When the Storm Breaks

by Heather Lowell

  Tuesday morning

  The man settled more comfortably into his folding chair and took a sip of cold coffee. He was sitting in front of a curtained window overlooking the narrow street, which allowed him to watch Marie Claire and her friend as they came and went throughout the day. He could also easily keep tabs on the two police officers assigned to watch over the house.

  His lips turned up in a crooked smile as he considered the officers. They were clearly assigned to watch Marie Claire, so when she left, they followed. They didn’t pay much attention to the other homes along the street, no doubt assuming the upper-middle-class residents of the stylish neighborhood would pose no threat.

  They probably thought the house he was in was vacant, given the tattered For Sale sign that had been leaning to the side in the overgrown front yard. It had been a simple enough matter to get in through the back of the house. He could park in the alley, come through the gate, and enter the house at will, just as the majority of the other residents entered their own homes every evening.

  Not that anyone noticed him. The neighborhood was home to up-and-coming young professionals who worked in downtown office buildings all day long. They paid no attention to yet another resident in a business suit, casually parking his nondescript rental sedan and confidently striding through the backyard to the house.

  Given the inflated asking price for the home, he was sure that realtors and prospective homebuyers wouldn’t be a problem.

  He knew it was risky to stake himself out so close to Marie Claire. But that was part of the rush. It gave him a satisfaction that he couldn’t get taking a more cautious approach to stalking his prey.

  Sweet prey.

  That’s how he thought of Marie Claire. She was the prize in an ongoing game between him and the police. He didn’t have any doubt as to how the game would end. The police were so stupid.

  He grinned as he considered how easily he’d found her new location. All he’d had to do was track down her little redheaded friend and follow her. He already had her license plate number, which in turn gave her name and address. From there, it had been a simple matter to search the Internet and determine that she was a city employee with the Social Services department. He’d staked out her building downtown and followed her from work to the place she now stayed in each night with Marie Claire.

  The house across the street.

  It had been luck, pure and simple, that the town home he currently occupied was vacant and up for sale—and had all its lights on a timer with a functioning A/C—but he’d learned to take whatever luck came his way. It was how he’d picked out his first prey ten years ago, and every victim since then. He’d told himself he would take the first dark-haired whore he saw, and he had. The rush had been incredible.

  He wondered who owned the home Marie Claire had moved into. From a distance he’d seen a blonde woman with short hair, but he hadn’t been able to get her license plate number. He would look into pulling property records, but there wasn’t any hurry. For now it was laughably easy to watch over his beautiful prey.

  Soon he would make his next move, but for now, he was enjoying the anticipation. The sexual jolt that came when he considered his options was too pleasurable. He wouldn’t rush through the planning phase of his operation, no matter how eager he was to finally have her under his knife.

  Chapter 30

  Washington, D.C.

  Wednesday afternoon

  The tension in Afton’s office at Camelot was so obvious that Aidan felt like he could reach out and touch it. Clearly something had happened between Sean and Claire, and they were both desperately trying to act as if it hadn’t.

  Claire slid a sideways glance at Sean’s profile, then looked quickly away. She felt as awkward as a teenager on a blind date. Though it had been two days since they had practically jumped each other in Afton’s kitchen, they had yet to speak in person. In fact, Sean had yet to speak to anyone in the room. He seemed to be absorbed in whatever was written in his notebook.

  Aidan cleared his throat. “Just so we’re all on the same page,” he said to Afton, “could you explain again how the dating service works and what the background checks involve? We don’t need the sales pitch. We’re interested in what goes on after the clients are gone.”

  “It’s very simple,” Afton said. “The members fill out a detailed questionnaire, which gives us insight into their preferences. These are then fed into the computer. The questionnaire also forms the basis of the background checks, which are carried out by a private investigation firm.”

  “What about the matchmaking process, or whatever you call it?” Aidan asked.

  “It’s really up to the individual. The clients are invited to review the catalogue and pick out members who share similar interests, or they can let the computer cross-reference based on the questionnaire responses. We can then initiate e-mail or phone contact with the prospective date, and see where the couple wants to take it from there.”

  “So if they’re interested, clients can have everything brokered through Camelot?” Aidan asked.

  “Yes. They can also do things completely on their own. We want to offer as much flexibility as possible.”

  “How do clients hear about Camelot? Do you advertise?” Sean asked abruptly, startling Claire.

  “Not in the conventional sense. We do place some personal ads and use a direct mail marketing firm. But the majority of our clients come from recruiting drives, open houses, or ‘meet and greet’ corporate cocktail parties. That’s how Claire heard about us when my sister was running the service,” Afton added.

  Claire shifted in her seat as all eyes turned briefly to her.

  “You said before that these corporate parties have tapered off due to changes in the local high-tech business sector,” Aidan said.

  “Yes. The last one was hosted by my sister before she got really ill, so it was at least five months ago.”

  Sean was silent as he wrote in his notebook. When he finished, he looked over at Aidan. “I think our only option is to do an initial screen on every male listed in the catalogue, regardless of how he came to be a client.”

