I Can See You

Chapter Nine

Tuesday, February 23, 2:25 a.m.

Noah received Eve’s call as he and Brock had finally gotten around to the topic he’d really wanted to discuss. Eve. He’d sent Brock back to Trina and a warm bed and with a combination of dread and anticipation, he’d come back here. Again. For the third time in one night.

Noah looked up at the pink camera over her door. There would be an interesting story to that. The door was opened by the officer who’d responded to the 911. Eve was sitting in her chair, arms around her knees. She met his eyes with weary resignation.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “David made me call.”

Hunter was on the sofa, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Damn straight I did.”

“Who put up the pink camera?” Noah asked.

“I did,” Hunter said grimly.

“Why are you here, Detective?” the older officer said. “This isn’t a homicide.”

Noah flicked a glance at Eve. “It’s personal. Did you find evidence of an intruder?”

“Somebody was out there,” the younger cop said. “Footprints were wiped out. One of the other cameras was pushed into the mud. Should we go door to door?”

“CSU will check the perimeter at first light. We may do door to door then. Send me a copy of your report.” The cops left and Noah closed the door. “What happened?”

Hunter told the story while Noah examined the pink video receiver.

“The system triggers an alarm,” Hunter finished, “if the camera loses a signal. When the guy ground it into the mud, the alarm woke me up.” He hesitated. “Eve has a registered gun. She’d given it to me. I started down the stairs, but she followed.”

“It’s my apartment,” Eve said stubbornly. “My problem and my goddamned gun.”

Hunter shook his head. “And that’s it. We didn’t hear him or see him.”

Noah met Hunter’s grim eyes. “Good thinking. And fast action.”

Hunter shook his head again. “I should have gone out after him.”

Noah watched Eve roll her eyes, but she said nothing. “We don’t know if this guy is armed,” Noah said. “We’ve got three dead. We can’t be taking chances.”

“Told you so,” Eve muttered.

Hunter made an annoyed sound in his throat. “Now what?”

“Now we watch Eve like a hawk,” Noah said. “Eve, you don’t go anywhere by yourself until we know exactly who and what we’re dealing with.”

“Told you so,” Hunter muttered and Noah knew a small moment of relief. If nothing else, these two behaved like brother and sister.

She rose, briskly. “David made coffee. Do you want some to go?”

He realized for her, none of this had changed anything personal. “No thanks. I’ve had enough coffee tonight. Don’t go anywhere alone.”

“She won’t,” Hunter said flatly, then softened his tone. “Thank you for coming.”

“Yes,” Eve said, not meeting Noah’s eyes. “Thank you. I’m tired. David, can you see Detective Webster out?” Without waiting for an answer she went back to her room.

Hunter puffed out his cheeks. “Well.”

Noah frowned. “Well? Well what? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you’re under her skin.” He walked him to the door. “Give her time.”

“I have lots of that,” Noah murmured, then narrowed his eyes. “Why pink?”

“It was a baby shower present. Do you know a Detective Sutherland?”

Noah was surprised at the sudden topic change. “Olivia? Damn fine cop. Why?”

“Her sister Mia’s one of my best friends,” he said. “Another damn fine cop. Olivia and I were both in Mia’s wedding. When you see her, tell her I said hi.”

“I will. And, I meant it. That was good thinking. You may have saved Eve’s life.”

Hunter’s eyes hardened. “This guy knows Eve’s involved. How does he know?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Noah said grimly. “Keep me on speed dial.”

“I will. Don’t forget your hat.”

“I’ll leave it here for a while.” If it was here, he had an excuse to return. “Thanks.”

Tuesday, February 23, 2:25 a.m.

Lindsay never would have wanted her to see this side of humanity. Too late, sis, Liza thought dully, as she waited for a bus to the next neighborhood. She’d been searching for three hours and she was already ready to give up. Most of the prostitutes hung out in bars and hotels this time of year. The bars wouldn’t let her in because she wasn’t twenty-one. And nobody in the hotels had seen Lindsay.

A well-intentioned bouncer had let her into one of the bars long enough to get warm. A waitress gave her a coffee. Neither had seen Lindsay. In her pocket was the napkin on which the bouncer had written directions to another place she might look. She had enough change for bus fare there and bus fare home.

And if you find nothing? Then what?

I don’t know.

