“Yeah. Crowbar, I’d say.”
She went inside with him and took a look. The pine table was gouged down the middle. How much force had that taken? The thought of that iron bar slamming down like a wrecking ball… it wasn’t doing her one bit of good. One chair stood where three had been, and the couch was missing all of its cushions. “What did they do to the couch?” she asked.
“Had to be a knife.” He still sounded perfectly calm. “A big one. Not an axe, because it was more stabbing than slashing. Killed the cushions, that’s all. They got my laptop, that’s the worst of it, with the crowbar. A laptop can smash into a surprising number of pieces, I discovered.”
Her gaze sharpened on him. “Pieces? How many times were other things smashed?”
“Ah.” He considered her. “More like once each.”
“Personal message. Hitting you where you live.”
“I reckon. I had it backed up online, of course, so no worries. The kitchen was a bit of a mess, though it was more superficial. Nothing like sugar and flour scattered all over the shop.”
“Upstairs?” she asked.
“Come see.”
She did. The bed was devoid of pillows and bedding, and the mattress bore five or six deep gashes, as if somebody had knelt on it and plunged a butcher knife into it over and over again.
Overkill.
“This is the bashing in the head,” she told Jace, working on keeping her heart rate where it ought to be, “not opening the door to the chicken coop. This is like the laptop. It’s rage, and it’s personal. Remember that neat writing on the brick that came through my window? This isn’t the same person. If it’s about my place, and they came after you because they couldn’t get to me, it’s a group effort. Person A and Person B. People like this, though? They don’t play well with others. I don’t think that’s it. Was there a note?”
“No,” Jace said. “Actions speak louder than words, I reckon. I have a law-enforcement question for you. How long did this take? They’d dumped out the drawers as well. Up here, in the bath, in the kitchen. A bit of a mess in every room. And then the crowbar and the knife.”
Her mind was still on that knife being plunged into Jace’s pillow, into the mattress. Into his heart. He waited a second, then said, when she didn’t answer, “I wouldn’t have been lying there. I’m not a heavy sleeper.”
“You were when you were with me.”
“Ah.” He smiled a little. “Call that trust. Odd, isn’t it, as I knew you weren’t who you were pretending to be? Some things, though, your body knows better than your mind. My body would’ve woken me this time, even if they hadn’t smashed my window. On the other hand—surely they would’ve known I’d have woken up. This happened after the meeting, because the cabin was all good when we came by afterwards for my things. If they didn’t know before then that I’d wake up, they had to know after those photos.”
“It wasn’t so much the photos they were focusing on, though,” she said. “It was the speech. Somebody was there. Somebody didn’t like it. A lot. I’m guessing it was the ‘I’m sleeping with her’ part they objected to. To answer your question—it wouldn’t have taken them nearly as long as you’d think. People who are burglarized assume the burglar was there half an hour to make that mess. In reality? Five minutes. In this case, call it a max of ten, because they’re not just dumping everything out looking for the valuables, smash, grab, go. They’re taking the time to wreck the place and leave a more personal message. Still, though—they moved fast. In a rage. There are only a few rooms.”
“Four. Main level, kitchen, bedroom, bath.”
“No garage?”
“No. Which is interesting, as they knew about the garage. They took the ladder when they were here before. They’ve scouted the place.”
“They were afraid you’d come back. Possibly. I’m not sure. A destructive rage like this—I’m not sure how much self-preservation the person was feeling.”
“If they wanted to damage me,” he said, “the garage would’ve been the place. I’ve got heaps of expensive equipment out there. Tools. Riding mower. Probably three times the value of what they wrecked in the house. How much did those chairs of mine cost? A mattress? A laptop? Barely more than my table saw, and nowhere close to that mower.”
“Personal again. Your laptop is your livelihood, and your writing is about as personal as it gets. Your mattress is your life.” The thought was trying to make her shiver. It was a relief to be logical.
“I agree. Next question. Is this still a woman? I haven’t actually served with women, like I said. I know they can shoot, though. I don’t know about a crowbar. It isn’t that heavy. But using this much force?”
