Sherlockians in online chats the week before she left. If he knew so much about her life, he’d probably managed to hack into her computer. Obviously, he’d been lurking and listening. Damn it all! She might as well have sent him an engraved invitation.
Victoria kept these thoughts to herself. No need exposing her stupidity to both her boss and her lover. And she might be wrong. Maybe she was just being paranoid.
“We don’t want to take any chances,” Mosier said. “Unless he has ESP, the killer doesn’t know you have returned to the States.”
“I haven’t told anyone I was coming back. I haven’t even been to my apartment yet. We came directly from the airport.”
“Good. I don’t want you to go home right now. If the killer is in Seattle, he can’t be watching your place. But if you answered the phone when he called, he might be on the first plane back to DC.” He took another file from his desk. Handing it to Victoria, he said, “Go directly here. Don’t even think about stopping by your apartment. You have what you took with you to London. Buy anything else you might need and send me the bill. I don’t want to take any chances that the killer might learn of your whereabouts.”
“What is this?” she said, frowning at the information in the file.
“It’s a safe house. Stay there until Friday morning. I’ll call you if anything comes up. Get some rest, and be here at ten am for the meeting.”
Chapter Seventeen
King’s College, Cambridge
Twenty-fifth September 1888
I have been watching with interest the newspaper accounts of our little forays into the East End, for it pleases me that we have managed our endeavors under the very noses of both police and populace. It does not please me, however, that the reporters are accrediting the murders to someone else. They say that our work is that of a Jewish shoemaker by the nickname of Leather Apron. I must set them straight, for no one must be given credit for the genius of our hunt. To that end, I have just composed a note which I will post this morning to the Central News. It was a lark to craft, and it identifies the real killer. Not me, of course, nor Eddy. I have given us a name. I believe the press will adore us.
Dear Boss
I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha.ha. The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck.
Yours truly
Jack the Ripper
Dont mind me giving the trade name
PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now. ha ha
In the privacy of his hotel room, he cleaned the whore’s blood from his knife and surveyed his clothing. He had been messy this time. Not only had he bloodied himself, he’d come all down one of his pant legs. He placed the white trousers and socks into a plastic laundry bag, then went to check on the condition of his shoes that were soaking in a bathtub of cold water. He hoped he hadn’t ruined them. They were his favorite Topsiders.
He twisted them gently beneath the water to ease the blood from between the narrow clefts in the soles that were designed to give safe footing on a boat. When he was satisfied they were clean, he set them on a table in front of the heater. They would be stiff when they dried, but unharmed. Boat shoes, after all, were made to get wet.
He considered what to do about the bag of bloody clothes. He couldn’t just chuck them into a dumpster somewhere. What if they were found? No, he needed to follow the master’s plan. Bloody clothing must be burned. But there was no fireplace in this nondescript corporate hotel room.
Heaving a sigh, he turned to the map he’d laid out on the bed, and studied it carefully. A smile twisted onto his mouth. He would have to carry the clothing with him to his next stop, but he had no doubt that there he would find a cozy fireplace in which to dispose of them.
It was all part of the design.
The master had not let him down.
As she drove, Victoria glanced across the car at Jonathan, who gave her a wry grin. She knew exactly what he was going through his mind. A safe house. He was thinking about what he’d said he would do if they were confined to a safe house in London. Damn it all! She almost wished he hadn’t accompanied her now. She didn’t need the distraction. They were facing a horrific case, and she needed all her wits about her. How was she supposed to remain clearheaded when Jonathan Blake turned her mind to mush? This was a really bad idea.
Professionally speaking.
The safe house was a nondescript, low-slung rancher in a suburb south of DC. “Are you certain this is the right address?” Jonathan asked, peering at the structure. “I thought a safe house would be in the city.”
Victoria turned into the driveway and pressed the button on the garage door opener. “Where better to become invisible than in suburbia?”
Mike had arranged for the car and provided the garage door opener. He had called the woman who normally kept the house ready and alerted her that the premises would be in use for an undetermined length of time. He’d given them instructions on enabling and disabling the alarm system, and warned them to keep the blinds drawn and to stay out of sight.
“Lay low and get some rest,” he’d told them. Rest sounded good to Victoria. And a hot shower. She felt like the queen of grunge after the long flight, followed by hours at headquarters. Jonathan dragged in their bags, and she hitched two sacks of groceries onto her hips. She was glad she’d insisted on picking up some supplies on the way. She doubted she would have the energy to go out again once she started to unwind.