Numbly she watched as a girl came out of the bar she’d just left, picking her way over the ice in five-inch stiletto heels. The girl’s legs were bare, her short skirt barely covering her butt, her wig teased big. She pranced to the end of the block and leaned against a light pole. A minute later a black SUV slid to a stop, rolled down its window.

“Don’t do it,” Liza murmured, as if words could help. The girl climbed up into the SUV and it did a U-turn in the street, headed back the way it had come.

Tuesday, February 23, 3:25 a.m.

He drew a deep breath, the climax shuddering through him. Slowly he released the hooker’s throat. He relaxed, lowering his body to sit on the body he straddled, his seed glistening on her skin. Under her wig she’d had short dark hair and a long neck and as he’d choked the life out of her, he’d imagined her face was Eve Wilson’s.

It should be Eve lying here, on this disgusting, foul-smelling bed. Dead, her open eyes staring at nothing at all. It was supposed to have been Eve. But it wasn’t.

But the words he’d whispered in the hooker’s ear as she’d slid into her little ketamine stupor would drive terror into Eve’s heart when she finally lay here beneath him on this bed. Twine around your throat, pulling tighter, you can’t breathe. You’re going to die.

The hooker had awakened, gasping for air, thinking she was being strangled. Then, she really was. He did love it when fantasy met reality with such perfection.

He climbed off the girl, yanked on the concrete slab, and winced. The girl from Sunday wasn’t quite done yet. He stared into the pit for a moment, troubled. Two days. He’d never gone only two days between kills.

He had to be more careful, he thought as he dragged the hooker’s body from the bed, rolling her into the pit. He’d never gone to the same street twice, but he had tonight. It was like he’d been on autopilot as he’d driven away from Eve’s.

It was the stress. When this was over and he was done, he’d go back to his old way. Things would be normal again. He donned his protective gear, performed his duties, tossing the girl’s clothing in after her. When he was finished, he pulled the slab closed and picked up the girl’s cheap stilettos, carefully placing them heel out on the shelf next to Christy Lewis’s very expensive Manolos.

He stood back, surveyed his collection. It was a veritable time capsule of women’s shoe fashions spanning nearly thirty years. Most were, of course, on the most flamboyant fringe of fashion, the shoes no respectable woman would be caught dead wearing. Most were small sizes, as his victims had been. It was a more efficient use of his energy that way. Smaller victims were more easily overpowered. More easily transported. Leaving all his energy for what happened in this room, as it should be.

There were exceptions. His eyes lowered to the bottom shelf, far left. Next to the worn pair of work boots he’d removed from the man who’d dug his pit were a pair of scuffed pumps, black, size eleven. They were plain. Ugly. Matronly, even. They’d been out of style thirty years ago. Which was why they’d been relegated to the church charity bin.

He remembered her digging them from the bin along with the articles of clothing that had been too worn to make decent rags. A few dresses for herself. Trousers for her sons that would be too short for the older, and far too large for the younger. But she didn’t care. Didn’t care that everyone knew every stitch she wore was fished from the charity bin. Didn’t care that her sons were laughingstocks of the entire town.

She’d had no pride. No shame. Nothing but a selfish, unquenchable thirst. He carefully took one of the pumps from the shelf, studied it, remembering. They were scuffed because she’d fallen down all the time.

She’d fallen down all the time because she was drunk. As were the constant stream of paramours she entertained to earn her next bottle. Except a few of them hadn’t been as drunk as she. And a few of them had come with a different price in mind for that next bottle.

His hand clenched into a fist and he abruptly relaxed it. No point in damaging the most valuable of his souvenirs. He remembered the day he’d taken these shoes from her feet, minutes after he’d taken his hands from her throat.

Seconds after he’d taken her miserable life.

He remembered the sight of her swinging from the tree outside the rusted-out trailer she’d had the nerve to call their home. No pride. No shame. Now, no life.

He’d chosen the branch carefully. She’d been a tall woman. That she hadn’t passed those genes to him had often struck her as funny.

He’d laughed about it himself as he’d hoisted her up, left her feet dangling. It had taken more energy than he’d expected, but it had been worth it. Of course tying the noose had been no problem. He’d had months to practice the technique. There hadn’t been much else to do, in juvenile detention. Not much more to do than watch his own back and dream of his hands around her throat.

