by Anne Frasier
“Where’s your coffee?” She opened a cupboard, closed it, opened another.
“I don’t want coffee. I worked hard to get to this point. I don’t wanna come down.”
“Are those song lyrics?”
“From my brain to your ears.”
She found the coffee, popped the top on the plastic canister, scooped some grounds into a paper filter nestled inside a cheap plastic coffeemaker, added water, and turned on the machine. While it dripped and made agonized sounds, Elise kicked off her shoes and curled up in the corner of the couch.
It looked like he’d been working at some point before the vodka—the table between them was strewn with papers and photos.
The squeak of couch springs transmitted a signal to the normally antisocial Isobel, who came sauntering out of the bedroom. “I’m sorry about Major Hoffman,” Elise told David as the cat jumped on her lap. “About you and Major Hoffman.”
“You think that’s why I’m arse over tit?” He lifted his glass high in a salute to his drinking.
That’s exactly what she thought. Spurned lover and all that. “Okay,” she said, petting Isobel. “Then the job.”
“It’s not the job and it’s not Hoffman. Well, unless I’m celebrating.”
That surprised her. Had he broken up with Hoffman instead of the other way around? Probably not. Hoffman would have felt compelled to end it if she’d suspended him.
Expecting to see crime photos, she shifted her focus to the table, and her petting hand went still. A few heartbeats later she picked up one of the images and stared at it. “He’s beautiful.” Blond curly hair and blue eyes. Even though the hair was unlike David’s, she could see a resemblance in the face.
David rolled to his side, head braced against his hand, elbow on the floor. “I like that you used present tense. Most people don’t.”
She examined the photo more closely. “He looks so alive.”
Elise knew David’s son had died in May. She wasn’t sure of the date, but she had a suspicion. “It was today, wasn’t it?”
Heavy eyes locked with hers, and his freshly awakened pain made her breath catch. “Don’t take me there,” he whispered.
She almost wished she hadn’t come. Not because she didn’t want to see him like this, but because until her interruption, he’d been able to numb that pain.
It was weird when she thought about it. About how he’d brought some levity into her life when she’d needed it, and yet his own life was so tragic.
“I don’t know why I care about dates, because dead is dead,” he said, shoving the now-empty glass across the table. “I wish I could wipe the date from my mind, but I can’t.”
The coffeemaker let out one final burst of steam, indicating it was finished. Elise unfolded herself from the couch, walked to the kitchen area, and went to work filling a couple of mugs. She carried them back to the living room and handed one to David. “Careful. It’s hot.”
He took a cautious sip. “Sweet kitty, that’s strong.”
She tried hers. “And it tastes a little like plastic.”
“My mother bought the coffeemaker. She was wailing about how it didn’t look like anybody lived here, so she went shopping for that nasty thing. Nothing like the taste of plastic to say home sweet home.” He took another sip, made a face, and put the cup aside.
Reluctant to leave him alone considering his state of mind and the bottle of sleeping pills on the counter, Elise texted Audrey, letting her know she wouldn’t be home for a few more hours.
Audrey replied, telling her Jackson Sweet was in the bathroom throwing up. Sad face. He couldn’t eat the food Javier fixed. Strata Luna got mad. Told Grandpa to tell her what was going on, so now she knows. Relief.
So he did get the treatment, and it was apparently hitting him harder than anticipated. But then again, doctors always downplayed side effects and recovery.
Do you need me there? Elise asked.
No, Strata Luna and Javier are going to put him to bed and give him his antinausea pill.
Okay. I’ll be home later. Love you.
Despite the coffee, David fell asleep, only waking when Elise gave him a nudge. A couple of hours later, after more coffee and no more vodka, he appeared sober enough for her to leave.
“You’re going to have to move,” Elise told Isobel.
David eyed the cat on Elise’s lap. “I’ll bet she saw him die.”
Maybe he wasn’t as sober as she’d thought. “What are you talking about?”
“Isobel. I’ll bet Isobel saw my son die. She was his cat,” he went on to explain. “One day when I was driving home from Quantico, I found her along the road. Thought she’d make a nice friend for Christian.”
His eyes became unfocused as he traveled back in time. “He loved that cat, but maybe I should have gotten him a dog, you know? A dog might have protected him.” He went through the motions of taking another sip of coffee, then replaced the mug on the table. “Dogs are smarter. But Isobel . . . She probably just watched it happen, hoping she’d get some salmon when it was all over.”
There were no words that would help, but Elise tried anyway. “No matter how much we think we know, we can never be prepared for aberrant behavior in the people closest to us. You’ve seen it again and again in interviews with the families of killers. Most of them have the same response—they just couldn’t think their son or husband could possibly have done such an awful thing.”
“Yeah, but when you press them, they usually say there was something there.”
True.
“Isobel.” He patted the floor. “Come here.”
The cat jumped from Elise’s lap to join David on the floor, curling against his stomach.
“It’s usually just a feeling. Killers are good at keeping secrets from the people who think they know them best,” Elise said.
