
"I'm waiting for the punch line, Carmichael." McCall crossed his arms over his chest.
"He mentioned that later in the day they drove to the restaurant. Then they drove to the store, then drove home. Drove. He habitually uses that verb when he's with someone. That morning, he drove to the perfect place. Then went for a drive in the country. His change in verbiage indicates a change in reality. He was with someone, later he was alone. Who was he with and what happened to them?"
McCall took a step toward her. "Carmichael, you're off base accusing an officer of a heinous crime because of the verbs he used."
"I don't think so." Paige angled her chin. "Earlier this evening you told me you buy into statement analysis one hundred percent."
He moved toward her, his face tense in the harsh fluorescent light. "This skill of yours has merit when it comes to criminals. They deserve having every word uttered put under a microscope for you to pick apart. That's your job."
"And I'm damn good at it," Paige said firmly.
"Ever think you might be too damn good?"
MAGGIE PRICE
TRIGGER EFFECT
Books by Maggie Price
Silhouette Bombshell
\*Trigger Effect #47
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Prime Suspect #816
The Man She Almost Married #838
Most Wanted #948
On Dangerous Ground #989
Dangerous Liaisons #1043
Special Report #1045
"Midnight Seduction"
Moment of Truth #1143
\*Sure Bet #1263
\*Hidden Agenda #1269
\*The Cradle Will Fall #1276
\*Shattered Vows #1335
The Coltons
Protecting Peggy
Writing as Margaret Price
The Coltons
Wed to the Witness
MAGGIE PRICE
is no stranger to law enforcement. While on the job as a civilian crime analyst for the Oklahoma City Police Department, she analyzed robberies and sex crimes and snagged numerous special assignments to homicide task forces.
While at OCPD, Maggie stored up enough tales of intrigue, murder and mayhem to keep her at the keyboard for years. The first of those tales won the Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart Award for Romantic Suspense. Maggie is also the recipient of Romantic Times' Career Achievement Award in series romantic suspense.
Maggie invites her readers to contact her at 416 N. W. 8th St., Oklahoma City, OK 73102-2604, or on the Web at www.maggieprice.net.
To my former coworkers at the Oklahoma City Police Department for acting as my guide into the fascinating world of homicide investigation and forensic statement analysis. If longtime pals are truly gold, you guys are twenty-four karat.
Contents
The morning started off badly the instant Paige Carmichael woke in her hotel suite, flipped on the TV and heard the date. Just the reminder it was February tenth shifted her mood from half-asleep to sulky to totally ticked.
Offended and resentful soon jumped into the mix as things went downhill fast.
She burned her tongue on the coffee she brewed in the unit atop the minibar. While dressing, she snagged her only pair of panty hose. Dropped and lost the tiny back of her earring. Made two wrong turns in Oklahoma City's maze of unfamiliar rush hour traffic.
When she finally nosed her rental car into a slot marked Guest Instructor at the police training center, she was fifteen minutes late for her workshop.
Grabbing her briefcase, Paige opened the car door and stepped into the February morning. Although sunlight beamed down, the temperature was icy and she shivered beneath her tan cashmere coat. Despite running late, she did a slow surveillance of the parking lot that was jammed like Easter Sunday.
Paige didn't buy the cold, bright veneer of peace. Underlying it was a low hum of disquiet that skimmed along her nerves. Her sense of awareness had taken on an edge nearly two weeks ago when Edwin Isaac, the brilliant psychiatrist she'd taken down for murdering five prostitutes, killed a guard and escaped after a hearing at a Texas courthouse.
During his nearly year-long killing spree, the media had dubbed the killer "Gentleman Jim" because of the meek, soft-spoken facade he'd used when approaching his prey. After his capture, Isaac's polite demeanor hadn't faltered, even while eerily promising Paige they would see each other again.
Isaac had been as good as his word. After his escape, he'd left a message on her cell phone's voice mail, reminding her of that promise.
Since then, nothing.
Her early-warning system told her she was the only person lurking in the parking lot, so she hustled into the building. During her drive there she'd called the training center and alerted the secretary that she'd be late. Paige asked the woman to distribute the manuals shipped there by her employer, the Lassiter Group, a security and investigations firm. She'd also gotten the location of her classroom.
The clicking sound of her spiky red suede heels pierced the silence like gunshots as she rushed along the tiled hallway, shifting her purse and briefcase between hands while she tugged off her coat. After her crummy morning, she'd resolved once more to take what had happened three years ago in stride.
Her renewed resolve lasted only until she opened the door to her classroom, its seating done in auditorium-style with tables facing the far wall. Her gaze sliding over the awaiting workshop attendees, she dashed inside and stumbled over the outstretched legs of a lanky man seated at the table nearest the door.
"Careful," he said. The only thing that kept her from falling on her face was the hand he'd locked on her elbow.
"Sorry," she managed when she got her balance back. Smoothing her skirt, Paige noted the gold badge clipped to his belt.
"I'm not," he murmured. Easing his feet out of her way, he arched a dark brow and slowly shifted his gaze to her cherry-red jacket and slim skirt. He hitched up one corner of his mouth while he scoped out her legs as if memorizing them for a lineup.
Narrowing her eyes, Paige wrenched her elbow from his grip. The man leaned back in his chair, rested an ankle over one knee and grinned. He wore a dark suit, starched white dress shirt and a crimson tie. His hair was jet-black and his Mediterranean complexion only added to his looks.
Good-looking or not, he was an arrogant jerk, she thought as she strode past rows of occupied tables toward the front of the classroom. She knew exactly what type of man lay behind that pretty-boy face. Her reportedly sexy-as-hell rodeo-riding father had blown into Dallas like an ill wind and claimed her mother's heart. The minute Sara Sue Carmichael breathed the word, "pregnant," Daddy Dear saddled up and rode out of town, never to be heard from again.
Twenty years later, having learned zilch from her mother's experience, Paige got hitched to her own bad-boy charmer. And three years ago today she had found out how wrong Mr. Right had been. Now, here she was, barely avoiding a face-plant over a cop with a shit-eating grin that brought her ex all too clearly to mind. Paige's mood shot all the way to surly.
She settled her briefcase, purse and coat on the table beside the speaker's podium. When she'd called ahead, she asked the secretary to have the mix of twenty-five cop and civilian investigator attendees fill out a seating chart with their name and agency. Paige saw the chart on the podium. Her gaze focused on the list of names on the back row. The shit-eating grin belonged to Sergeant Nate McCall, Oklahoma City PD Homicide.