  “I agree. At this point there’s no reason to exclude any able-bodied men between the age of twenty and fifty.” Aidan looked at Afton. “How many male clients do you have in your database?”

  “Let me check,” she said, typing rapidly. “Three hundred sixty-one male clients as of today who fit your description.”

  “Beautiful,” Aidan said in disgust. “Do you have any idea how long it would take to run checks on all those guys?”

  “I thought you said getting male clients was a problem. How come you have so many?” Sean asked, ignoring his partner’s outburst.

  “We just completed a huge membership drive, specifically targeting men because the ratio was skewed. My sales staff was out for the last two weekends in a row, recruiting new clients in bars, restaurants, clubs, and malls. Then they came in on the following Mondays and entered all the new members into the database at once.”

  “How many men were added to the catalogue on the last two Mondays?” Sean asked.

  Afton squinted at the screen as she typed in the query. “Over one hundred and fifty male candidates have been added in the last ten days. It’s been a good sales drive.”

  “So based on the assumption that Claire saw the guy’s picture in the dating catalogue, we can eliminate these new additions and focus on the two hundred or so males who were clients prior to the murder,” Aidan said.

  Sean nodded. “Two hundred is still a huge number to work with, but it’s better than every guy in the catalogue.”

  Afton typed some more, then scowled at the computer screen. “I’m not sure about the best way to run that type of search. Let me go talk to our database consultant. I’ll have him run the query and save the results in a file we can use for the remainder of the investigation.” She left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Aidan turned to Claire. “While we’re waiti
ng for that file, there’s one more thing to go over. Sean and I have been working on a preliminary psychological profile of our killer—it’s pretty basic, but there’s one thing you can clarify to help us.”

  “What?” she asked eagerly.

  “We need to understand what motivates the killer, what makes him do the things he does the way he does them. We’ll look at his choice of victims, the way they were killed, how the bodies were displayed, and what the crime scenes have in common. I’m sure you’ve heard about criminal profiling, which was first used by the FBI. This is basically the same type of stuff they’d be doing if they were involved.”

  “Why aren’t they involved?” Claire asked.

  “Because the case hasn’t been solved for them yet,” Sean muttered under his breath.

  Aidan coughed. “Unless their assistance is specifically requested, it’s up to the Bureau when and where they get involved with cases. Often they choose to get involved at the ’um, tail end of the investigation.”

  This time Sean was the one who coughed at the understatement. Aidan continued, “At this point we don’t have any evidence of crimes occurring in multiple states, just a theory. That’s not enough for our department to ask for help from the Feds yet. Besides, the FBI has limited resources just like we do, and right now those agents are assigned to high-profile national security cases and terrorism task forces.”

  “What my partner is trying to say is that dead prostitutes don’t even make a blip on the FBI radar screen, even though it’s not politically correct to point that fact out,” Sean said.

  “Sounds like politics is politics, regardless of whether those involved work with law enforcement or computer programs. Anyway, how can I help? I’m not one of your forensic technicians,” Claire said.

  Aidan hoped he didn’t look uncomfortable. He’d never had to question a woman his cousin was involved with—and whether or not Sean admitted it, he was involved.

  “Well,” Aidan said, “one thing we don’t have any insight into is why the killer would join a dating service. In fact, the whole dating angle doesn’t fit your standard profile of a serial killer. They often don’t have steady relationships with partners, either male or female.”

  “But wouldn’t that be why he joined the dating service?” Claire asked. “To find a relationship?”

  “Many serial killers don’t want any type of normal relationship, sexual or otherwise,” Sean said. “They live in a self-created fantasy world. It’s hard to maintain that world if there are significant others constantly intruding into the alternate reality in which the killer lives.”

  Aidan nodded. “Many of these killers escape into fantasy to make up for whatever is lacking in their own world. Or to compensate for clinical mental illness. The degree to which the killer’s fantasy is different from reality helps determine whether we’re talking about a total social misfit, like Jeffrey Dahmer, or someone who can get around in society quite well, like Ted Bundy.”

  Claire considered for a moment. “If you want my opinion, I’d lean more toward the Ted Bundy angle on this killer.”

  “Why?” Aidan asked, intrigued.

  “The way Camelot is set up, people have to be photographed as part of their profile. The clients then review the other profiles, including—let’s be honest—the photos and bios. No one is going to sign up to date a troll, or a complete whack job like Jeffrey Dahmer.”

  “You think our killer must be at least passably attractive and successful in his career, otherwise he would have chosen another dating service with a more anonymous screening method?” Sean asked.

  “Exactly. I mean, if the guy was a complete troglodyte with no social or professional life, he wouldn’t have the nerve to put his picture in the catalogue. If you look through it, you’ll see that all of the men and women in there are decent-looking professionals who have lots of normal hobbies and interests.”

  “What the hell is a troglodyte?” Aidan asked.

  “Your last girlfriend,” Sean replied instantly.