“I appreciate your attempt to reassure me, but I should have known. It’s my job. Lamont’s profile might be off, but he was right about me. I was a profiler. I lived with her. I lived with evil.”
“Okay, I’ll quit trying to convince you of the human flaw that blinds us to the people we love. The reason I stopped by was because I want you to know you’re still my partner. No matter what happens, I still want your input on this case.”
“You shouldn’t listen to me. You should listen to the asshole. He’s the expert. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Several times over the past two weeks he’d been evasive when speaking about the case, even though she knew his focus was on nothing else. “You’re thinking something you aren’t sharing.”
“Haven’t you heard? I’m off the case.”
“I don’t care.” She wouldn’t tell him Lamont was using his desk. If he found out, there might be another death in the city.
“You could be fired,” David said.
“Has that ever stopped me before?”
He shook his head and smiled slightly. “My idea—it has no foundation.”
“Let me decide.”
Careful of Isobel, David got to his feet and sat next to Elise on the couch. With the back of his hand, he swept the photos aside, clearing a spot. Then he opened a yellow legal pad and flipped through the pages until he came to a blank sheet. Settling the tablet against his knee and uncapping a pen, he began to doodle. She’d witnessed this many times. Doodling helped him think.
“We agree that this person is a pro. He’s killed a lot, and he’s perfected his style,” David said. “For him it’s not about method. Everything he’s doing is deliberate. Everything he’s doing is designed to lead us just where he wants to lead us, to make us believe whatever he wants us to believe. And Lamont has walked right into it. That’s what I think.”
“Let’s say this is a valid theory. How is it different from Lamont’s profile?”
“For one thing, the guy is older. For another . . . Lamont is wrong about the killer’s motivation. The mayor’s daughter? That was all about us. All about getting our attention.
Understanding motivation is everything if you want to get ahead of this guy.”
She didn’t like where this was going. The majority of serial killings were ones of opportunity. David was telling her that this was different. “Then who’s next?”
“Let’s just say I don’t think it’s a bad idea for your father to be staying at your house.”
Her heart pounded in alarm. “You’re thinking Audrey?” Would her job always put Audrey in danger?
“You can’t be too careful. No more going out with her friends at night. She should be taken to and from school. I know you aren’t crazy about having Sweet at your house, but I think his presence is a good thing. I don’t have any doubt he’ll protect her.”
At least there was that. Elise might not trust Sweet, but she didn’t believe he’d harm Audrey. Otherwise she’d never have allowed him into her home.
“Profiling 101 isn’t going to cut it anymore,” David continued. “Lamont is still working by the same curriculum we trained with. It’s old. It’s outdated.”
“A killer is a killer.”
“No.” David shook his head. “That’s what everybody thinks, and the FBI keeps churning out these profilers and profiles, never considering that killers have adapted. The killers of today aren’t the killers of our grandparents’ generation, and they aren’t the killers of fifteen years ago. They’ve evolved, and a lot of that evolution is due to the Internet and media. Most killers still crave the attention, but they’re also better equipped to manipulate the system—and to manipulate by-the-book thinkers like Lamont.”
It made sense. And in a weird way, it tied into thoughts not yet fully formed that were lurking in the back of Elise’s mind like some unnamed dread—a feeling that something simply wasn’t right.
Now that the tablet was filled with swirls and random words and lines, David tossed it down on the table. “But that’s probably all bullshit and you should forget it, because the most obvious and banal observations could be accurate. And right now you can’t afford to be wrong.”
“So you’re doubting yourself.”
“That’s why I’ve been reluctant to say anything. Because I have nothing to back up this theory.”
“Other than the fact that it makes perfect sense.”
“Does it? I don’t even know anymore. About anything. I thought it made sense a week ago, but now . . .”
“You have to let go of the toxic self-doubt your wife left you with. Don’t let that poison you.”
“Too late.”
“Then drink the poison and survive it. Use it.”
“Don’t go all Yoda on me. I hate that stuff. And things like ‘Tomorrow will be better.’ And ‘Everything happens for a reason.’”
“I’d never say that to you. Killers don’t kill because there’s some life lesson to be taught.”
“I know they don’t, and I know you wouldn’t.”
“If you step away from this, our chances of catching this guy decrease. Look at my team. Lamont, Avery—who seems a bit shaky lately—the guy with three names, and Jackson Sweet—cancer patient.”
“Don’t put too much faith in me. I don’t have any leads. It’s more about the process. It needs to change. It’s more about tossing out the instruction book and starting over, this time with the realization that we’ve supplied the killer with everything he needs to know to evade us.”
Chilling words.
As she was leaving, David grabbed a key from a hook near the door. “So the caretaker doesn’t have to let you in next time,” he explained, tossing it to her.
CHAPTER 26
An hour after Elise got home from David’s, a crash downstairs woke her. The bedside clock read 11:02 p.m. as she grabbed her gun and tossed back the covers, her ears tuned for any additional sound. Wearing pajamas dug from the closet two days earlier, she made her way across the wooden floor, each step eliciting a creak from the hardwood under her bare feet.