She'd shown her tomcat husband no mercy, she thought with grim satisfaction. And she would bet the bank that during her three-day workshop she'd have the opportunity to use Sergeant Lothario's own words to take him down a notch.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, scanning the attendees. There were three men for every woman in the workshop; more commissioned law enforcement officers than civilians from local security firms.
As usual for the first day of a workshop, they were all sizing her up.
A few seemed to regard her with outright skepticism. The majority studied her through unreadable eyes. Having worn a badge for eight years, Paige knew that everyone---especially cynical, seen-it-all cops---would take tons of convincing before they bought into the idea that forensic statement analysis was a viable investigative technique.
Not a problem. She'd taught the subject for more than two years and she was up for the challenge.
She pulled a legal pad from her briefcase and announced, "I'm Paige Carmichael. Your manual lists my background information. I'll fill in any blanks if you've got questions about my credentials."
A burly man with gray at his temples and carrying the no-nonsense air of a veteran cop spoke up. "Why'd you quit the Dallas PD?"
Paige had been asked the question more times than she could count. As always, it settled a hard knot of regret inside her. In law enforcement circles, a huge difference existed between ex and retired cops. Retired cops had served their full time. Ex meant there was some reason a person didn't have what it took to stay on the job.
"This is why." Paige held up her right hand, exposing the scar that extended from her knuckles to her wrist. The scar looked smooth and shiny, like a latex snake, and stayed perpetually numb due to nerve damage. She'd considered---then discarded---the idea of having cosmetic surgery. Instead, she wore the scar as a reminder of the havoc a charming son of a bitch could wreak in a woman's life.
"In the last homicide case I worked we had a string of five victims. All prostitutes. It took my partner and me nearly a year to zero in on a psychiatrist named Edwin Isaac. When we closed in on him, he squeezed off one shot before we took him down. That shot ended my ability to squeeze a trigger. A perpetual desk job wasn't what I wanted, so I resigned." Paige didn't add that the bullet had also sent the dominoes tumbling, unearthing her husband's betrayal and turning her life upside down.
"Tough way to lose your badge," the older cop commented. "The good news is you nabbed the killer shrink."
"The bad news is Isaac escaped two weeks ago, and is still on the lam." Paige saw a few cops exchange alarmed looks. "Now that you know about me, it's my turn to learn something about each of you."
She stepped to the closest table and handed the pad to an attractive female cop with a heavy black braid looped over one shoulder. "Tear off one page and pass the pad along. I want each of you to write down everything you did yesterday, from the time you woke up to the time you went to bed.
"Don't put your name on the page. You'll turn it in anonymously." She glanced at her watch, then retrieved a pen that had been left on the podium. "I have to check in at the commander's office, so you've got half an hour to complete your assignment. And don't think you can get by without turning one in."
She retraced her steps along the center aisle. When she reached the back row of tables, she dropped her pen on purpose behind Nate McCall's chair. Leaning down, she swept up the pen, pausing to zero in on his paper. It took only seconds for her to commit his handwriting to memory.
A half hour later, Paige was back at the podium, the assignment sheets stacked on the nearby table.
"Over the next few days you'll learn to view statements by suspects, victims and witnesses in an entirely different way. This technique is hard for a lot of investigators to accept at first because you're conditioned to believe a person with something to hide is going to lie."
"Get a clue, lady," the man sitting next to McCall said. "They do lie."
The comment garnered a slew of laughs. Paige checked the seating chart for the name of the man who looked something akin to an Italian playboy. Hugh Henderson, OCPD Homicide. The jerk quotient for that particular division just rose.
"You're right, Sergeant. If you back a guilty suspect into a corner and demand to know, 'Did you kill the convenience store clerk?' you'll probably be told a lie. But since your job is to find out the truth, operating that way won't help solve your case.
"Instead, have that same suspect write down what happened on the day the convenience store he was seen at got robbed. He'll probably choose not to lie because doing so causes stress. Instead, he'll tell you the truth, omitting anything that's incriminating to get you to believe he's innocent. The key to statement analysis is to pay attention to every word a person uses, and to believe what they tell you. Never assume someone is lying."
Paige knew from experience she had to dish up solid proof if she hoped to start making converts.
"When you received your enrollment confirmation, you were asked to bring a statement from an actual case you've closed. Did you bring one, Sergeant Henderson?"
"My partner's got it." Henderson glanced at the affable-looking sandy-haired man sitting on his left. "You remember to bring it?"
"Yeah." The toothpick stuck in the corner of the man's mouth bobbed with the word. While he reached inside his sport coat, Paige checked her chart. Steve Kidd. He pulled out a piece of paper, passed it to a cop at the table in front of him.
Paige moved around the podium to take the paper. "Sergeant Kidd, give me a quick summary of who wrote this statement."
"A guy called 911, claimed he got home from work and found his wife dead," Kidd said around the toothpick. "This statement is all we got before he had an emotional breakdown and his doctor had to sedate him."
Paige unfolded the paper. The statement was just ten lines. She read the statement, using a pencil to circle certain words, underline and connect others, and drew a box around specific ones.
When she finished her analysis, she said, "Again, I'm approaching this with the belief that the husband is telling the truth. I'll read his statement out loud, then give you my take on what happened."
"Sure thing," Henderson said, then shot McCall a smug look. Paige noticed the look was wasted, since McCall was intensely focused on her.
Paige began to read.
"'I came home. I noticed that the house is very quiet. I kept wondering where Mary was. I knew she had to be somewheres. I started trying to find her. I walked into her bedroom and there she was. All I could do is stand and wonder what to do now and finally decided to call 911 and tell them when I got home I found that someone had killed my wife. When you guys showed up you saw all the blood and everything in such a mess. Whoever killed her made her suffer, that is for sure.'"
Paige leaned an elbow on the podium. "In the first line the husband wrote 'I came home.' Later he told the police dispatcher that 'I got home.' It's significant that the subject uses different verbs to describe the same activity."
"How?" asked the female cop with the dark braid. "What difference does that make?"
Paige glanced at the seating chart. The woman's name was Tia Alvarado, a sergeant in OCPD's Vice detail. "We're creatures of habit. When we do something alone, we habitually use one verb to describe a specific activity. But when someone is with us, we use a different verb when talking about that same activity. It's an unconscious thing. So this shift in word usage can determine if there's a change in the number of people present at any given time in a statement."
