I Can See You

Chapter One

Minneapolis, Sunday, February 21, 6:35 p.m.

Homicide detective Noah Webster stared up into the wide, lifeless eyes of Martha Brisbane with a sigh that hung in the freezing air, just as she did. Within him was deep sadness, cold rage, and an awful dread that had his heart plodding hard in his chest.

It should have been an unremarkable crime scene. Martha Brisbane had hung herself in the conventional way. She’d looped a rope over a hook in her bedroom ceiling and tied a very traditional noose. She’d climbed up on an upholstered stool, which she’d then kicked aside. The only thing remotely untraditional was the bedroom window she’d left open and the thermostats she’d turned off. The Minnesota winter had served to preserve her body well. Establishing time of death would be a bitch.

Like many hangers, she was dressed for the occasion, makeup applied with a heavy hand. Her red dress plunged daringly, the skirt frozen around her dangling legs. She’d worn her sexiest five-inch red stilettos, which now lay on the carpet at her feet. One red shoe had fallen on its side while the other stood upright, the heel stuck into the carpet.

It should have been an unremarkable crime scene.

But it wasn’t. And as he stared up into the victim’s empty eyes, a chill that had nothing to do with the near-zero temps in Martha Brisbane’s bedroom went sliding down his spine. They were supposed to believe she’d hung herself. They were supposed to chalk it up to one more depressed, middle-aged single woman. They were supposed to close the case and walk away, without a second thought.

At least that’s what the one who’d hung her here had intended. And why not? That’s exactly what had happened before.

“The neighbor found her,” the first responding officer said. “CSU is on the way. So are the ME techs. Do you need anything else?”

Anything else to close it quickly, was the implication. Noah forced his eyes from the body to look at the officer. “The window, Officer Pratt. Was it open when you got here?”

Pratt frowned slightly. “Yes. Nobody touched anything.”

“The neighbor who called it in,” Noah pressed. “She didn’t open the window?”

“She didn’t enter the apartment. She tried knocking on the door but the victim didn’t answer, so she went around back, planning to bang on the window. She thought the victim would be asleep since she works nights. Instead, she saw this. Why?”

Because I’ve seen this scene before, he thought, déjà vu squeezing his chest so hard he could barely breathe. The body, the stool, the open window. Her dress and shoes, one standing up, one lying on its side. And her eyes.

Noah hadn’t been able to forget the last victim’s eyes, lids glued open, cruelly forced to remain wide and empty. This was going to be very bad. Very bad indeed.

“See if you can find the building manager,” he said. “I’ll wait for CSU and the ME.”

Officer Pratt gave him a sharp look. “And Detective GQ?”

Noah winced. That Jack Phelps wasn’t here yet was not, unfortunately, unusual. His partner had been distracted recently. Which was the polite way of saying he’d dropped the ball more than a few times.

“Detective Phelps is on his way,” he said, with more confidence than he felt.

Pratt grunted as he left in search of the manager and Noah felt a twinge of sympathy for Jack. Officers who’d never met Jack disrespected him. Thanks to that magazine. A recent article on the homicide squad had portrayed them as supermen. But Jack had borne the brunt, his face adorning the damn cover.

But Jack’s rep as a party-loving lightweight started long before the magazine hit the stands three weeks before and it was a shame. Focused, Jack Phelps was a good cop. Noah knew his partner had a quick mind, seeing connections others passed over.

Noah looked up into Martha Brisbane’s empty eyes. They were going to need all the quick minds they could get.

His cell buzzed. Jack. But it was his cousin Brock, from whose dinner table Noah had been called. Brock and his wife, Trina, were cops, they’d taken it in stride. In a family of cops, it was a rare Sunday dinner when one of them wasn’t called away.

“I’m tied up,” Noah answered, bypassing greeting.

“So is your partner,” Brock responded. Brock had been headed to Sal’s Bar to watch the game. Which meant that Jack was at Sal’s, too. Damn him.

“I’ve called him twice,” Noah gritted. Both calls had gone to Jack’s voicemail.

“He’s having drinks with his newest blonde. You want me to talk to him?”

Noah looked up at Martha Brisbane’s lifeless eyes and his anger bubbled tightly. It wasn’t the first time Jack had blown off his duty, but by God, it would be his last. “No. I’m going to get the first responder back in here and come down there myself.”

Sunday, February 21, 6:55 p.m.

“Come on, Eve, it’s just a little magazine quiz.”