The inside of the safe house was as plain vanilla as the outside. It was furnished with serviceable but unremarkable furniture. Just the usual. Sofa, chairs, tables, lamps, television…and a small surveillance camera winking at her from the corner.
Jonathan came out of the bathroom, zipping his fly.
“You might want to finish that before you come back in here,” Victoria said curtly, pointing to the camera when he entered the room.
“They’re spying on us?”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t call it that. It’s for security, but to me it’s an invasion of privacy. Come on. Let’s get out of here. This place is the pits.” She waved into the camera before hauling the groceries back to the car. Jonathan followed but didn’t bring their bags.
“You were ordered to stay here,” he said. “It’s for your o
wn protection, Victoria. You can’t just leave.”
But Victoria wasn’t about to give anyone who might be monitoring the camera a first-hand view of what was likely to transpire between her and Jonathan. “Watch me,” she said. “Bring our luggage, please.”
“Victoria.” Jonathan’s voice was harsh as he stepped into the garage. “Don’t be so bullheaded. Think about what you’re doing. You can’t go back to your apartment right now. What if the killer is waiting, watching for you to come home?” He drew her into his arms, his touch diffusing her temper somewhat. But she’d already made up her mind.
“Like Mike said, the killer can’t be in Seattle and DC at the same time,” she pointed out. “But don’t worry. We’re not going to my place.”
“Where then? A hotel?”
“Bring the bags and get in,” she said with a grin. “I’ve got another idea.”
Forty-five minutes later she pulled the car to a halt at the end of a long, private lane lined with trees whose leaves were burnished gold and red by the last rays of the setting sun. Before them stood a small but elegant red brick house with white trim and black shutters, a house that had been in her family since the days of Thomas Jefferson. Victoria had forgotten how beautiful the place was in the fall.
“What’s this?” Jonathan asked.
“My family’s getaway place on Virginia’s Northern Neck. Nobody lives here. We just use it for weekends and guests. I come here from time to time when I need a quiet place to think.” She turned to Jonathan. “It’s as safe as it gets, and…” she added with a wrinkle of her nose, “there are no snooping cameras.”
They unloaded their gear once again, and Victoria ushered him into what her family termed “the cottage.” She loved it here and immediately felt safe and secure. There was no way Billy Ray could know about this place. Mike would be furious that she’d disobeyed his orders, but he really couldn’t force her to stay anywhere she didn’t want to be. If she had to go into hiding, it might as well be someplace of her own choosing.
“It’s chilly in here,” she said, turning up the thermostat. “We’ll use the first bedroom to the right up the stairs if you want to stash our bags.” Victoria felt a momentary hesitation. That was the room her parents had always used. The master bedroom. The one with the big fireplace. What would they say if they knew she was going to be romping around up there with her lover?
But they wouldn’t know. And she had every right to be here. She legally owned half this property. It had been left to her and Meghan in her grandmother’s will. Meghan’s half was now in trust for future grandchildren. So technically, she supposed, it was more hers to use than her parents. She looked around, seeing the old place with new, slightly possessive eyes.
And as for her lover, she thought, hearing his footsteps descending the stairs, that was nobody’s business but hers.
“Quite some place you’ve got here,” he said, coming to her and resting his hands on her shoulders. “How old is it?”
“My great-great-great-something grandparents built it just after the War of 1812,” she told him. “It’s been handed down through the generations. We’re lucky it’s never been sold outside the family.”
He was silent for a long moment, and she wondered what he was thinking.
Her stomach growled. “How about something to eat?” she asked, troubled by the look on his face.
“Sure.”
The kitchen was at the back of the house and had been renovated less than ten years before. It adjoined a large family room, and together the two rooms stretched from one side of the house to the other. A row of French doors opened onto a wide deck at the back. She flicked on the light, illuminating the china blue floral wallpaper and bright white cabinets.
“I’m not much of a cook,” she said, apologizing in advance for what would likely be a mediocre meal. Jonathan had managed far better in his kitchen than she could in her own. He’d made several wonderful meals for her during their too-short time together in London. “When I’m alone, I usually just pop a frozen dinner into the microwave.”
“Sounds ghastly,” Jonathan said, going to her and turning her to face him. “Let me do the honors.”
For the first time since they’d become lovers, Jonathan felt ill at ease around Victoria. Coming here to this “cottage,” a far grander house than he’d ever lived in, served to underscore the differences between them. She was American, he British. They lived thousands of miles apart. She came from the upper realms of society, he from the working class. She was wealthy, he lived month-to-month. The only thing they had in common was their career choice—law enforcement—and even in that they disagreed.