Henderson shifted in his chair. "How does that tell you if our guy was alone or not?"
"In this case it doesn't because his statement is so brief. If this were an open case, I would recommend that when you and Sergeant Kidd reinterview the husband, you ask him how he spent the day prior to his wife's murder. Then the day before that, and so on. It would soon be clear which verb he habitually uses when he talks about being with Mary. And if every day he came home and found her alive, it would be a good bet she was still alive when he came home on the day she died."
Paige studied her audience. A few were exchanging looks.
"The husband tells us he 'noticed that the house is very quiet.' He's switched to present tense. That's a red flag because there's a good chance that part of the story isn't coming from memory. That he's making it up."
People had begun jotting notes.
"The subject writes that he started trying to find his wife, yet he went straight to her bedroom where her body was. Her bedroom. Not sharing a bedroom is unusual for a husband and wife. I would want to ask him about his and Mary's relationship.
"He then tells us 'I finally decided to call 911.' What's to decide? He claims he came home and found his wife dead, so calling 911 should have been automatic. Could be he was wondering if he had let enough time go by to call the police."
"Every word," Alvarado said. "You do look at every word."
Paige nodded. "A person gives him or herself away unconsciously because they're focused on hiding information. Patterns can be detected if you know what to look for."
She referred back to the statement. "In his third sentence the husband calls Mary by name. Later he refers to her only as 'my wife' and 'her.' He's trying to depersonalize Mary."
"Because by that point she's dead?" someone asked.
"I'd say so. A depersonalization is common in homicide cases when one spouse murders the other." Paige skimmed her gaze to the end of the statement. "The last sentence is the kicker. 'Whoever killed her made her suffer, that is for sure.' If I were working this case, I'd be sure to ask how he knows that."
She shifted her gaze to Henderson and Kidd. Both had their eyes trained on her. "In my opinion," she said, "the husband is as guilty as homemade sin. Is that how things turned out?"
"Man," Henderson said, shaking his head. "Man, oh, man."
"Yeah." Kidd pulled the toothpick out of his mouth. Paige saw that it was a plastic one with a curve on one end that held a length of dental floss. "It took us a couple of days, but we got a confession out of him." Kidd paused. "Did you read about this case in the papers, Ms. Carmichael?"
"I live in Dallas, Sergeant Kidd. Our media doesn't cover most crimes that occur in Oklahoma."
"Guess not." He slid the toothpick into the inside pocket of his sport coat.
"Statement analysis can be used in areas other than criminal investigations." Paige moved to the table beside the podium and picked up the stack of assignments. "Let's take a look at one of these." She fanned through the pages, spotted McCall's handwriting, plucked out the sheet and began to read.
"'I woke up, showered, shaved, got dressed, then drove across town and picked up a friend. We went to Nick's for champagne brunch. We left Nick's and drove to a movie. After the movie we stopped and had a drink. Then she and I went to a mall, did some shopping. Later I took her back to her condo. She unlocked the door, I turned on the lights. I went home not long after that. I worked on my car, watched TV, then read for a while.'"
Paige glanced up. Because several cops were sending knowing looks in McCall's direction, she figured Nick's must be a well-known hangout of his.
"I'm guessing this was written by a male since the author mentioned shaving and working on a car." She met McCall's gaze for an instant before looking back at the paper. "The author didn't introduce his lady friend by name. The norm for healthy relationships is a clear introduction. For example, 'My friend, Sally.' But in tumultuous relationships, introductions often are missing. Still, there's a sense of togetherness in that the author uses the word we in his initial description of his and his friend's activities. We went to Nick's, we left there, we drove to the movie, we stopped to have a drink."
"Hey, McCall," Henderson said, sending his coworker a leering look. "Just how much togetherness went on?"
Muted chuckles sounded while McCall shrugged, said nothing.
"A problem," Paige continued, "or disagreement occurred between the time the author and his friend stopped to have a drink and went to the mall. I know that because he shifted his language from we to she and I. That change shows a distancing. This problem continued when he got to his friend's condo. He was hoping to..." Paige paused. "Well, let's just say, hope is all he did."
"Holy---" Detective Alvarado flicked a slightly amused look over her shoulder at McCall before turning back to Paige. "How the heck can you tell when someone doesn't score?"
"The author mentioned that when he and his friend arrived at her condo, he turned on the lights," Paige replied.
"So?" Tia asked. "It must have been dark out."
"And turning on the lights would be taken for granted. So, mentioning the activity indicates it meant something." Despite her best intention not to, Paige looked at McCall. She felt a streak of satisfaction to see Sergeant Lothario's jaw locked tight and his eyes smoldering. "A reference to turning on the lights is prevalent in statements where a person wanted sex, but didn't get it."
"Why is that?" a man from a security consulting firm asked.
"No one knows for sure." Paige held up a hand to ward off the inevitable protests. "That's a long way from a scientific explanation. So is a cop's following some hunch that winds up solving a crime. You can't explain it. It just is."
"Hey, Teach, can I get my assignment back before you read it?" a man's voice spiked with humor asked.
"No can do." Smiling, Paige opened her briefcase, slid the assignments inside, pleased she was already gaining converts to the investigative technique she deeply believed in. "Like I said, I told you a lot about myself. It's only fair I learn a few things about each of you."
Paige had excused the workshop attendees for lunch and had the classroom to herself. Or so she thought until she glanced up and saw Nate McCall moving down the aisle toward her with what she sensed was a deceptive calm. Seeing him for the first time on his feet, he was taller, leaner than she'd first guessed.
"Aren't you going to lunch, Sergeant McCall?" she asked as she shut her briefcase. His cocky grin was just a memory; his face had taken on a closed look, and she decided he did the dead-eyed cop stare as well as anyone she'd ever seen.
"Kidd and Henderson will wait on me. I need to talk to you."
Not you and I need to talk, or we need to talk, she automatically thought. Verbally, McCall was putting plenty of distance between them.
"About?"
"You know damn well what about. I want to know why you started snarling the instant you laid eyes on me. And then on your way out of the room why you made sure to drop your pen behind my chair so you'd have time to peg my handwriting." He paused, giving her a pointed look that would make a civilian squirm in their shoes. "Jump in if I get any of this wrong."
He might be a jerk but he wasn't stupid, Paige thought, and felt her stomach tighten when he took a step forward.
"That way you could make sure you pulled my paper out of the stack so you could analyze it," he continued. "Why single me out?"