She looked in on Audrey. Asleep.
On the first floor, she made a sweep of the house, checking front and back doors, plus the windows. The alarm was still set.
Through the kitchen and down the hall to the guest room. “Sweet?” she whispered. Getting no reply, she felt for the wall switch and turned on the overhead light. The bed was empty.
Yards away, the guest bathroom door was ajar, the room dark. She smelled vomit.
Elise flicked the wall switch.
Sweet, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, was curled in a fetal position on the floor. “Off.” He squinted up at her.
She placed her weapon on the vanity, stepped over him, and flushed the toilet. “Did you take your antinausea medication?”
“Can’t keep it down.”
Sweet probably weighed 170 pounds; she wasn’t sure she could get him back to bed by herself. Briefly, she thought of yelling for Audrey, but Elise didn’t want her daughter involved in the disturbing scene, and she was sure Sweet wouldn’t want his granddaughter to see him this way.
“Turn off the light and go,” he said.
“You can’t stay on the floor.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.” The words came out in a breathless exhale.
Severe illness reduced everyone to this. To the humiliation of being found on the bathroom floor.
She gathered up bedding. Returning to Sweet’s side, she slipped a pillow under his head and another at his back. She covered him with blankets, wrapping them around him as best she could in order to protect him from the cold floor. Then she brought him a glass of water and his pills, placing them within reach.
“For later, when you think you can take a drink.”
He gave her an almost imperceptible nod, too nauseated to speak.
Gun in hand, she turned out the light and left him there.
CHAPTER 27
Since first laying eyes on him, Coretta Hoffman had dreamed about getting David Gould into her bed—but acting on that fantasy had been a foolish thing to do.
Just sex. That was what she’d told herself. Maybe one night, maybe two, then done. Out of her system. But once she started, she found she couldn’t stop, even though she knew people were talking, knew she was jeopardizing her already shaky career.
Stupid, especially once the mayor began watching her so closely, watching all of them.
Now it was done, over, but she wasn’t relieved.
She’d miss Gould.
Maybe it had been an irrational move on her part, but she’d felt the only way to get him out of her system was to go cold turkey. And the only way to do that was to suspend him, which was really just a step toward firing him. They both knew it, because no way would she be able to see him in the hallway of the Savannah PD and not want to call him down to her office and rip off his clothes and have him work her over right there on her desk.
Because, Lord, that man was fine.
Oh yeah, she’d fantasized about the desk. Many times.
Even tonight, twelve hours after kicking him out of his office, she was so crazy about him that when a knock sounded and Trixie barked and ran for the door, Coretta found herself hoping it was Gould coming to her house in the middle of the night like he’d done many times. Once inside, they’d shed their clothes and have sex on any handy surface, even the floor. Especially the floor.
In the semidarkness of the living room, she set her wineglass aside—how much had she consumed? She lifted the second bottle. Half-empty. She’d pay tomorrow.
The dog kept barking. Frantic, excited, scratching at the door as if she knew who was on the other side. Coretta felt the same way. Like scratching on the door in excitement while she made pathetic whimpering sounds.
She had no shame.
No self-control. That was what had gotten her into this mess.
She pushed herself off the couch and tightened the belt on her red silk robe. Maybe kicking him out of his office and her life had been a mistake. Maybe he was worth everything she’d lose. Worth losing her job over, if it came dow
n to it.
No.
Because Gould would never truly care for her. Maybe that was really why she’d kicked him out. Because he’d never love her, not when he loved Detective Sandburg.
Take that man and run, woman.
She’d once gotten up the nerve to ask him if he’d ever slept with Elise. Coretta figured they’d at least spent a few weekends together. But no. If he was telling the truth, they’d never had sex.
Elise was a fool. Or something was wrong with her. Or she preferred women. But even at that . . .
Coretta unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door, a smile on her lips.
She was the chief of police, but she hadn’t gotten there the usual way, not by coming up through the ranks, starting out as a patrol officer. No, she’d slept her way in, launching herself with a secretarial position. It had happened so long ago that the whispers and jealousy had long since died, gone out the door with the retirees and the people who’d simply become sick of law enforcement.
But regardless of how she’d arrived, Coretta was good at her job, maybe because she’d always been in administration. She could get people to do what they were supposed to do.
Still, the downside about coming up from the secretarial pool was that she knew little about protecting herself, other than the common things like eye gouging and a knee to the crotch. So when she opened the door with a smile on her face and an ache between her thighs, she was unprepared for the figure in the black sweatshirt, hood pulled low, face in deep shadow.
Before she let out a full gasp, a hand clamped down over her mouth, silencing her and shoving her deeper into the room. The door slammed behind her; the dead bolt turned.
In drunk confusion, she tried to change the scene to the expected, to David coming inside and the shedding of clothes and the crazy sex that would end with her telling him she was sorry about suspending him, and David telling her it was okay, that he understood.
That didn’t happen.