Eve Wilson glanced across the bar at her friend with an exasperated shake of her head before returning her eyes to the beer tap. “I get enough quizzes at school.”

“But this one is fun,” Callie insisted, “unlike that psycho research project that has you tied up in knots. Don’t worry. You always get the best grade in class. Just one question.”

If only it was the grade. A few months ago, getting A’s was at the top of Eve’s mind. A few months ago the participants in her thesis research had been nameless, faceless numbers on a page. The mug filled, she replaced it with the next. The bar was busy tonight. She’d hoped to numb her mind with work, but the worry was always there.

Because a few months ago Eve never would have entertained the possibility of breaking university rules, of compromising her own ethics. But she’d done both of those things. Because now the test subjects were more than numbers on a page. Desiree and Gwenivere and the others were real people, in serious trouble.

Desiree had been missing for more than a week. I should do something. But what? She wasn’t supposed to know that Desiree existed, much less that she was Martha Brisbane in real life. Test subjects were assured their privacy.

But Eve did know, because she’d broken the rules. And I’ll have to pay for that.

Across the bar, Callie cleared her throat dramatically, taking Eve’s silence for assent. “Question one. Have you ever gone on a romantic dinner to-”

“I’m busy,” Eve interrupted. For the next few hours there was nothing she could do about Martha and her other test subjects, but Callie’s quiz was not welcome respite. Do you believe in love at first sight, my ass. I hate those quizzes. Which, of course, was the reason Callie insisted on reading them. “Look, Cal, I took your shift so you could party.”

Callie shrugged the shoulders her cocktail dress left bare. “Nice try. I had somebody to cover for me. You should be studying, but you’re here, procrastinating.”

It was fair. Grasping three mug handles in each fist, Eve clenched her teeth against the pain that speared through her right hand. But until last year that hand couldn’t hold a coffee cup, so a little pain seemed a small price to pay for mobility. And independence.

She lifted the mugs into the waiting hands of one of her most regular regulars, quirking the responsive side of her mouth in the three-cornered smile that, after years of practice, appeared normal. “Normal” was right up there with mobility and independence.

“You’ve been buying all night, Jeff,” she said, surreptitiously flexing her fingers, “and haven’t had a drop yourself.” Which was so not normal. “You lose a bet?”

Officer Jeff Betz was a big guy with a sweet grin. “Don’t tell my wife. She’ll kill me.”

Eve nodded sagely. “Bartenders never tell. It’s part of the oath.”

He met her eyes, gratitude in his. “I know,” he said, then turned to Callie. “Hot date?”

“You betcha.” Callie nodded, comfortable with the scrutiny she’d received since gliding into Sal’s on ridiculously high heels. Her tiny dress would earn her significantly better tips were she to wear it next time she tended bar. Not that she needed any help.

Clerking for the county prosecutor was Callie’s primary means of putting herself through law school, but she’d recently started picking up extra cash working at Sal’s on weekends, her tip jar consistently filled to the brim. That dress combined with Callie’s substantial cleavage would send her cup running over, so to speak.

Hopefully Callie’s dress wouldn’t give their boss any ideas, Eve thought darkly. Because there’s no way in hell I’m wearing anything like that, tips or no.

So to speak. Eve squashed the envy. Never pompous, Callie was a beautiful woman comfortable in her own skin, something that Eve had not been in a long time.

Eve made her voice light. “Her date’s taking her to Chez León.”

Jeff whistled. “Spendy.” Then he frowned. “Do we know this guy?”

The “we” was understood-it included every cop that hung at Sal’s. Eighty percent of Sal’s customers were police, which made the bar one of the safest places in town. An ex-cop, Sal was one of their own, and by extension so was everyone on Sal’s payroll. It was like having a hundred big brothers. Which was pretty nice, Eve thought.

“I don’t think so,” Callie demurred. Her date was a defense attorney, which earned him poor opinion among their cops. Callie agreed, which was precisely why she’d accepted the date. Callie’s constant challenge of her own worldview was something Eve had always admired. “But he’s late, so I’m trying to get Eve to take this little quiz.”

“Is that that MSP rag with Jack Phelps on the cover?” Jeff asked, his lip curled.

MSP was the women’s magazine that juggled Minneapolis-St. Paul gossip, culture, and local concerns. Their recent exposé on the homicide squad had made instant, if temporary, celebrities of Sal’s regulars. It was a decent piece, although it did make their cops into white knights, a fact that had embarrassed the hell out of the detectives.