Faced with cold, hard facts, Paige conceded it hadn't been the smartest thing to let her personal baggage color her professional behavior toward one of her workshop attendees. Then again, Detective Studpuppy had asked for it.
"You leered at my legs."
He raised a dark brow. "That's it? My giving your legs an appreciative look made you decide payback was in order?"
"You leered." She lifted her chin. "You reminded me of someone I don't like. As a matter of fact, he's a total weasel."
Annoyance narrowed his eyes. "Are you always this quick to make assumptions about someone you've never before laid eyes on?"
Yes, she thought. Especially when the person was a man with the type of charmer's grin that put a sizzle in her blood. She'd been pulled in once by a blinding grin that prevented her from seeing the truth. Never again.
She ran a hand across her briefcase while acknowledging how bitter, vindictive and totally lame she sounded. "Look, I had a rotten morning even before I got lost twice on my way here. That little encounter with you went all over me."
"So you pulled out my paper on the off chance you could hammer me? What if I'd spent all day yesterday volunteering at an old folks' home or something?"
It was her turn to arch a brow. "Then I doubt you'd have mentioned turning on the lights."
"Lights," he repeated with derision. "Your area of expertise might have merit, Carmichael, but I'm not buying your explanation that you know someone's got sex on their mind just because they walk into a dark room and flip on a light switch."
She smiled at the temper smoldering in his eyes. "Was I wrong about what happened between you and your companion?"
"We argued. The way you came up with that makes sense. And it isn't a huge mental step to figure the odds are low of two people in the midst of a fight winding up in bed."
"You think it was a good guess on my part?"
"Exactly."
Paige eased out a breath, reminding herself it had also taken her time to buy into the merits of statement analysis. "You're entitled to your opinion, Sergeant. Maybe as we get deeper into the subject matter it will change."
He started to say something just as his cell phone chimed. Shoving back one flap of his suit coat, he pulled the unit off his belt and answered.
Watching him, Paige saw the way his eyes went flat and cool as he listened to the caller. No one had to tell her she'd just witnessed McCall slide into his cop's skin. She'd done it often enough herself when she carried a badge.
After a minute passed, he said, "I'm on my way. Make sure the uniform keeps the scene secured. Until the lab guys get there, he doesn't allow anyone in that freezer, including himself."
He hung up, clipped the phone back on his belt. "I've got a homicide to work. Don't expect me back today."
Paige blinked. "You're enrolled in my workshop and on call to work cases?"
"Have to. My partner's on maternity leave. With three of us from Homicide taking your workshop, things are spread thin."
"Hopefully you'll rejoin us tomorrow."
He paused and looked at her. Paige had the sense he was sizing her up with the same intensity he would if she were a suspect in the murder case he'd just been assigned.
"If I do make it back, how about giving me a break?"
She hoped he would be back. For reasons she couldn't explain, she felt an intense challenge to make a believer of Nate McCall. "I'll consider it, Sergeant."
Hours later, Paige rose from behind the desk in the office used by the center's guest instructors. Grateful she had the first day of the workshop behind her, she set the locks on her briefcase, then retrieved her coat from the closet tucked into one corner. The headache that had stayed with her all day hammered behind her eyes, tension knotted her shoulders and she hoped she could find her hotel without repeating the wrong turns she'd made that morning.
"Dammit," she muttered after she pulled on her coat and turned back to her briefcase. She'd had the secretary run a copy of each of the workshop assignment sheets so she could leave the originals untouched when she analyzed them. But she'd stuck the copies in her briefcase and left the original statements stacked on one end of the desk. Not wanting to take time to rekey the briefcase's combination, she coiled the sheets like a roll of paper towels and slid them into her red suede purse.
Swinging its strap over her shoulder, Paige grabbed her briefcase, then headed out of her temporary office. The click of her heels echoed against the now-deserted main hallway.
To acknowledge the three-year anniversary of her life getting blasted to smithereens, her evening plans included cracking open the minibar, room service and a long soak in the tub. With her headache drumming, she revised those plans to include a couple of aspirin.
Car keys clenched in one hand, briefcase in the other, she shoved open the door and stepped into the cold afternoon gloom.
With thoughts of the escaped Edwin Isaac never far from her mind, she paused just outside the door. The wind gusted, raking through her dark hair like wild fingers while her senses strained to catch the slightest noise, the slightest movement.
Maybe it was just the low, ominous-looking gray cloud bank sucking up what was left of the daylight that compelled her to settle her briefcase at her feet and slip her hand into her coat pocket. When her fingers failed to connect with the asp she habitually carried there, she swore a silent oath. She'd stowed the collapsible tactical baton inside her suitcase for yesterday's flight from Dallas to Oklahoma City. In her haste this morning, she'd forgotten to retrieve the weapon.
"Can't just stand here," she muttered. Picking up her briefcase, Paige hunched her shoulders against the chill and headed around the side of the building.
The instant she came abreast of a thick, bushy shrub she sensed a presence. Motion. The hair rose on the back of her neck. Her right hand instinctively went for the holstered Glock she hadn't carried in three years.
At the edge of her vision she glimpsed a towering black-clad figure wearing a leather mask charge from the shadows. Adrenaline blew through her system, and she had a crazy half second to think how her day was about to get worse.
Paige's elbow swept up toward the man's jaw at the same instant the side of his hand slammed into her temple. The blow shot jagged lights behind her eyes.
Stumbling off balance, she smashed against the hood of her rental car.
She had no time to think, to work out if the attacker was Isaac. No time to wonder if he had a weapon. There was no time to do anything but act and react.
Sucking in a breath like a diver going under, she tightened her hold on the briefcase, spun upward. Her mind catalogued her attacker's black leather mask and gloves as she slammed the briefcase into his gut.
His breath exploded in a grunt. It turned into a cursing rush when the toe of her shoe plowed into his knee. She knew if he had a weapon, odds were he'd have gone for it by now.
He locked an arm around the briefcase and yanked. Snarling, she held on like a pit bull.
Still gripping the keys in her right hand, she shoved one between her clenched fingers. She jerked on the briefcase's handle, yanking him into a forward stagger as she jabbed the key at his left eye.
He feinted and, instead, the teeth of the key raked a furrow along the side of his neck, drawing blood.
Howling, he swung his fist.
The blow to Paige's cheekbone sent pain grinding down her face. Reeling, she knew she was going down, and made sure she took him with her. She hit the pavement hard, and though she rolled, he landed on top of her.