He’d expected the moral satisfaction, even the thrill as she drew her last breath. What he hadn’t expected was the pure, sexual release. It had caught him off-guard, that first time. He lifted his eyes, surveyed his collection. He’d known to expect it every time that followed.

He looked back at the shoe in his hand. He’d strung her up and left her swinging. No one had questioned that she’d killed herself. Everyone had been relieved that she was finally gone. His only regret was that she’d been dressed in the cast-off Sunday dress she’d pulled from the church charity bin and not like the whore she was. And that he hadn’t had his pit then. He would have enjoyed walking over her any time he chose.

He placed the shoe back on the shelf, straightened it neatly. The next pair of shoes he placed on the shelf would be Rachel Ward’s, victim five of his six, who’d already agreed to meet him tomorrow night. Tonight, he amended.

But the next body into the pit would be Eve’s. Eventually, he’d have her here. She’d be silenced, her worst fear realized. She’d almost died twice. Third time was a charm.

Tuesday, February 23, 4:30 a.m.

Harvey Farmer sat drumming his fingers on his kitchen table when Dell returned, looking cold and tired. “Where have you been?” Harvey snapped.

“Following Jack Phelps, just like we agreed.” There was attitude in his son’s voice that Harvey did not like and he smelled like perfume. Again.

“And what did Phelps do?”

“Went to a bar, then sat outside for a few hours waiting for some guys to come out.”

Harvey’s brows lifted, sniffing a break. “Guys? Really?”

“No, not like that. Phelps is very much into women. He was waiting for these guys to come out so he could write down their license plates. I guess they’re suspects.” Dell dragged his palms down his face. “This plan of yours isn’t working.”

“It will. Be patient.” He jumped when Dell’s hand slammed down on the table.

“I’m done being patient. How long have you followed them, hoping they stumble?”

Harvey cocked his jaw. “Since I put your brother in the ground.”

“And so far? Nothin’.”

“Not nothing. Pages of notes on what they’ve done, who they’ve seen… You’ve been at this three weeks.” Fired by the article that made my son’s murderers look like gods. Harvey had welcomed Dell’s rage. Now he needed to harness it before Dell did something wild. “They’re on a big case. They’ll be under pressure to make an arrest.”

Dell scoffed. “They couldn’t find a crook if they tripped over him.”

“Exactly. When they can’t arrest somebody, they’ll find a scapegoat.”

“Like VJ,” Dell murmured.

“Like VJ,” Harvey repeated. “Here are the pictures I took of Webster tonight.” He handed the memory card from his camera to Dell. “Group them with the ones you took of Phelps and print them out. We’ll regroup in the morning.”

Tuesday, February 23, 6:45 a.m.

“You’re here early,” Jack said, dropping into his chair.

“I had a busy night. Somebody tried to break into Eve’s place last night.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I tried. Left you a message on your cell. Figured you were just sound asleep. If the unis had found anything, I’d have called your home phone and woke you up.”

Jack frowned at his cell phone. “There is no call from you in my log.”

Noah wanted to tell him to cut the bullshit, but didn’t have the energy. “Maybe you need a new phone,” he said wearily. “I asked Micki to check the area around Eve’s apartment this morning. We’ll see what she finds. Is one of those for me?”

Jack had two full cups from his favorite coffee house. “They were both for me, but you look like you need it more.” He slid a cup across their desks. “What’s that?”

“Eve’s test participants. I’m comparing them against the suicide reports.”

“She gave you the list?”

“I didn’t have to ask twice. So far, no matches. That’s the good news.”

“Bad news is you’ve got a long list and we don’t know who he’s targeting next.”

“It’s not that bad. Eve separated out the heavy users. If he’s luring them to meet him somewhere, it stands to reason that he’d have a better chance of encountering them in the virtual world the more frequently they play.”

“Makes sense to me.”

Noah sat back, pushing the list away for a little while. “So why are you here early?”

“I found Taylor Kobrecki’s pals at a bar last night. The bar was the first number on Kobrecki’s grandmother’s LUDs. She called the minute you left her yesterday.”

“I bet his pals say they haven’t seen him in weeks and Taylor would never hurt a fly.”

“Almost word for word. When I asked their names, they gave me every crank-call name in the book, so I waited for them to leave and copied down license plates. I’ll run their addresses. One of them could be hiding him.” Jack tossed his hat to his desk. “Although if Kobrecki’s IQ is anywhere near his Neanderthal pals’, there’s no way in hell he’s smart enough to have pulled this off.”