Jeff gave Eve a pitying look. “My wife made me take that damn quiz.”

Eve’s lips twitched. “Did you pass?”

“Of course. A man can’t stay happily married without knowing how to BS his way through one of those things.” With a parting wink, he carried the beer back to his waiting friends, all off-duty cops who made Sal’s their home away from home.

Callie rolled her eyes when Jeff was gone. “If he spent half the time he’s here with his wife, he wouldn’t have had to BS his way through this ‘damn quiz,’ ” she muttered.

“Don’t judge,” Eve murmured, dumping two shots of gin over ice. “Jeff’s wife works second shift at the hospital. When he’s on days, he hangs here, then takes her home.”

Callie frowned. “What about their kids? Who’s watching them?”

“No kids.” But not from lack of trying, Jeff had confided one night when the bar was empty and he’d had a little too much to drink. The stress had nearly torn his marriage apart. Eve understood his pain far more than Jeff had realized. Far more than she’d ever let anyone see. Even Callie. “I guess his house is kind of quiet.”

Callie sighed. “What else should I know so I don’t put my foot in my mouth again?”

Eve tried to think of something she could share without breaking a confidence. She wouldn’t tell Callie about the cop at Jeff’s table who was worried his wife was leaving him, or the policewoman at the end of the bar, just diagnosed with breast cancer.

So many secrets, Eve thought. Listening, keeping their secrets, was a way she could help them while she worked on her master’s in counseling. If she ever made it through her damn thesis she’d be a therapist, trading one listening career for another.

But I’ll miss this place. She’d miss Sal and his wife, Josie, who’d given her a chance to work, to support herself in the new life she’d started in Minneapolis. She’d miss Jeff and all the regulars, who’d become more like friends than customers.

Some she’d miss more than others, she admitted. The one she’d miss most never came in on Sundays, but that didn’t stop her eyes from straying to the door every time the bell jingled. Watching Noah Webster come through the door still caught her breath, every time. Tall, dark. Powerful. Look, but don’t touch. Not anymore. Probably not ever again.

She looked up to find Callie watching her carefully. Eve pointed to a couple who’d confided nothing, but whose behavior screamed volumes. “They’re having an affair.”

Callie glanced over her shoulder. “How do you know?”

“Hunch. They never socialize, are always checking their cells, but never answer. She twists her wedding ring and when the guy comes to the bar for their wine, he’s twitchy. So they’re either having an affair or planning a bank heist.” Callie chuckled and Eve’s lips quirked. “I suspect the former. They think nobody notices them.”

Callie shook her head. “Why do people always think they’re invisible?”

“They don’t see anyone but each other. They assume nobody sees them either.”

Callie pointed to a young man who sat at a table alone, his expression grim. “Him?”

“Tony Falcone.” Tony had shared his experience in the open, so Eve felt no guilt in repeating it. “He caught his first suicide victim last week. Shook him up.”

“From the looks of him, he still is,” Callie said softly. “Poor kid.”

“He couldn’t forget the woman’s eyes. She’d glued them open, then hung herself.”

Callie flinched. “God. How do any of these cops sleep at night?”

“They learn to deal.” She met Callie’s eyes. “Just like you did.”

“Like we did,” Callie said quietly. “You a lot more so than me.”

Yes, I dealt. But how well? Surgery could fix hands and minimize scars, but in the end one still had to be. It was easier here, surrounded by others who saw the darkness in the world. But when the noise was gone and the memories echoed in her mind…

Uneasy, Eve mixed another drink. “We all do what we have to do. Some have addictions, some have hobbies. Some come here.” She shrugged. “Hell, I come here.”

“To forget about life for a while,” Callie murmured, then shook off her mood. “I’ll take those out for you. It’s the least I can do since I’ve left you with the whole bar tonight.”

Eve arched her right brow, one of the few facial features that still obeyed her command. “It’s going to Detective Phelps and his bimbo du jour.” Who were necking at a table next to the TV wall where everyone would see them. Eve didn’t have to wonder if the choice was deliberate. Jack Phelps liked everyone to know when he’d scored.

Phelps should take a lesson from his way-too-serious partner. Eve stifled her sigh. Or perhaps Noah Webster should borrow just a smidge of Jack’s cheek. Jack hit on her every time he came to the bar, but in the year he’d been coming to Sal’s, Webster had never said more than “please” and “thank you” when she served his tonic water.

He came in on Mondays with Phelps, who’d order a gin and tonic for them both. Phelps always got the gin, Webster always the tonic. Then Phelps would flirt with the women and Webster would nurse his water, green eyes alert, but unreadable.