The impact stole her breath.
He lunged up. Jerked the briefcase from her hold. Bolting in a half limp, he veered across the parking lot toward a six-foot cement block fence.
Paige shoved herself up, ignoring the flash of pain in her side and the throb in her cheek. She set off running after him. Eyeing him from behind, she realized the mask fitted over his entire head, like something out of an S&M flick.
She was a foot away when he swivelled. She dove under his arm and hit him hard. Instead of toppling, he took the impact, swung the briefcase. She twisted, deflecting the brunt of the blow with her shoulder.
She wished like hell she had her asp baton.
He lobbed the briefcase over the fence, then scrambled after it. She caught his pant leg when he was halfway over.
"Give it up, bitch!" he snarled, kicking wildly.
The toe of his shoe caught her in the jaw, snapping her teeth shut. She lost her grip on his pants, staggered back and landed on her butt. She was on her feet in a flash.
And knew there was no way she could get over a towering cement block fence in her snug straight skirt and three-inch suede heels in time to catch the scum.
"Dammit!"
Lungs heaving, breath ragged, adrenaline rocketing through her system, she crammed her trembling hands on her hips. Her jaw clenched as she listened to the bastard race through what sounded like high brush on the other side of the fence.
"Freaking February tenth," she muttered.
The patrol cop whose brass name tag said Vawter sat behind the wheel of his black and white, jotting a note on a report form clamped to a metal clipboard. He sent Paige a speculative look across the front seat. "You sure you don't want to go to the hospital, Ms. Carmichael?"
"Positive." A crackle of police traffic from the radio accompanied her reply. Even though she had a stinging sensation in her jaw and her right cheek was just now getting the feeling back, Paige had gotten roughed up a lot worse when she was a street cop. Nothing a couple of Advil couldn't help. "The other guy was doing all the bleeding."
"A stroke of luck, considering the way you said you went after him." Vawter was tall, with a linebacker's shoulders beneath his uniform jacket. His thick hair and vivid blue eyes reminded Paige of her Grandpa Carmichael. "It's going to take some doing to get the grime out of that expensive coat. And it's my guess you've got a few bruises underneath it."
"A couple." Already, her hip ached like a bad tooth.
"Might have been smarter to let the guy have your briefcase. Especially if you think it could have been the escaped shrink."
"Like I said, I've got my doubts it was Isaac." With the after-attack adrenaline still pricking at her wrists, Paige stared out the windshield toward the cement fence the scum had slithered over. "The voice didn't sound like Isaac's. And his waging an assault like that doesn't fit his profile. He first likes to play mind games with his prey. Attack comes later. When that happens, he doesn't leave his victim behind. He takes her with him."
"You said he called you after he escaped. Maybe he's ready for a face-to-face."
"Anything's possible."
"But you don't think it's probable."
"I don't know. He's been locked in a cell for three years. That changes a person." Paige pursed her mouth. "My partner and I suspected Isaac had an accomplice, but we could never prove it. If we were right, that could have been who mugged me."
Vawter nodded. "Let's look at things from another angle," he said. "In my experience, a run-of-the mill mugger wants cash, credit cards. Stuff a woman carries in her purse."
"You're wondering why he stole my briefcase. Maybe because I slammed it into his gut? Though he didn't even try for my purse."
"Plus, hanging around the police training center is a strange place for a masked mugger. Unless he's got a specific target."
"You're not saying anything I haven't already thought of, Sergeant." Fingering her cheekbone, Paige winced when she hit an extratender spot. "The briefcase is old. It first belonged to my mother, so it shows a lot of wear and tear. If the guy was some druggie aiming to boost something he could pawn for enough money to score a hit, he struck out."
Vawter studied the list he'd jotted on the report form. "Inside the briefcase was an extra training manual, a file folder with copies of reports and newspaper articles on Edwin Isaac, another file containing personal papers, written assignments the people in your workshop turned in and a premeasured syringe of epinephrine, used to treat your allergy to peanuts."
"And one banana," Paige added. Luckily, she'd left her laptop at the hotel.
"So, you said you cut the guy's neck with your car key?"
"I was aiming for his eye. He dodged."
"What color were his eyes?"
"I couldn't tell. The mask wasn't just your ordinary leather one. It fit over his entire head and had some sort of gauzy material over the eye holes. It looked like some kinky sex mask."
"Guess we'd better take a look at the local deviates. And we'll alert clinics and hospitals, in case someone with a wound to the neck comes in."
"I doubt I hurt him badly enough to need stitches."
"Gonna do the alert before my shift ends, just in case."
Paige furrowed her brow. "It just hit me that I forgot to put the original assignments in my briefcase, so I stuffed them in here." She patted her suede purse on the seat beside her.
"Are there just police officers in your workshop?"
"No, I've got some civilians who run security for local corporations. The subject I teach, statement analysis, can help them zero in on potential problem areas when they conduct hiring interviews. And if they discover their employer is being ripped off by someone on the inside, they can use S.A. to develop questionnaires to be filled out by possible suspects."
"So, it doesn't sound like you've got any criminal types for students." Vawter considered her for a second. "You ever been to Oklahoma City before? Made any enemies here?"
"My mom and I spent a day here a couple of years ago at the Murrah bombing memorial," Paige said quietly. "I haven't been back until last night."
"Did you manage to ruffle anyone's feathers today?"
Paige shifted her gaze out the windshield at the bushy shrub where her attacker had hidden. "I got on the wrong side of one of your Homicide cops."
"Yeah? Which one?"
"Nate McCall."
Vawter barked a laugh. "His daddy was my training officer when I was a rookie. You maybe got on the wrong side of Nate, but I don't expect he'd have mugged you for doing it."
"I agree." Paige thought of the way McCall had advanced on her, angry for picking on him in class. "Sergeant McCall utilizes a more direct approach."
"From what I hear, lots of women would agree with you on that."
Paige was determined to have what was left of her day end on a positive note. So, the first thing she did when she limped into her hotel suite was pour herself a glass of merlot. While sipping her wine she soaked out the majority of her aches in a tub frothing with vanilla-scented bubbles. Then she treated herself to the priciest steak on the Waterford Hotel's expansive room service menu.