She considered that. “It probably wouldn’t be, say, Hailey. She’d get tired. It could be any woman in good shape, though. And adrenaline gives you strength. As you know. What we need to ask is—who was at that meeting last night who could be your stalker? That’s who this is. I need to make some calls, to get some ideas about a profile. But I know enough to say that it’s somebody who’s had contact with you. She’s sought out contact. Where do you go most?”
“The Red Rooster,” he said, “but my waitress there—Hailey’s daughter—wasn’t at the meeting last night. And she hasn’t changed much over the time I’ve been here. She’s a mum, which doesn’t mean anything, but she talks about her kids to the other waitresses from time to time.”
“She cares enough to know that you’re a writer,” Paige felt obliged to point out.
“Human curiosity, I’d say, not obsessive interest. Refills my coffee cup and goes on her way. If she’d wanted to chat me up, she’s had her chance.”
“All right. Where else do you go? The call you got? It was from the pay phone outside the Gas & Go. The guy who owns it cares about me selling, by the way. If he’s your stalker, though, he sure has his murderous nature hidden under a cloak of normality. But is there an attendant there who might have a thing for you?” She realized she’d never told him the specifics about that call. Or asked him about the gas station. How had she not followed this up? Her head was pounding, and her body was trying to shake. Adrenaline, like they’d said. The lingering effects of that concussion. Everything.
He was pulling her down to sit on the ripped mattress. “Hang on,” he said. “I’m going to make you a cup of tea.”
“I don’t need a cup of tea. I need to figure this out.”
“Over a cup of tea,” he said. “Hang on.”
“You are an incredibly bossy man. You’re the one with a destroyed house and a maniac after him.”
“And you’re the one who got hit in the head. I know which is worse. And it’s been mentioned. I like to call it ‘decisive.’ Or ‘commanding,’ maybe. Sounds sexier. Hang on. Cup of tea. With sugar, if I still have any.”
“I don’t use sugar.”
“Shock,” he said. “Aussie. Cup of tea. Hang on.”
By the time he came back holding two mugs, the weak moment had passed. “Last two cups on the shelf,” he said, handing her one. “The rest were broken. I’m going to have to go shopping again. I just went shopping.”
“I thought you’d been here six months.”
“Like I said. I just did it.”
She didn’t address that, since she basically felt the same way. “So,” she said, “where else do you go besides the Red Rooster? It could be a man. We should consider that.”
“The gym,” he said. “Yeah, the gas station, but nobody I really remember there other than the owner. Nobody chatting me up.”
“That trainer,” she said. “She was at the meeting. What’s her name?”
“Kelli. There’s the owner, Jennifer, as well, though she’s never seemed to care about much more than my subscription. On the other hand, she doesn’t seem all that balanced to me. If she has a secret passion for my body and wants to get shot of Lily for financial reasons as well? That would be a double dose of hate.”
“Let me think about that.” She took
another sip of her tea and said, “I want to stay here and help you clean up. I want to get you out of here. But I need to get back to the shop, too. And we were going to stay here together, draw attention away from Lily, like the mother bird dragging her wing.” She set the mug down and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, feeling too much like she was dragging her wing. “I told Hailey that I’d be staying with you, like we planned. And you haven’t mentioned the cops or what they said. I should…”
“You don’t have to get me out of here,” he said. “That’s my job. And so is cleaning up. It was Sergeant Worthless who came by. He took it more seriously this time. Tied it to the meeting last night, to somebody wanting to chase you out. And took the opportunity to mention that he’d warned me not to put myself out there like that. All but said I’d put a target on my back. And yours. He mentioned that as well, in case it had escaped me.”
She considered that. “Would he wreck your house for his sister? That would be a very twisted relationship. Or would he look the other way if his sister did it? Much more likely.”
“Possible,” he agreed. “He was calm. If he knew, he hid it well.”
She finished off her tea, stood up, and said, “Right. I’m leaving, and I hope you’re leaving soon, too. I hate you being here. I’m making a call to a professor I know. And I guess we should stay at Lily’s. I don’t like it, though. I don’t like drawing them back to her.”