For a while she’d thought he’d come to watch her, but after weeks had gone by she’d given up on any such notion. Not that she’d reciprocate any move he made, so the question was moot. Although her mind still stubbornly wandered, imagining what she’d say if Noah ever uttered the lines that fell so meaninglessly from Jack’s lips.

Of course, fantasy and reality were very different things. This fact Eve knew well.

“We have to be fair here, Eve,” Callie said dryly. “Katie’s more than a bimbo du jour. She’s been with Phelps for three whole weeks. That could be a record for him.”

Katie had come in with the other groupies after the MSP article had hit the stands and Jack had reeled her in like a walleye. Or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, Katie would be gone soon and Jack would move to his next conquest. “So she’s more the flavor of the month. You gonna take these drinks or not?”

“Not on your life. Katie doesn’t like me much. You’re on your own, pal.”

“I thought so. I have to talk to Phelps anyway. That magazine you found is Sal’s copy. He wants Phelps to sign the cover so he can add it to the Hat wall.”

Sal had covered one wall of his bar with TVs, but the others were covered in photos, most taken by Sal, all of cops. One wall he’d dedicated to his favorites-the homicide detectives known as the Hat Squad for the classic fedoras they wore. The wall had, in fact, inspired the MSP article. One day one of their staff writers had wandered in to Sal’s and been instantly charmed. To the public, the hats were an unofficial uniform, but to the detectives who proudly wore them, the hats were a badge of honor. Every member of the squad owned at least one fedora.

When a newly promoted detective solved his first case, he was presented with a fedora by his or her peers. It was tradition. Eve liked that. As years passed and more murders were solved, the detectives supplemented their own hat collections according to their personal style and the season-felt in the winter, sometimes straw in the summer.

Eve had never seen Noah Webster wear anything but black felt. It suited him.

“I was wondering why Sal moved the picture frames around,” Callie said, pointing to the large, new bare spot on the wall. “But not even Phelps’s head is that big.”

Eve chuckled. “Sal’s done a collage. He got all the detectives whose pictures were in the article to sign the page from the magazine. Phelps’s cover is supposed to be at the center.” She sobered. “But Phelps won’t sign it, even though Sal all but begged him.”

Callie’s brows shot up in surprise. “Why? Jack’s not going for humble now, is he?”

Eve studied Jack, who was discreetly checking his cell phone for the third time in a half hour. He returned the unanswered phone to his pocket, and his lips to Katie’s pouting mouth. “Who knows why men like Jack Phelps do the things they do?”

A bitter frown creased Callie’s brow. “Because they can. Poor Sal.”

“I promised him I’d ask Phelps one more time.”

Callie closed the magazine and Jack’s face stared up from the cover. He was a dead ringer for Paul Newman, down to his baby blues. And, Eve thought, he knew it. “You’re going to pander to that ego?” Callie huffed. “You hate Jack as much as I do.”

Eve smiled. “But I love Sal. He’s given me so much and this means a lot to him. He found some old photos of himself wearing his hat before his accident.” Before he’d been forced to give up the career that had been his life. “He wanted to do a Hat Squad photo exposé of his own. For Sal, I can pander to Phelps’s ego for a few minutes.”

Callie’s frown eased. “You have a good soul, Eve.”

Embarrassed, Eve put the drinks on a tray. “Watch the bar for me.” But she hadn’t taken a step when the door opened, jingling the bell and letting in a gust of frigid air. Her eyes shot to the door before she reminded herself that it was Sunday.

She started to turn back to the bar, then stopped. Because Sunday or no, there he was. Noah Webster. Filling the doorway like a photo in a frame.

Suddenly, as always, all the oxygen was sucked from the room. He paused in the doorway and Eve couldn’t tear her eyes away. Dressed in black from his fedora to his shiny shoes, he looked, as always, as if he’d stepped straight from an old film noir. There was something edgy, almost thuggish in the way he carried himself, a coiled danger Eve didn’t want to find attractive. As if she’d ever had a choice.

He was linebacker big, his shoulders nearly touching the sides of the door, so tall the top of his hat brushed the doorframe most men cleared with ease. Heavy stubble darkened his jaw and her fingers itched to touch. Look, but don’t touch. The mantra was ingrained.

He closed the door and Eve dragged in a ragged breath. Normally she was prepared before he came through the door, defenses ready. Today he’d taken her by surprise.