Now, dressed in a white cashmere tunic and black tights, she sat cross-legged on the bed's sapphire-and ruby-toned comforter, her laptop humming, the assignment sheets from the workshop stacked beside her. The suite was large and airy with heavy, dark wood furnishings. Floor-to-ceiling windows bordered by emerald drapes spanned one entire wall. A love seat and chair upholstered in a rich, muted tapestry and a coffee table polished to a mirror finish were tucked into a cozy sitting area. On the table sat a silver bowl piled with fresh fruit that had been delivered sometime during the day. The accompanying card said the bowl was compliments of the Waterford's manager.
On the few times she'd had to travel during her tenure as a Homicide cop, the department's budget had barely covered a room in some concrete-block motel with a dollar-a-minute surcharge on the telephone.
Her present employer, the Lassiter Group, was Dallas's most elite security, protection and private investigations firm. Paige's generous salary and fat expense account definitely had its perks. Perks that she would give up in a heartbeat if she could have her badge back, she thought as thunder rumbled in the distance.
Flexing her fingers, she stared down at the scar. Where would she be if certain events on that night three years ago had never happened? If she and her partner had taken down Edwin Isaac before he'd squeezed off the one shot. If she hadn't wound up in that hospital's E.R. and summarily found out...
She shook her head. She had found out. And she'd dealt with the emotional upheaval that came from learning the husband she'd loved and trusted had betrayed her. She'd gotten on with her life. No sense dwelling on it.
She had work to do.
The rumble of thunder drew nearer while she began processing the workshop assignments. She circled pronouns, sketched boxes around phrases that indicated gaps in time, inserted asterisks in places where words had been omitted, drew lines to connect similar words and phrases.
After processing each assignment, she typed notes into her laptop. She paused after analyzing five assignments. Her word-by-word analysis revealed that several of the attendees had gotten caught in unmentioned time crunches at a point during their day. Some had spats with spouses, others unwittingly revealed frustrations over dealing with children, in-laws and neighbors. By the time she read to the end of an individual's statement, Paige knew far more about the life of that person than she was sure they intended.
She plucked the next statement off the stack and went to work. When she'd finished her analysis, she leaned back against the bank of pillows while she slid her pen end-over-end through her fingers. The author of this statement was clearly one of the female cops enrolled in the workshop. The woman had written about a family gathering she'd attended, listing her husband only after mentioning several other people. Without meaning to, she had revealed that she considered her husband the least important of those people. Not the best of relationships, Paige mused. If anything criminal happened to the husband, and the wife claimed they'd been close, the statement in Paige's hand would shine an entirely different light on the relationship.
She was adding information to her typed notes when her cell phone rang. Paige reached for it, then hesitated. After Isaac called her two weeks ago and left the voice mail message, she'd been tempted to get a new number and list it under an alias. Doing so, though, wouldn't help track the bastard. So she'd allowed the cops to insert a state-of-the-art tracking chip inside her phone. If Isaac called again, they had a good chance of nailing his location.
She checked the phone's display. The number beaming via the caller ID feature had her smiling.
"Hey, handsome."
"How's my favorite girl?"
She relaxed against the pillows. "How's my favorite guy?"
"I asked first."
"Couldn't be better, Grandpa." Toying with the long silver chain she always wore around her neck, Paige gave silent thanks that the rough-hewn retired Texas Ranger couldn't see her bruised cheek. Not only would Tate Carmichael grill her like a rack of ribs about every aspect of the mugging, he would strap on a revolver and hightail it to Oklahoma City to act as her personal bodyguard. "What are you and Mom up to?"
"Sara Sue's off doing her volunteer work at the legal aid clinic tonight. We've been thinking a lot about you today."
Because it's February tenth, Paige thought. If it hadn't been for her grandfather and mother, she wasn't certain she'd have gotten back on her feet after her life upended. Even now, whenever she found time to visit her grandfather's small cattle ranch outside of Dallas, she occasionally caught one or both of them watching her with narrow-eyed concern.
Thunder crashed; Paige glanced up as rain frozen to sleet began pelting the floor-to-ceiling windows. "I could tell you and Mom to stop worrying, but I'd be wasting my breath."
"You always were as sharp as barbed wire." Her grandfather waited a beat before continuing. "I've been checking with my law enforcement contacts, Paige. No one's caught sight of Isaac."
"If he's smart, and we both know he is, he's out of the country by now. Sitting on some beach, drinking rum."
"And thinking about you, like he said he'd do on that voice mail he left."
Closing her eyes, she replayed Isaac's clipped, cultured voice. A shiver ran down her back.
"As long as all he does is think about me, that's fine." She half hoped her grandfather would agree with her about the high probability of Isaac's leaving the country, if for no other reason than to ease the edgy tension that seemed to prickle across the phone line. But she knew he wouldn't---her grandfather wasn't that type of man. The facts were the facts, he would see no purpose in padding the truth to soften the blows.
"Consider the man, Paige. You tracked him down. He blames you for destroying his life. He's still thinking about what he'd like to do to you. Isaac wants a second act. We both know it."
"I refuse to go into hiding," Paige said, trying to waylay what she knew was coming next.
"I'm not asking you to tuck your tail between your legs, girl. I'm just saying it'd be smart for you to pack up and come on home. Stay on the ranch with your mom and me until the law finds that murdering bastard."
If Isaac was planning to exact revenge, Paige knew staying on the ranch would put her family in danger. No way would she chance that.
"I can take care of myself, Grandpa. You know that. Just because Isaac's on the lam isn't reason for me to change my schedule."
"How about to keep an old man from worrying himself into the grave?"
She couldn't help but smile. "You're not old. And you'd worry about me whether I was sitting in your living room, or a thousand miles away."
"Can't argue that. You wearing your lucky necklace?"
She glanced down at the handcuff key and miniature Texas Rangers badge that hung on the silver chain. Her grandfather had given her the necklace the day she graduated the police academy. "I even sleep in it."
"What about the asp?"
"It's on the nightstand. Consider me armed and dangerous. Now, enough about me. How many head of cattle did you buy on last week's trip to Fort Worth?"
After Paige said good-night to her grandfather, she called her former partner in Dallas PD Homicide. His answering machine picked up so she left a message. Not only did she need replacement copies of the reports that had been in her briefcase, she also wanted to talk to him about a vague theory they'd developed during their investigation into Isaac.
Too unsettled to go back to the workshop assignments, she slid off the bed, wandered to the sitting area and plucked a banana out of the silver bowl. Tapping it against her palm, she moved to the wall of windows. Ice hazed the glass and marred her view of what she'd learned was the priciest real estate in Oklahoma City. Frowning, she conjured up the mugger's voice.