“Did you talk to any of the women who filed complaints about him?”

“Two of the three. Both caught him staring in the bedroom window. Both filed a complaint and suddenly things started breaking in their respective apartments. Finally both moved out, saying Mrs. Kobrecki would lie like a rug to protect her grandson.”

“So he’s a peeper and a sniffer. Could he have moved to murder? It’s a big step.”

Jack shrugged. “Like I said, based on the friends he hangs with, I don’t think he’s got the brains. But we’ll keep looking for him, if for no other reason than to cross him off.”

“Speaking of lists, I need to get back to this one. We’re going to have to decide if we begin contacting the heavy users on Eve’s list or not. If we do, Eve will bear the brunt.”

“And if we don’t,” Jack said seriously, “we could find one of them hanging from a rope. There’s really no choice, Web.”

“I know,” Noah said. “And Eve knows that, too.”

“Give me half of the names,” Jack said. “I think our time is better spent identifying potential victims than tracking Taylor Kobrecki.”

“You’re right.” Noah gave him half the stack. “Focus on the heavy users.”

They worked for twenty minutes in silence, and then Jack spoke in a strained tone. “Web, I think I found Samantha Altman.”

Noah’s head jerked up. “What? Eve said she wasn’t on the list.”

“She wasn’t, not as Samantha Altman.” Jack handed Noah a single sheet across their desks. “I put a check next to her name.”

“Samantha Porter,” Noah read, then he remembered. “She’d just gotten divorced. Porter was her married name, but she’d gone back to Altman.”

“But when she signed up for this study, she was still Samantha Porter.”

“Eve’s got her in the lightest user group. Zero to five hours a week.”

“Samantha couldn’t play if she was dead,” Jack said dryly, then he frowned when Noah picked up the phone. “What are you doing?”

“Calling Eve.”

“At this hour?”

“She won’t mind.”

“Noah?” Her voice was husky with sleep and he pushed the distracting mental image of her snug in bed from his mind. “What’s happened?”

“We found Samantha Altman, the first victim, on the list you gave me last night.”

He heard the creak of bedsprings. “That’s impossible. I checked myself. Twice.”

“She’d just gotten divorced and Altman was her maiden name. She’d registered with you as Samantha Porter. She was in the light user group.”

There was a pause, then a quiet sigh. “Because she was dead. She would have been at the zero end of zero to five hours a week. Oh God.”

“Can you check her usage history, find out when she stopped playing?”

“Already checking. Hold on… Two weeks ago she went from six hours a day to nothing. I must have seen this. How did I miss this?”

“If you had seen it, you just would have thought she’d lost interest in the study.”

“You’re right.” She drew a breath. “Hysterics won’t help. What do you need?”

Noah’s respect for her ratcheted up. “I take it you never saw the avatar who was with Christy Sunday night.”

“He wasn’t on.” She went quiet. “I’d convinced myself that a local killer trolling for local women was more likely to find my test subjects as we’d geographically stacked the deck. But now, three for three… Somebody has access to our subject list.”

“Jack is here. I’m going to put you on speaker. Who has access, Eve?”

“Jeremy Lyons. He’s Dr. Donner’s secretary. He typed the names in. And anybody who has access to Jeremy’s office. Jeremy keeps his user name and password on a sticky note under his desk blotter. If his computer is on, you can get in.”

“So anybody wanting the files would have to physically go to his office?”

“Well, no. If you connect to the university’s server from an outside line, you could also get in.” She hesitated. “With Jeremy’s password, that’s pretty easy to do.”

Which was how she’d found Christy’s address. “Who had access to his office?”

“Anybody who enters the building. Jeremy takes a lot of bathroom breaks and leaves his computer unattended. Anybody who knew about the study could have managed it.”

This wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. “Which includes who?”

“Dr. Donner, the committee that approved my thesis proposal, any of the members of the study itself, most of the grad students in the department, and ShadowCo.”

Noah frowned. “Why ShadowCo?”

“They sponsored my research. Not a huge stipend, but enough so that their PR people could say they put money toward responsible use of role play games.”

“In other words,” Jack said, “a helluva lot of people.”

“Well, maybe somebody saw him with Christy on Monday night,” Noah said. “If he broke into her house, we should have seen evidence of forced entry. If he lured her out, hopefully somebody saw them. Does Shadowland keep track of conversations?”