“I’d say that’s a yes,” Callie said softly.

“Yes, what?” Eve asked, her gaze hungrily following Noah, who was striding across the bar toward Jack’s table. He was angry. She could feel it from where she stood.

Apparently Jack did, too. Eve watched the briefest shiver of alarm pass through Jack’s eyes, followed by sly calculation, then wide-eyed surprise. He frowned at his cell phone and Eve remembered seeing him check it, three times. SOB. His partner needed him and here he’d sat, showing off his sexual prowess with his bimbo du jour.

“Yes to number six,” Callie murmured. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Eve jerked her eyes to Callie and saw she’d flipped the magazine open to that damn quiz again. “Will you cut it out? The answer is no. N-O.”

“Lust then. Can’t say that I blame you. He’s a lot more potent in person, all burly and broody.” She turned to the article and the picture of Webster. “Doesn’t do him justice.”

Eve refused to look. It didn’t matter. She’d seen that picture hundreds of times. At home. In private. That Callie had seen her reaction to Noah’s entrance in public was bad enough. But who else had seen? And worse, pitied her adolescent fascination with a man who’d never said more than please or thank you?

Her face heated, making it worse. She knew the scar on her cheek, almost invisible under her makeup, was now blazing white against her scarlet face. Out of habit, she turned her face away, reaching for his bottle of tonic water. Then she put it back. From the look of their conversation, Webster had come to fetch Jack. He wouldn’t be staying.

She busied her hands, pouring coffee into two Styrofoam cups, adding spoonfuls of sugar. “Can you just put that damn magazine away?”

“Eve, I only could see it because I’m your best friend. Nobody else noticed a thing.”

Eve’s laugh was bitter. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

Callie smiled wryly. “Did it work?”

“No.” Eve lifted her eyes, saw Jack Phelps putting on his coat. “But on the upside, Phelps is leaving. I won’t have to ask him to sign that damn cover for Sal.”

“Unfortunately, he’ll be back.”

As will his partner. Next time I’ll be ready. And next time I won’t even look. Eve snapped lids on the coffee cups. “Do me a favor. Take these to them. It’s cold tonight.”

“Thank you.” Noah took the cup of coffee from Sal’s new weekend bartender. The men had been talking about her. Curvy and blonde, she was quite a package.

But she wasn’t the woman he’d been coming to see for months. The one he thought about long before walking into Sal’s every week, and long after leaving. That would be the tall, willowy brunette quietly standing behind the bar, dark eyes wide. Watching me.

Watching everyone. Eve Wilson reminded him of a doe, head always up. Always aware. He wondered what had happened to make her that way. There was a fragility, a vulnerability her eyes didn’t always mask. Whatever had happened, it had been bad.

Which hadn’t taken a detective to figure out. Up until six months ago, she’d borne a visible mark of past violence, a scar on her cheek. Rumor had it that a surgeon had worked magic with his knife, because now it was barely visible. Rumor also had it that the black leather choker she wore around her neck covered another scar, much worse.

Noah had lost count of the number of times he’d been a mouse click away from finding out what had put that wary guard behind the façade of calm. But he hadn’t. He wanted to believe he respected her privacy, but knew he didn’t want to know. Because once he knew, it would change… everything. The knowledge rattled him.

Conversely, very little seemed to rattle Eve, even the clumsy advances of drunken customers. More than once in the last year Noah had been tempted to come to her aid, but she always managed-either on her own or with the help of one of the other cops.

The men took care of her. They liked her. They lusted after Callie, but liked Eve, which left Noah grimly reassured. He would’ve had a much harder time sitting with his damned tonic water week after week had it been the other way around, because long before he walked in every week and long after he left, he wanted her. But he had only to look at the mugs of beer and glasses of liquor surrounding him to know he couldn’t have everything that he wanted. Some things, like Eve, were best left untouched.

However difficult she was to rattle, Eve had been startled tonight. Her dark doe eyes had widened. Flared to life. And for that undefended split second, his heart stumbled, the hunger in her eyes stroking the ego he’d tried so hard to ignore. But he’d come to get Jack. And it didn’t matter anyway. That Eve was interested didn’t negate any of the reasons he’d vowed to keep his distance. If anything, it underscored them.

He pulled his eyes back to Callie, who still stood in front of him, studying him. “Eve thought you might want something to keep you warm when you went back out,” she said, shivering in a skimpy black dress that left little to the imagination.

“Tell her I appreciate it. You should get away from the door. You’ll catch cold.”