Give it up, bitch. The voice, the words didn't fit Isaac. From all witnesses' accounts, "Gentleman Jim" had conducted himself in a mild, meek manner when he approached each intended victim who worked the dimly lit streets of Dallas's red-light district. His demeanor had stayed the same after his arrest---in all her dealings with Isaac, Paige had never heard him utter a curse or say anything crude. Even his promises to exact revenge against her had been delivered in formal, polite tones.
One thing about it, she thought, getting mugged had put a cap on the day.
She was just about to peel the banana when the phone on the nightstand rang. Halfway expecting it to be someone from the hotel's laundry calling to tell her they couldn't remove all the stains from her cashmere coat, she walked over to the phone by the bed and grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"
"You said you were going to give me a break."
Nate McCall. "That's correct, Sergeant."
"Then why drop my name to the patrol cop who took your mugging report?"
Paige, caught off guard by the question, blinked. "He asked me if I'd gotten on anyone's bad side. Your name popped into my head."
Silence.
She tucked the phone between her shoulder and cheek and began peeling the banana. "What's the deal, McCall? It's not like I told Sergeant Vawter I thought you were the creep who mugged me."
"Yeah, he made that clear." Paige heard the rattle of dishes and hum of conversation in the background. "Do you think the mugger is the escaped shrink you mentioned this morning?"
Surprised by McCall's concerned tone, she furrowed her forehead. This was more than a polite inquiry, he seemed worried about her. "My instincts say no." She paused. "Why do you ask?"
"Just a quirk on my part, Carmichael. Let's say I have this thing about escaped serial killers showing up in my city. And even though you've got a nasty streak, I don't like the idea of you getting roughed up on my turf."
My city. My turf. Paige had felt the same when she carried a badge---she didn't like bad things happening in her territory. Cops were innately possessive about that. And although she knew McCall's concern wasn't personal, she felt another tug of guilt over how she'd targeted him during the workshop.
"I appreciate you taking the time to do a follow-up, Sergeant. That's beyond the call of duty."
"Shows that even weasels are dedicated."
"Good point." Paige couldn't help but smile. "So maybe I'll concede you're not a total weasel," she added, then took a bite of the banana.
Before she even swallowed, a sickening sensation hit her. She spit out the bite. "Oh, God!"
"What? What's the---"
She dropped the phone and the banana. The receiver clattered against the edge of the nightstand before landing on the floor. Sweat had broken out on her palms, beaded across her forehead. Already she felt the tightness in her throat as the tissues began to swell. In seconds her breathing plunged from shallow to labored.
She could hear McCall shouting her name while she told herself to stay calm. Don't panic. Don't panic. The litany looped through her head even as thick, sticky cobwebs settled over her brain. She'd had allergic reactions before. She had survived them.
No reason she couldn't survive this one.
Weaving like a drunk, she made her way around the bed. She stumbled against the mattress, knocking the stack of assignment sheets onto the floor.
By the time she reached the bureau where she'd left her red suede purse, her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Using her forearm, she swept her purse onto the floor, dropped to her knees and dumped out the contents amid the scattered papers.
Her throat tightened as her air passage narrowed. Her breathing transformed into painful gasps. A headache barged down on her like a freight train. Pinpricks needled over her flesh; she was shuddering, sweating.
Banana, she thought hazily. Not right. Not right. She was allergic to peanuts, not bananas. She had eaten bananas all her life. Tons of bananas. Hundreds.
Dizziness swirled up from the ground. Panic surged through her as she clawed at the contents of her purse, shoving aside her billfold, her sunglasses case, her Palm Pilot. Her backup meds were in her stolen briefcase, but she always kept a supply in her purse. They had to be here. Had to be.
Finally---finally!---she found the metal case that held the syringes preloaded with epinephrine. She fumbled one out, jerked its safety cap off with her teeth. Setting her jaw, she stabbed the needle into her right thigh.
Her lungs heaved. She struggled to drag air past her constricted throat. You'll be fine, she told herself. Just fine. The shot would buy her enough time to get to the E.R.
She had to get to the E.R.
Fighting to remain lucid, knowing her legs would never support her, she crawled around the bed. Her vision doubled, tripled; she followed McCall's shouts, flailing a hand for the receiver, found it.
"Carmichael? What the hell's going on? Carmich---"
"Ambulance." She forced out the word between gasps. "Call...ambulance."
The E.R. doctor jotted a note on a clipboard, set it aside, then gave Paige a scrutinizing look. "You're still pale. But your breathing is good and your heartbeat's back to normal."
"I feel fine now." Fully dressed again and sitting upright with her legs dangling off the gurney, she sent the young intern a hopeful look. "You're releasing me, right?"
Without comment, he hooked a finger under her chin and nudged her head from side to side. "No swelling in your face now, except around the bruise on your right cheek." His forehead furrowed. "The nurse said you got mugged?"
"I've had a lousy day."
"Sounds like it." He released her chin. "It would have been lousier if you'd swallowed that bite of banana."
A low whisper of suspicion sounded in the back of her brain. "I still can't believe I had a reaction to a banana. I've eaten them all my life with no problem." She shoved a hand through her hair. "The way I had to fight to breathe, the hives, the headache, the dizziness. Everything felt like the reaction I have to peanuts."
"A person can develop a sudden allergy to a food they've never had a problem eating. That might be what happened."
Having a vague memory of her own allergist telling her the same thing, Paige studied the intern. His wiry brown hair needed serious combing. His eyes were bloodshot. The cast of his skin was a little too close a match to his pale green hospital scrubs. Looks aside, the guy sounded like he knew what he was talking about.
"This type of allergic reaction can encompass more than food," he added. "Like sex."
"What?"
"When you have intercourse, does your partner wear a condom?"
Paige blinked. "Excuse me?"
Mouth twitching, he held up a hand. "Sorry, I tend to get ahead of myself. A person who's allergic to bananas has a tendency to have an allergy to latex. That's because bananas and latex have some of the same proteins. If you've experienced any discomfort while engaging in sex with a partner wearing a latex condom, that could explain why."
"Oh. No discomfort." No way was she going to admit that the last time she'd had sex was three years ago. With the husband she booted out of her life shortly thereafter.
"What about avocados and chestnuts? They have some of the same proteins as bananas."
"I was in California last week teaching a workshop. I ate a salad with avocados for lunch one day. Zero reaction."
"Well, you'll want to discuss all this with your allergist."