  Claire giggled.

  “Didn’t she date you first?” Aidan asked.

  Claire laughed out loud, then pressed her lips together as Sean slanted her a look.

  He glanced at what he’d written in his notebook while he fought a smile at her infectious laugh. “I think it’s an interesting theory, one we can run with for now. We’ll need more, though.”

  “And you think understanding why people join a dating service will help you fill out this blank you have in the killer’s profile?” Claire asked.

  “It’s worth a try,” Aidan said.

  She looked at the two detectives as they sat attentively, waiting for her answer. She tried to think of a way to explain to them what she had trouble explaining to herself. How on earth had she reached the point where she needed to sign up for a dating service, and what did that say about her?

  Too personal, she thought. Generalize it.

  “I suppose there are lots of reasons to join a dating service,” she said, choosing her words with care. “People these days spend long hours at demanding jobs. It’s difficult to meet members of the opposite sex while working eighty-hour weeks, or traveling a great deal.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly the kind of insights we need,” Aidan said. “Go on.”

  “I imagine many people pay more attention to their careers than their personal lives,” she said. “They always assume that a relationship will find them when the time is right. But when these people hit their thirties or forties, they realize their time is running out.”

  “So you hit thirty and the biological clock starts the countdown?” Sean asked.

  “It doesn’t work that way with males,” she said, wincing inside at what she had revealed. “Anyway, male or female, it’s hard to find safe places to meet strangers in the city, especially if one isn’t into smoky bars or teenybopper clubs.”

  Sean paused in his writing to study her intently, blue eyes serious. “You’ve described all sorts of reasons not to be dating, but why did you actually join Camelot? Did you want to be dating?”

  Claire narrowed her eyes at Sean’s repeated references to her own life. She’d carefully phrased all her responses, trying to create a generic profile of a Camelot customer. The last thing she wanted to do was focus on her own rationale, her emotional state when she’d enrolled. She was afraid that would chip away at the tenuous wall of professionalism she was trying to build. Worse, she was afraid Sean would think she was completely desperate for a man, so much so that she would throw herself at him. Again.

  “I suppose the desire for a partner becomes more pressing as people get older,” Claire said neutrally. “As you mentioned, there are children to consider. Or maybe people are just lonely, and get tired of feeling that way.”

  “So you were lonely?” Sean asked, focused on her.

  She stared into his eyes, caught for a moment in his intensity. He saw right through her supposedly generic explanations to the very core of her feelings—loneliness. With a few words he’d stripped away the protective layers she’d created.

  “I believe we’ve already had a discussion about the importance of professionalism,” she said to Sean. “I’d appreciate it if the questioning took on a less personal tone.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, confused. “I’m being one hundred percent professional here.”

  She saw that he was telling the truth. He was focused on the investigation right now, completely detached from her.

  Oh, God. Is it possible to be any more humiliated and still survive?

  Struggling for her dignity, she said, “I just mean that I’m beginning to feel like a bug under a microscope. You guys need to focus on the killer’s motivations, not mine.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to do,” Sean pointed out.

  “Don’t tell me you can extrapolate from my motivations to his,” she said. “He’s a man, and God knows I’ll never understand what makes men tick.”

  “Reg
ardless of your inability to understand the male of the species,” Sean shot back, “there might be a common thread between your thought processes and the killer’s that can help us in developing his profile.”

  “Bullshit. I’m not out there stabbing people.”

  “You don’t need a knife. That sharp tongue of yours is enough to—”

  “In the interest of world peace,” Aidan cut in, “I’m going to declare this match a draw. Sean, why don’t we take what we’ve gotten from Claire and put it together with additional insights from Afton. Who better than the owner of Camelot to explain why our killer might join a dating service?”

  Claire sat back and wished he’d had that brilliant insight earlier, before she’d made a complete fool out of herself in front of Sean. Again.

  Chapter 31

  Washington, D.C.

  Late Wednesday afternoon

  Safely hidden behind the darkened glass of a café window, the man watched Marie Claire leave the building, get into a cab, and drive off. With her police escort right behind. Satisfied he knew his prey’s destination, he turned his attention to the three people who remained standing at the curb, talking.

  One of them was the blonde woman he’d seen with Marie Claire at the place she was now staying. The two others he instantly pegged as cops. He didn’t know the one with lighter hair, but he assumed he was working on the case. The cop with darker hair had driven Marie Claire to the redhead’s apartment building a couple of days ago, the afternoon he’d sent his surprise.

  He watched the blonde woman walk down the street, then enter a convenience store. The two men got into a tan sedan with city license plates. There would be no tracing them through the Motor Vehicle Division. He wanted a name for these cops, and for the other woman. He didn’t like not knowing who all the players were.

  He also needed to figure out what they’d been doing all day at the office building. It wasn’t anything obvious. He knew the neighborhood because his father’s company had offices two doors down. He searched his memory for any unusual business in the building he’d been watching but came up blank. He’d have to keep an eye on the situation, and get even closer to Marie Claire.