Callie’s smile was self-deprecating. “The things we women do for fashion.”

Looking over his shoulder, Noah watched Callie take the other cup she held to Jack. She spared his partner no conversation, simply leaving the cup on the table. Jack wouldn’t have heard her anyway. He was soothing Katie, who was pouting because he had to leave. Noah bit back what he really wanted to say, about both Katie’s pout and Jack’s idiotic song and dance about no cell phone reception in the bar.

Noah pulled out his own phone. Just as he’d thought, strong reception. He wasn’t sure if Jack believed his own excuses, thought Noah was stupid enough to believe them, or just didn’t care if anyone believed him or not. Regardless, Noah was going to have to report him soon. Jack had missed too much work.

The thought of turning in his own partner made him sick. When Jack focused, he was a damn good cop. If he could just keep his fly zipped, there would be no issue.

“Noah. Over here.” His cousin Brock was waving from his table along the far wall. “You found him, I see,” Brock said quietly when Noah approached.

Noah nodded. “I need his eyes on the scene.” He thought about Martha Brisbane, still hanging from her ceiling, eyes wide open. “This is going to be a bad one.”

“Call if you need me.” Brock glanced to the bar where Eve was shaking a martini, her gaze constantly roving the bar. “On any subject,” he added, accusingly.

“I will,” Noah said and Brock shook his head in disgust.

“That’s what you always say. You gotta fish or cut bait, man. This has gone on long enough. You’re playing with fire, every damn time you walk into this bar.”

It was true. “I know.” Still he shrugged. “When I close this case.”

Brock’s jaw hardened. “That’s what you always say.”

That was true, too. Noah always promised that this time would be the last he’d walk into Sal’s, but he always came back. He’d spent ten years battling one addiction, only to find another. Eve Wilson was his weakness, dangerous in more ways than one.

“I know,” Noah repeated, reaching for the four packets of sugar he took in his coffee.

Brock pushed the sugar container away. “I’d taste it first if I were you.”

Noah did and drew a quiet breath. Eve had added it already. He’d ordered coffee maybe twice in the last year, and had added his own sugar each time. She’d not only watched, she’d remembered. The look on Brock’s face said he knew it, too.

“She’s a good bartender,” Noah said. “I bet she remembers what you always order.”

Brock rolled his eyes. “You’re a goddamn fool, Noah.”

Noah sighed. “Yeah, I know that, too. Tell Trina thanks for dinner. I have to go.”

Jack had just left, Katie clinging to his arm. He’d said he’d go home and change, then join Noah at the scene where they’d focus their full attention on finding out who’d killed Martha Brisbane. They’d do their jobs. For Noah, the job was all. When he’d hit rock bottom, the job was what led him out. He’d do well to remember that.

But Noah felt Eve’s steady gaze as he made his way toward the door and he stopped. He wouldn’t be coming back. Wouldn’t see her again. He hadn’t come within fifteen feet of the bar in six months, Jack eager to get their orders once Eve’s scar disappeared, shallow jerk that he was. And you? What are you? He’d sat there, and watched.

I’m a fool. Deliberately, he turned to the bar. Her eyes were quiet as he approached, but he could see the pulse hammering in the hollow of her throat beneath the choker she wore, and knew he hadn’t been wrong about that flash of hunger he’d seen before. He lifted the cup, a million things he wanted to say stampeding through his mind. In the end, he said the only thing that he could say. The only thing that made any sense.

“Thank you.”

She nodded once, swallowed hard. “It’s just a cup of coffee, Detective.”

But it was more. It was kindness, one more in a string of many he’d witnessed over the months, most when she thought no one was watching. But he’d seen.

Turn around and go. But he didn’t say anything, nor did he go, his eyes dropping to her hands. Her left cradled the right. A jagged scar wrapped around her thumb and disappeared up the sleeve of a black sweater that matched her short hair and dipped just low enough to be considered modest, yet still make a man look twice. And wish.

Calmly she splayed her hands flat on the bar as if to say, “Nothing to see here, please move along.” But for a brief moment her eyes flickered, and he glimpsed a yearning so profound it stole his breath. As quickly as it had come, it was controlled, gone, and she was back to guardedly serene. “Stay safe, Detective,” she said quietly.

He touched the brim of his hat. “Take care.” And good-bye.

Noah gulped a mouthful of the scalding coffee as he walked to his car, the sweet liquid sour on his tongue. Fish or cut bait. It would be the second one. As long as he’d clung to the belief that he was only hurting himself, he could go to the bar, just to see her. But tonight she’d nibbled, just a light tug on the line, but a tug nonetheless.