“It’s up to the individual. A lot of gamers don’t want anyone to know where they’ve gone or who they’ve met. Anonymity is a benefit of the game.”

“If the user does choose to save the conversations, where do they go?” Jack asked.

“They’re saved to the gamer’s hard drive. I suppose ShadowCo may store them on their servers, but that seems unlikely given the volume of conversations. It would be like if the wireless companies kept track of each individual text message or IM. They don’t because they simply don’t have the capacity. Did you get Christy’s computer?”

“Yes, but it’s… unlikely that we’ll find anything on it.” Especially if the killer had switched Christy’s computer as he’d done with Martha’s.

“We may have to resort to old-fashioned detective work,” Jack said with a wry smile.

Noah didn’t feel much like smiling back. “Eve, for now, I’d like a list of anyone you know who could have accessed the files. We’ll start with alibis for Donner, Lyons, and the grad students. I’ll be in touch.” Noah hung up and leaned back in his chair. “Well?”

Jack lifted his brows. “I was right. She would have been great at phone sex.”

Noah gritted his teeth, irritated. “Jack.”

“You have no sense of humor,” Jack said and Noah gritted his teeth harder.

“Christy Lewis. She’s online chatting up avatars around midnight Monday morning. She’s gotta be dead before nine o’clock, because she doesn’t show up for work.”

Jack grimaced. “And there’s a snake involved.”

Noah took the lid off the coffee cup Jack had brought him and stirred in his normal four packs of sugar. “We can’t forget about the snake. Why use a snake?”

“ ’Cause he’s a sick bastard. You don’t need all that sugar. This coffee is good.”

Sugar had become his vice when he’d quit the booze. “Habit. Okay, so we know he’s a sick bastard. He’s killed three women. Still, why the snake?”

“Maybe Ian can tell us more after he finishes the autopsy.”

Noah stood up. “He said he’d do it last night. Let’s find out if he’s done.”

Tuesday, February 23, 6:45 a.m.

Liza cooked the last egg they had. They were always low on food, but she’d been afraid to spend any money until Lindsay came home. If she ever comes home. The police weren’t looking for her. Nobody was looking for her, nobody except me.

She closed her eyes, so tired. She’d covered miles the night before, only to come up empty-handed. No one had seen Lindsay. She’s dead.

A wave of grief washed over her. Don’t give up. If Lindsay was lying in an alley somewhere, hurt, she was frozen by now. Don’t give up.

She lifted her chin. She had an English exam today. When Lindsay did return, she’d kick Liza’s butt for failing a test and losing her chance for a scholarship.

She went back to her room to get ready for school.

Tuesday, February 23, 7:25 a.m.

Noah and Jack found Ian at his desk, typing a report. “I was going to bring a report to Abbott’s 8:00 a.m. meeting,” Ian said. “You didn’t have to come down.”

“We’re stuck on the snake,” Noah said. “We don’t know why he used it and were hoping you found something that would shine some light on it.”

“Because he’s a sick bastard?” Ian said sourly.

“Told you so,” Jack said.

“I was hoping for a more scientific explanation,” Noah said. “Anything, Ian?”

“Plenty.” He pulled the sheet from Christy’s body. “She has the same puncture on her neck and was positive for ketamine, just like Martha. Unlike Martha, Christy was restrained at her ankles. The rope burns are only on the front, bruising on the back.”

“She was tied to a chair,” Noah said.

“I think so. There is also swelling in her elbows.” Ian looked up, his eyes weary. “We see that elbow swelling when the arms are kept crossed over the torso for long periods of time, like this.” He demonstrated. “But there’s no evidence of arm or wrist restraint.”

Jack frowned. “Straitjacket?”

“It makes sense,” Ian said. “A straitjacket will immobilize without leaving marks. I found bruising between her shoulder blades, same height as the chairs around her dining room table. I think she struggled, repeatedly rocking back against the chair.”

“Trying to get away from the snake,” Jack said, horror in his voice.

Noah cringed at the thought. “He tied her to a chair and set a rattlesnake on her?”

Jack looked ill. “If she struggled, she wasn’t sedated. Why the ketamine?”

“Good question. Perhaps he sedated her before, to get the jacket on her,” Ian said. “Officially, strangulation was once again the cause of death.”

“He terrified her,” Noah murmured. “Why? Other than the fact he is a sick bastard?”