He stood with her. “I know you don’t. Which is why we aren’t doing it.”
“What are we doing? Wait. That came out wrong.”
“Not sure. I have a mad idea, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to ask Lily.”
Paige drove back into town, still feeling uncharacteristically shaken. She needed to get back to the shop. She needed to get back under control. But first, she needed to do this. She parked down the street from Sinful Desires and took her phone out of her purse.
It took some research, since she still had Lily’s phone and Lily’s contacts rather than her own, but in ten minutes, she heard the voice at the other end say, “Miranda St. John.”
“Hi, Dr. St. John. This is Paige Hollander of the SFPD.” Well, not exactly, but there were times to follow the rules, and times when you had to drive off the edge of the map. “You worked with us on the North Beach Killer case last year.”
“I remember. I remember you, too. What can I do for you?”
“It’s a personal thing. I’m hoping it will only take a few minutes, and I’m prepared to pay your usual rate for your time.” The usual rate was probably enormous. She should have asked Jace if he were willing to pay it, but too late now. “It has to do with my twin. Indirectly.” She did have to play by the rules enough to say the “personal” part. Miranda St. John was a very eminent professor of forensic psychology at a very eminent institution, and the SFPD wouldn’t be amused if they got a bill for her services.
“You have a twin?” Dr. St. John asked. “I’m strangely interested. Is she a police officer as well? Identical or fraternal?”
“Identical,” Paige said, and could swear Dr. St. John purred. “And no. She owns a lingerie store.”
“Fascinating. All right. I have a seminar in… eighteen minutes. You have fifteen minutes. Go.”
Be fascinating. Be brief. “I’m switching places with my twin temporarily as a result of some threats she’s received. I’m wondering about the possible psychological profile of somebody who’s stalking a man I’ve become close with. I’ve become close with him while I’m being her to everybody else, I mean. So I’m concerned about the threat to both of them.”
“Interesting. Give me the details.”
“Right. The person started out writing erotic fiction about my friend, sending it to him.” Paige described the letters as best she could remember, then moved on to the hand-delivered thong and blindfold and everything that had happened since, including the attack on her. “Which could have been another perpetrator entirely,” she finished, “connected to the other threat I mentioned, the one to my twin, but the violence feels linked. You see my difficulty, though, with the blurring between the two cases. What I assume are two cases, because the one attack on me was violent, and the other threats I got seemed better thought out, milder, coming from a different mindset. My question is—what kind of a person might we be looking for with the stalker? And is it reasonable to think that this person would go after the target’s partner as well?”
Dr. St. John made a humming noise. “I’d like you to email me those letters. Stalker fiction sent to a novelist. Very interesting. And, yes, of course the violence could transfer. Sexual jealousy. Stalking’s all about exerting power and control. If this escalated after the man was instructed to respond by leaving the envelope visible, and he ignored the request and showed up with you at the meeting place? A stalker wants to matter. They want to change your life. They hate being ignored. This person has made no attempt to identify herself or himself?”
“No. Which seems unusual. It also feels like a woman, but I’d appreciate your opinion on that, too.”
“I’d like to look over those letters and give it some thought, do a little research. And, darn it,” Dr. St. John added, sounding much more like a Minnesotan than an eminent academic, “I have to get to that seminar. Send me the letters, and pictures of the damage to your friend’s house, too, if you have them. Also a description of your own injuries. It won’t be a psychological diagnosis, just my best guess, and maybe a consultation with a colleague. If you send it quickly, I’ll take a look after my seminar and let you know tonight, since it sounds fairly urgent. And since I’d enjoy doing it.”
“Your best guess works,” Paige said. “And thanks. Thanks very much.”
“No problem. Twin switch. I love it. Got to go.”
She hung up, and Paige texted Jace and explained. She added, Hope you kept copies. I didn’t think abt this being them trying to destroy evidence. Could be though. Hope you’re OK w/ sending. I doubt Worthington’s investing dept resources in a profiler.