He’d reel in his line before he hooked her. And hurt her. Whatever she’d been through, it had been bad. I won’t make it worse by dragging her down with me.

Sunday, February 21, 7:15 p.m.

Lindsay Barkley woke screaming. Dogs. Snarling, baring their teeth, chasing. Run. But she couldn’t run. She was tied and couldn’t run. They were on her, teeth ripping…

She screamed and the jagged teeth disappeared, the snarling abruptly silenced.

A dream. She was panting, gasping for breath. Just a bad dream. A nightmare, she thought, as her mind cleared. She tried to move and the terror returned in a dizzying rush. This is no nightmare. The bed to which she’d been tied was real, as was the dark room. Ropes bit into her wrists and ankles. The air was dry. Her mouth was like chalk and the pillow beneath her head smelled of sweat and vomit. Her eyes burned like fire.

She tried to blink, but her eyes merely stared straight ahead into the darkness. Her eyes were glued open. She was naked. And so cold. No. This can’t be happening.

“Help.” What in her mind had been a shrill scream escaped from her throat in a hoarse whisper. Dry. Her throat was too dry to scream. He’s going to kill me.

No. I’ll get away. Think. Think. The last thing she remembered was being pushed to the backseat floor of his black SUV and the jab of a needle on her neck.

He’d looked so… respectable. Clean. Trustworthy. When she’d quoted her price he’d smiled politely. So she’d gotten into his SUV. She didn’t like getting into cars with her johns, but it was cold outside, so she had. I’m so cold. Somebody help me.

He said he had a hotel, that he’d take her someplace warm. Nice. He’d lied. He’d pulled over, dragged her from the front seat to the back, holding a gun to her head. Then he’d jabbed a needle into her neck. And he’d laughed, told her when she woke, she’d be torn apart by wild beasts, limb from limb. And that she’d die tonight.

He’d been right about the dogs. I don’t want to die. I’m sorry, she prayed, hoping God would still hear. You can’t let me die. Who will take care of Liza?

Upstairs a door opened, closed, and she heard the click of a dead-bolt. He’s coming. He flicked on the light and she could see. And her thundering heart simply stopped.

Shoes. The walls were lined with shelves that held more shoes than she’d ever seen outside a store. They were grouped by the pair, heels out. Dozens of shoes.

At the end of the top row was a pair of stretched-out pumps with a tiny heel next to the five-inch leopard skin stilettos she’d pulled from her own closet, just hours before.

My shoes. God, please help me. I swear I’ll never turn a trick again. I’ll flip burgers, I’ll do anything. Don’t let me die here.

Desperate, Lindsay yanked at the ropes as he came down the stairs, but they were too strong. She drew another breath to scream, but again it came out hoarsely pathetic.

His expression went from expectant to furious the instant he came into view. “You’re awake. When did you wake up? Godammit,” he snarled. “I was only gone five minutes.”

“Please,” she begged. “Don’t kill me. I won’t tell. I promise I won’t tell.”

Pain speared through her when the back of his hand hit her mouth. She tasted blood.

“I didn’t say you could speak,” he snarled. “You’re nothing. Less than nothing.”

Terror clawed. “Please.” The pain was worse the second time, his ring hitting her lip.

“Silence.” He was naked and erect and she tried to get calm. It was just sex. Maybe this was a bondage fantasy. She dropped her dry, burning eyes suggestively to his groin. “I’ll make it good for you. I’ll give you what you need.”

She cried out when his palm struck her cheek.

“Like I’d put anything of mine in anything of yours,” he said with contempt. He climbed on the bed, straddling her. “You give me nothing. I take what I need.”

His hands closed around her throat, tightening his grip. Can’t breathe. God, please. Lights danced before her eyes and she flailed, trying to draw just one breath. Just one.

His laugh was faraway, tinny. Like she was in a tunnel. The last thing she heard was his groan as he climaxed, his seed hot on her frozen skin. And then… darkness.

Breathing hard, he stared into her face, now slack in death. Withdrawing his hands from her throat, he clenched them into fists. It should have been better. He’d needed it to be better. Dammit. She’d woken earlier than he’d calculated and he’d missed her postsedation hallucinations. During the hallucinations was always the optimal moment.

Whatever he whispered as they were going under, they experienced as they awoke. The abject terror in their eyes when they were waking… He’d learned long ago that their fear was far better than any drug, sending his orgasm into the stratosphere.