“Sometimes it’s just because they can,” Jack said.

Noah sighed. “True. But why a snake? How did he know that would scare her?”

“Most people are afraid of snakes,” Jack said thinly. “It’s a common phobia.”

“I suppose. Still doesn’t feel right. What else, Ian?”

Ian shrugged. “She ate waffles a few hours before she died, with maple syrup.”

“And time of death would have been when?” Noah asked.

“Sometime between five and six yesterday morning.”

Noah did the math. “So she ate waffles around 3:00 or 4:00 a.m. She either made them in her own kitchen or she went out.”

“I didn’t see any evidence that she cooked,” Jack said. “I think she went out. And at that time of the morning, there aren’t many places that serve. This is a good break.”

“So we take her photo to the all-night diners and waffle houses around town.”

“She also filled her tank with gas. There were traces of hydrocarbons on her hands.”

“A waffle house near a gas station,” Noah mused. “When will you get Samantha?”

“Sometime after eight. Since I’ve given you my prelim, I’ll stay here and start on Samantha Altman’s autopsy as soon as she arrives. I’ll be in touch.”

Tuesday, February 23, 7:45 a.m.

Eve was frying eggs when David stumbled into her kitchen, rubbing his eyes.

“You need a new couch, Evie. I could feel every spring.”

She handed him a cup of coffee. “I know. I got it from a yard sale.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Nice to have someone cook for me occasionally.”

She put their plates on the table. “Don’t any of those other firemen cook?”

“Out of a Hamburger Helper box. Hey, these are pretty good.” “Even I can fry an egg. So, you gonna fix my roof today?”

“If it stays dry. Who was that on the phone earlier?”

Eve picked at her breakfast. “Noah Webster. They found the first murdered woman on my list. She’d signed up under her married name, but got divorced. Three for three.”

David sighed. “Sucks, kid. But you still aren’t responsible.”

“Neither Samantha nor Christy had played Shadowland before we placed our recruiting ad. They were there to be preyed upon because they signed up for my study.”

“And if you’d asked them to take a daily walk in the park and they’d been mugged? Would that have been your fault, too?”

He was right, but that didn’t make it any easier. “No.”

He set back to work on his breakfast. “You break into Shadowland yet?”

“Not yet. I upped my network privileges, but I still haven’t got the keys to the kingdom. I’m a lot closer though. Shouldn’t take too much longer.”

“So you’re going to stay here all day to work on that, right?”

“No. I’m not going to stay here all day so you can watch over me. But thanks.”

He frowned. “Then where will you be today?”

“On campus. Somebody’s gotten access to our study files. It’s the only way he could have picked all three women.”

His frown deepened. “And what will you do should you find this person?”

“Don’t worry. I’m not planning to make any citizen’s arrests. I’ll call Webster.”

“And what if he comes after you when you’re alone on campus? What then?”

“I’m licensed to carry a concealed. I never leave the house without my gun in my computer bag. Except for yesterday.” She bit at her lip. “I was so rattled over seeing Christy hanging like that, I forgot a lot of things.”

“Considering you were cuffed and questioned, it’s probably good you didn’t have your gun with you. I’ll drive you to school. Let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

Tuesday, February 23, 8:05 a.m.

Abbott tossed the morning Mirror on the table. “That punk reporter Buckland was at your scene last night,” he snapped. “What happened to securing the perimeter?”

Jack frowned. “I didn’t see Kurt Buckland there yesterday.”

Micki pulled the paper closer to where she and Carleton Pierce sat. “I didn’t either, and Christy’s house is pretty remote. We would have seen his car if he’d driven up. Must have parked a ways off and used a telephoto.”

Noah scanned the front-page article whose headline screamed RED DRESS KILLER and in smaller caps, THREE WOMEN DEAD. “He’s named all three women, including Samantha. Here’s a quote from her mother. ‘We knew our daughter could never have killed herself.’ ” He passed the paper to Jack. “I bet he was following us yesterday when we went to see Samantha’s mother.”

“Asshole reporter even added the part about the snake,” Jack said, pushing the paper away in disgust. “We would have held that back.”

“Find out where he was hiding,” Abbott said grimly. “I want to know how he knew about the red dresses and the snake and I want him kept away from our crime scenes.”

Carleton looked uncomfortable. “Are you sure that’s the best approach? It’ll just make him more determined. Maybe he would make a better ally.”