It was naive to think that there was any hope for them in the long term. He shouldn’t expect any such thing. He should put on some armor, do something to let himself down easy instead of setting himself up for the big fall he expected would inevitably come his way. And yet, when he looked at her, he was helpless. He loved her. He couldn’t deny it, and he couldn’t do anything about it.
The best he could do was try to protect her from the danger that presently threatened and hope for a miracle when it was behind them.
He could also feed her a decent meal.
While Victoria showered, Jonathan turned the items from the supermarket bag into a savory-scented supper of chicken breasts broiled in herbs and butter, roasted new potatoes with rosemary, sautéed artichoke hearts and hot bread, accompanied by a crisp white Bordeaux.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Victoria asked, diving into the meal with relish. “The things you’ve made me have been more French than English by a long shot.”
Jonathan laughed. “I learned by reading cookbooks written by an American,” he confessed. “Julia Child. She was a wizard.”
Victoria lowered her fork and stared across the table at him, her eyes shining. “What did I ever do to deserve you in my life?”
Jonathan swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. “I’m the one who should be asking you that question.”
Silence stretched between them. Then Victoria said quietly, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Jonathan. I don’t know what lies ahead for us, but I’m grateful for what we have right now. This moment. If it all falls down tomorrow, at least we will have had now.”
Jonathan’s heart constricted even more painfully than his throat. He didn’t want it to fall down, tomorrow or ever, but he knew that it probably would.
They finished eating in silence, and Victoria insisted on cleaning up, since Jonathan had done the cooking. “Fair’s fair,” she told him. “And besides, I don’t mind a bit. It took you an hour to prepare things. It’ll only take me ten minutes to straighten the kitchen. I think I got the better end of the deal.”
Jonathan sat on a nearby barstool and watched her bustle about the large, well-appointed kitchen, wishing with all his heart things could be different. He imagined them doing this together every night of their lives, sharing a safe, secure future in a beautiful home such as this. It was a dream he suddenly craved, but a dream that would never be.
The ringing of Victoria’s cell phone broke through his gloomy thoughts. She dried her hands and gave him a rueful look. “The boss has found us out,” she said in mock alarm.
“Agent Thomas here,” she answered, making a face as if she were getting ready for a lambasting from Mike Mosier. But the voice on the other end brought an expression of shock and concern to her face. “Mother! What a…surprise…”
Jonathan could only hear one half of the conversation, but he could tell Victoria was nervous talking to her mother.
“I just got in this afternoon,” she said rather defensively. “I haven’t had time to call you. I’m at the cottage. No, no, Mother, everything’s fine. You know I love it here in the autumn. I just decided to spend the last few days of my vacation here. England’s kind of cold and wet,” she added, shrugging her shoulders at him apologetically. “How are you and Dad?”
She was quiet f
or a long time, then took the phone into the family room and slumped into a large chair. “When did this happen?” she asked quietly. “Are the police certain he’s the one?”
At that, alarms went off in Jonathan’s head. He didn’t want to intrude, but Victoria’s face had gone white. Something was wrong. He strode silently into the room and stood looking through the panes of the French doors into the gathering darkness, waiting for her to finish the call, on fire to know what was going on.
“No, I don’t want to come home, Mother,” she said, her words clipped. “Please, just leave me alone. I need some time to get used to this. I’ll be fine here at the cottage, but please, don’t tell anyone I’m here. I don’t want the media to find me. You of all people should understand that.”
Disconnecting the call, she let the phone slip to the floor and covered her face with her hands. Jonathan was by her side in an instant.
“What is it, love?” he asked, dropping to his knees by her chair. “What’s wrong?”
“They found him. The man who killed my sister.”
Jonathan took her hands in his. They were like ice. “Who is it?”
“No one we knew,” she answered, wiping her eyes. “He’s the guy she ran off to meet at the motel. His name’s Ferguson. Matthew Ferguson.”
“How did they find him?”
“He left a suicide note.” Her shoulders began to shake with the sobs she could no longer control.
“Good God.” Jonathan drew Victoria out of the chair and held her as tightly as he could. He didn’t ask anything further, but waited until she quieted enough to speak again.
“He…he was a married man, with two little children,” she managed at last. “In his note, he confessed to his wife that he’d been having an affair with Meghan, and he said that he was responsible for her death. He wrote that he could no longer live with himself for the wrongs he had done. He begged his wife and children to forgive him.” She sniffed and added bitterly, “Mother didn’t mention whether he begged Meghan’s family for forgiveness.”