The answer came straight back. Prob not. Worthless doesn’t like me. And do me a favor, of course I kept copies. Online backup. Give me ten mins to get it all off my phone.
Paige got out of the car. She’d sell some underwear. After that, she’d figure out who was targeting Jace. And then she’d get her.
She got the call when she was pulling up outside Lily’s barn at six-fifteen. Jace’s truck was already there. She had a feeling that he’d always show up first. He was over by the chicken coop, Tobias trotting at his side with his skinny tail sweeping back and forth in a slow, contented rhythm. The low, shining light of late afternoon slanted over the two of them, the shadow of the mountain looming above. All very serene, but Paige thought, Bees, and said into the phone, “Dr. St. John? Thanks for calling back. If you can hang on two minutes, I’m going to grab that friend of mine so he can hear, too.”
“I can wait,” the professor said, and Paige hauled herself out of the car and waved at Jace. He hustled over to her fast, and she told him, “I have Dr. St. John on the phone. Hop in the car so we don’t have to compete with the goats.”
He did, so did she, and she said, “Hi, Dr. St. John. We’re here. I’m putting you on speaker. This is Jace Blackstone.”
“Hello,” the professor said. “First—what kind of books do you write? I’d like to know, after reading those letters. Do you have a professional name?”
“Thrillers,” he said. “Under Jason Black.”
“Ah. Yes. That makes sense. I’ve read one of your books. The one about Iraq, since I prefer my fiction to take place at a comfortable distance from my job. I enjoyed it.”
“Thank you,” Jace said. “Turns out I’ve read one of yours as well. The one about the Southside Strangler. I won’t say I enjoyed it, but it was useful. Took me to the micro level on my baddies, which isn’t something I’ve seen enough of for book purposes.”
“I’m remembering
that you were a soldier. Instructive once again. Your dangerous job turns our stalker on. And the micro level. Hmm. Right.” Her voice turned businesslike. “You have an interesting adversary. I’m calling her ‘her,’ although of course I can’t say for sure. But the profile’s more of a female-on-male stalker. Prior acquaintance without a sexual history, and higher IQ and education level, as evidenced by the sophistication of the letters. And the sudden and total transition from romantic fixation to anger when she didn’t get the response she wanted suggests Borderline Personality Disorder.”
“Which is…” Jace said.
“Black and white thinking. Somebody’s in or they’re out, and it happens fast and completely. Everything’s the best thing ever until it’s the worst thing ever. A man’s your savior, and then he’s your abuser. Everybody and everything disappoints you. You yearn for attachment in your career and your relationships, and you destroy any chance at it with your behavior. Then you end the relationship or quit the job, and you’re furious at the partner, the friend, the boss who let you down.”
“Sounds pleasant,” Paige said.
“Very unpleasant indeed. Much more prevalent in women. And most importantly for us, it can be associated with a preoccupied attachment pathology. Not every woman with BPD is a stalker, of course, but a fair percentage of female stalkers are diagnosed as BPD. For our stalker, consider what she’s written. The woman in her story is anonymous in all but the last piece, and even there, she doesn’t describe herself. A female stalker isn’t nearly as likely to be motivated by narcissism, grandiosity, or explicitly sexual drivers as a male one. Instead, she’s motivated by the pursuit of intimacy with her victim and anger when she doesn’t achieve it. Sound familiar?”
“Sounds exact,” Jace said, his tone grim. “But the letters were sexual.”
“Because she thought that would work on you. She’s confusing you with your hero, I’m guessing. But here again—a female is also much less likely to risk a direct physical confrontation than a typical male stalker would be. Perhaps for physical reasons—not being as strong as you—and perhaps for psychological ones. You’re seeing the effects of an explosive temperament in both the attack on your house and the attack on Paige, but she didn’t personally attack you. She attacked Paige. And I’d expect that pattern to continue. She wants a connection, but she actually doesn’t try to connect in person. When there’s an obstacle in her way, though, she’s furious. She wants that obstacle removed.”
Guilty as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 1) Page 30