Abbott scowled. “I’m not embedding any media in my teams.”

“I didn’t say strap him to your chest like a papoose, Bruce,” Carleton said mildly. “I’m familiar with minds like his. If you deny him access, he’ll go on the offensive.”

“The doc’s right,” Jack said. “I’d rather control what this Buck-land guy knows. On the bright side, at least he didn’t know about the connection.”

Carleton looked around the table. “And that would be?”

“Ever hear of a computer game called Shadowland?” Noah asked before Jack could mention Eve. Noah wasn’t sure Carleton would be allowed to keep her involvement from her faculty advisor. Ethically Carleton might have to tell.

“I never got into computer games,” Carleton said. “But I take it that the victims did.”

“Big time,” Jack said. “Hours a day.”

“I have a few patients who have game addictions. They talk about a Worlds of War.”

“Warcraft,” Jack corrected. “Similar principle.”

“We found that all three women were participating in a psychological study at one of the local universities,” Abbott added and Noah wanted to protest, but it was too late.

Carleton’s brows shot up. “How did you find this out?”

“Confidential informant,” Noah said.

“Does this informant have a name that you’d care to share with the team?” Carleton asked quietly, but he was angry and Noah supposed he had a right to be.

Abbott nodded. “Yes. If it comes down to it, we’ll tell you.”

“For now,” Noah added, “we don’t want to put you in the spot of having to report it.”

“Pesky ethics,” Carleton said tightly, his smile forced. “Fine. For now. So… obviously somebody besides your CI knows about this study. Do you know who?”

“We’re investigating that today,” Noah said. “Your profile would be a big help.”

“I’m not so sure it’s accurate anymore. Knowing about the computer game could make a difference. Knowing there is a link to a psychological study makes an even bigger difference.” Carleton’s voice was sharper than Noah had ever heard it. “It’s possible I wasted five hours of my night on a profile that is completely meaningless.”

Noah closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Carleton. I didn’t think about that.”

“I guess not,” Carleton replied. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, then lifted his head. The anger was gone, but the irritation was still there. “Tell me what you can.”

Tuesday, February 23, 8:45 a.m.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for Eve Wilson.”

Dr. Donner’s odious secretary, Jeremy Lyons, pointed. “She sits back there.”

Eve closed her laptop quickly. Dammit. She’d been so close to getting into Martha Brisbane’s Shadowland file, but a man was coming her way. He was clean-cut, well dressed, but there was an arrogant gleam in his eye. Eve instantly did not trust him.

“Miss Wilson.” He held out his hand. “I’m Kurt Buckland, with the Mirror.”

She shook his hand reluctantly. “Mr. Buckland. I’m rather busy at the moment.”

He ignored her. “So tell me how you knew the three murdered women.”

Years of maintaining the secrets of Dana’s shelter had taught her how not to react. But it was hard. She blinked. “Murder? You have the wrong woman, Mr. Buckland.”

“You drive an old Mazda. Blue with a dented fender. Yes?”

“Yes. But I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your car still sits in front of Christy Lewis’s house. You were at Martha Brisbane’s apartment.” He handed her another photo. It was her with Noah and her heart sank.

He knew. Soon everyone would know that her study had lured these women to their deaths. Their killer would know they knew and the police would lose any advantage.

“You spoke with the detective,” he said. “I want to know what he said.”

Even as her heart pounded, she was relieved. The intruder last night was this reporter. Not a killer. “Talk to Detective Webster.” She swiveled in her chair, hoping he would leave.

Instead he leaned against her cubicle wall. “So. What was it like to die? Twice? Did you see bright white lights? God? Angels? Or was it hellfire and brimstone?”

Fury bubbled, but she kept her cool. “Use your imagination. It’s what you’re good at.”

“I’ll pick God and angels. So, when that man strangled you, did it hurt?”

It had. It still did, in her worst nightmares. Worse, it shamed her. No more.

Slowly she stood, damned if she’d be victimized again. “Yes, it hurt very much. I have a scar from where he wound twine around my throat. Would you like to see it?” She unfastened the leather choker she always wore, leaned forward, chin high. “Would you like to touch it? So that you can more accurately describe it to your readers?”

His eyes flashed. “You can’t bluff. I get what I want, or I will print your personal story. Tell me about these three murdered women and your privacy will remain intact.”