That had been denied him today. His breathing began to slow, his racing thoughts to settle. Which was the primary objective. The orgasm was just… incidental.

Nice, but completely unnecessary. He climbed off her, staying away from the blood sullenly oozing from her lip. He was always careful with the trash he collected. Hookers and addicts, crawling with disease. Disgusting.

It was late. He’d shower her stink off of his skin, get dressed, and do what needed to be done. He hoped somebody had found Martha Brisbane. He’d been waiting for days, the need to move forward to the next victim growing every hour. He couldn’t move to the next victim until the police found the last one. That was his own rule.

Rules kept order and order controlled chaos. The higher the chaos, the greater the chances of discovery and that wouldn’t do at all. So he’d follow his own rules.

He looked at the body on the narrow bed. She’d served her purpose. A diversion, a means to keep his mind clear while he waited for someone to discover Martha. Once he got his mind prepared for a kill, he had to move. If he didn’t, his mind raced too fast.

Options, scenarios, outcomes. It was distracting, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted. In his line of work, he had to be sharp, every day. Now, more than ever.

He grabbed the steel handle in the concrete floor. The slab moved silently on well-oiled bearings, revealing the pit where he’d disposed of dozens of bodies over the years. Hookers. Addicts. Trash nobody would miss. The world is a better place without them here. Dozens of victims and the police had never had even a whiff of suspicion.

He sniffed in disdain. “Modern-day heroes,” he muttered, quoting the shallow, pathetically written article all the detectives claimed embarrassed them, but he knew better. They’d secretly preened, thrilled to be so elevated in the public’s regard.

They were simply thugs with big guns and very small brains. Easily manipulated. He should know. He’d been manipulating them for years. They just didn’t know it.

That was about to change. He’d bring them down, humiliate them. Show everyone what they really were. The premise of his plan was quite simple. He’d do what he’d been doing for years-killing women right under their noses. He looked into the pit. But not like this. Not quietly. Not discreetly. And not the dregs of society no one would miss.

He considered the six women he’d chosen. Single women who lived alone, but who had family and friends who’d grieve their loss in sound bites covered by a sympathetic press who’d quickly lose patience with their precious Hat Squad.

Which was the point of it all. The six he’d chosen would capture the public’s attention, command their ire in a way no skanky, lice-infested prostitutes ever could.

Of course the irony of his choices wasn’t lost. His six had never walked a street or shot up, but they were hookers and addicts just the same. They simply plied their trade and fed their addictions in less traditional venues. They were women, after all.

He’d had to change his MO in other ways. No bringing them here where he had disposal down to a science. Instead he’d posed them in their homes, leaving clues of his choosing. He didn’t touch them, couldn’t risk putting his hands around their necks. He’d correctly anticipated the loss of the tactile would detract from the experience.

And he’d had to hold back. He couldn’t release himself on them. Any killer that left DNA behind was a fool. The strain of killing without the physical release had been a bit more difficult than he’d expected, but this hooker had taken off the edge.

It would be worth it. Headlines would scream SERIAL KILLER UNCHALLENGED and COPS CLUELESS. So true. A serial killer, the people would quail, in their own midst. Oh my. If they only knew he’d killed in their midst for years. Oh my.

How many victims would it take before they wised up? Martha was the third of his six. But they hadn’t found Martha yet and he was growing impatient. Fortunately he was disciplined enough to stick with his plan, falling back on the tried and true for relief.

He dragged the hooker’s body to the pit and rolled her in. He threw her clothes in after, except for her shoes. Those he would keep, as he’d done dozens of times before.

He donned the coveralls he’d taken from the man he’d hired to dig the pit, twenty years before. Who, bullet in his head, had become its first inhabitant. He shoveled lime from the steel drum into the pit, covering the body.

Quicklime hastened decomposition of flesh without the fuss and muss and foul odor, but one had to be careful. It was powerful stuff, highly reactive with moisture. He kept his basement dry with dehumidifiers, with a side benefit the preservation of his shoes.

The pumps he’d taken from the feet of his first victim nearly thirty years ago were in as good condition as the shoes he’d taken from victims over the last three weeks.

He finished the hooker’s burial by adding dirt to cover the lime, pulled the handle on the slab to cover the pit. Just as he’d done dozens of times before.

But although this killing had fulfilled its purpose, it was a shadow next to the triumph he’d feel when the police realized they had a bona fide serial killer on their hands.