She smiled at him, a full smile that accentuated the dead side of her face. It looked creepy, she knew. Phantom of the Opera creepy. She’d perfected her half smile so she wouldn’t see the disgust she saw on Kurt Buckland’s face at this moment.

“You’ve already breached my privacy,” she said loudly. “Everyone in this room is googling me. They’ll be too polite to come and ask about it to my face. But they’ll talk among themselves. Bad move, raising your voice like that. You just lost your leverage.”

“The rest of my readers won’t be so polite,” he snapped. “They’ll point and stare.”

Eve laced her fingers loosely even though her insides were so taut she thought she’d break in two. “If you want a story, talk to Webster. You won’t get shit from me.”

He drew himself up tall and put his smile back on. “I’ll make sure you get a copy of tomorrow’s paper. For your scrapbook. You can paste a clipping next to this one.”

He tossed a photocopy of a murky newspaper photo to her desk and her taut insides shattered. That’s me. The day she’d been released from the hospital, almost six years ago. The face was horrifically scarred, the eyes wide and terrified. Eve felt the pain, all over again. But she’d made it through then. She was stronger now.

“One last chance,” he said quietly. “Nobody else has to see that.”

Eve made herself touch it. Keeping her hands steady, she brushed past Buckland, walked straight to the bulletin board and pinned the picture in the middle with a tack. Then she turned, her half smile in place. “I’m not afraid of you. Leave. Now.”

One of the other students rose from his cubicle. Jose was built like a brick, and now he put one of his beefy hands on Eve’s shoulder. “The lady said leave.”

“And stay away from my apartment,” Eve added, “or I’ll get a restraining order.”

Buckland glared. “I haven’t been near your damn apartment.”

“Save it for the judge. Stay. Away. From me.” With a final glower, Buckland walked away and Eve let out a breath. “Thanks, Jose. I owe you one.”

He took the horrible picture down. “You want me to shred this?”

Eve took it from his hands. “No. I think I’ll keep it.”

He took the choker from her stiff fingers and fastened it around her neck. Eve turned to thank him but something in his eyes gave her pause. “You already knew, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “I was doing research last year for Abnormal.”

The class she was taking now. “The mind of serial killers,” she murmured.

“I found articles on Rob Winters.” She winced and he grimaced. “I’m sorry, Eve.”

“It’s okay. Really.” She made herself smile. “It’s not like we can go around calling him ‘He who should not be named.’ That’s kind of long.”

His lips twitched. “I think that’s copyrighted, anyway.” He sobered, kindly. “None of us knew what to say, so we decided not to say anything. It’s your business. Your life.”

“Which I think I just took a little more back of this morning.” And it made her proud.

Her elation was short-lived. Donner’s assistant was watching her with ill-disguised curiosity from behind his round spectacles. She’d waited all morning for Jeremy Lyons to take his break so she could download the study files from his PC. She didn’t want access traced to her own laptop and she wouldn’t dig Ethan in any deeper than he was.

But Jeremy had stubbornly stayed and soon Donner would return from the class he was teaching. After Buckland, Eve wasn’t sure she had the energy left to stand up to Donner, too. Donner would demand to know what she’d done, why she’d told the police about Martha when he’d all but commanded her to forget Martha’s name.

Besides, Donner had access to the list. As did Jeremy. They could be involved. She’d thought it a hundred times since talking with Noah that morning, but it was no easier to believe. Donner was an academic, Lyons an annoying weasel. Neither of them looked like killers.

But then, neither had Rob Winters when she’d first met him. “Jose, can you divert Jeremy? I need to get out of here and I don’t want to deal with him.”

Jose’s eyes narrowed. “I hate that little troll. Just leave him to me.”

Jose blocked Jeremy’s view and Eve sailed by without detection, but once outside the building, the bubble of accomplishment popped. I don’t have my car. And then Jeremy was running out of the psych building, followed by Jose. Instinctively, Eve ducked around the corner, into the alley between their building and the next. From here she could listen and see without being seen.

“Where is she? Dammit,” Jeremy said angrily.

“She’s gone home,” Jose said. “Let her be.”

Jeremy looked afraid, and the hairs on Eve’s neck lifted. “I’m so dead,” he muttered.

It could have been simply an overused phrase, but Eve was taking no chances. Sticking to the alleys, behind and between the buildings, she began to run, her cell phone in her hand.