"He's in Dallas where I live. Is there a way you can test me now to see if a banana caused the reaction?"
"No, we dosed you with steroids and antihistamines. Allergy testing can't be done until you've been off antihistamines for a while."
"How long is 'a while'?"
"Approximately two weeks."
Rubbing her thumb over her numb scar, Paige thought about Edwin Isaac. If he was behind the theft of her briefcase, he was now in possession of her doctor's memo that outlined the severity of her allergy to peanuts.
With his medical training, Isaac would readily realize her allergy could prove fatal. A sense of unease pressed in around her as if the E.R.'s disinfectant-scented air had suddenly become more dense.
She might be experiencing a cop's innate paranoia, but she didn't intend to wait to find out if she'd nearly wound up in the morgue because of a sudden allergic reaction or something nefarious. She couldn't be tested, but the fruit could. And until the results were back, the fruit bowl in her suite had to be treated as evidence. Which meant she needed to turn it over to a cop.
Let's just say I have this thing about escaped serial killers showing up in my city.
She remembered what Nate McCall had said and gave herself another mental kick for letting her personal baggage get the best of her that morning. Putting herself on the wrong side of McCall didn't exactly open the door to asking him to submit the fruit bowl to OCPD's lab. Still, he was the type of cop who cared about what happened on his turf. And he had quite possibly saved her life tonight.
For the first time since she'd arrived at the E.R., the memory of what had happened after she'd crawled back to the phone came crashing back. Fighting to get enough air into her lungs to stay conscious, all she could manage was to gasp that she needed an ambulance. He must have had another phone available, because she remembered hearing him alert police dispatch to send an ambulance and a patrol unit to the Waterford. He'd also instructed the dispatcher to call the hotel and send their own security people to her suite. That's who'd reached her first, Paige remembered now. Two armed security guards had bypassed the lock with a passkey and used some sort of tool to release the U-shaped swing bar that prevented the door from fully opening.
During all that time, McCall had stayed on the phone, assuring her help was on the way. His voice had been a calm, soothing lifeline holding her steady, pushing back the ragged black edges of panic.
"I'll write you a prescription for a refill of your epi-pen," the doctor said, drawing Paige back.
"Does that mean you're releasing me?"
"Yes." He pulled a pad from a pocket. "If you were going to have further symptoms, they would have shown up by now."
Relieved, she pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. It wasn't just the fatiguing aftereffects of the allergic reaction that fueled her impatience to get out of the E.R. The cloying, antiseptic air, spotless white enamel walls and squeak of rubber soles against the tiled floor flashed her back three years to an almost identical E.R. in Dallas. The current pitching in her stomach was due to a desperate need to escape the sterile surroundings and all the memories.
She eased off the gurney and slid her shoes on. When she retrieved her suede purse, she saw it had an overstuffed look. Opening it, she instantly realized why. After the EMTs arrived at her suite, she'd asked one of the security guards to shove the belongings she'd dumped out back into her purse so she could take it with her. The guard apparently crammed everything off the floor into her purse, including the workshop assignments.
"Everything okay?" the doctor asked.
"Yes." She turned to face him. "I need to call a cab. Where can I find a phone book?"
"The nurses' station." He handed her the prescription. "If the cop made it back by now you won't need a cab."
"What cop?"
"I didn't catch his name, but he said he was on the phone with you when you had the reaction. He was very insistent on finding out what had happened to you."
"Oh." McCall was looking less like the jerk she'd pegged him to be. She was starting to feel guilt. "You said he had to leave?"
"He had to interview a witness in a homicide. I told him you were going to be fine, but it would be a while before I knew if I'd have to keep you overnight for observation. He said he would try to make it back."
"Thanks," Paige said, then slipped through the opening in the privacy curtain that circled the gurney.
She passed a waiting room and glanced inside. The majority of the plastic chairs lining the room were occupied. McCall was nowhere in sight.
Not a surprise, she thought. She understood why he came by after she'd been admitted---he'd listened to her fighting to stay alive. When she worked patrol in Dallas, she'd spent her share of time trying to calm and soothe victims of crime and people injured in accidents. Despite the wall cops put around their emotions, a personal bond often formed during those adrenaline-pumping moments. When that happened, she'd always made a point to stop by the hospital to check on a victim. Still, there wasn't any real reason for McCall to make a return visit to the E.R., especially when he was working a homicide.
And since he hadn't shown up again, her only hope of contacting him about the fruit bowl tonight was to leave a message for him with police dispatch. She would make the call when she got back to her hotel. And she intended to find out exactly who from the manager's office had sent the fruit bowl, and the name of the person who'd delivered it to her suite.
At the nurses' station, Paige got the phone number for a cab company. Half an hour later, she pushed through Waterford Hotel's revolving door and stepped into the lobby's gilded silence. Her low flats tapped against the gleaming marble floor as she made a beeline for the reception counter. She identified herself to a twentysomething male clerk dressed in a red blazer with a white carnation in the buttonhole of its lapel.
Upon hearing her name, he looked duly concerned. "Are you okay, Ms. Carmichael? I was on duty when you got sick."
"I'm fine now, thanks." She checked the brass name tag on his blazer. "Robert, I'd like to send a note of appreciation to the person who arranged to have the fruit bowl sent to me from the hotel's manager. Can you tell me who that is?"
"Of course." He entered data on a keyboard, then frowned. "We show you received a fruit bowl, but it was delivered here from an outside vendor, and left at the bell captain's stand."
A chill threaded through her. "The fruit bowl didn't come from your boss?"
"No, ma'am."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"Is there a record of which company delivered it?"
He tapped more keys. "The Epicurean. They deal in flowers and gift baskets. Would you like their phone number?"
"And their address. Also the person at the bell captain's stand who logged in the bowl."
"Certainly."
Damn, Paige thought while an elevator whisked her to the top floor. Damn, damn, damn. Could she have been wrong about the message on the card that came with the fruit bowl? She'd given it only a cursory glimpse when she got back to her suite after the mugging. Both her head and body had ached; all she'd wanted was a couple of aspirin, a glass of wine and a long soak in the tub. She had received obligatory fruit bowls from the management of a dozen other upscale hotels where she'd stayed---maybe she had looked at the message on the card that had been with this bowl and her distracted mind had failed to input the right data.
She stepped off the elevator. As she'd done since learning about Isaac's escape, she paused to check in both directions along the otherwise deserted-looking hallway while straining to listen for any sound of another presence. Nothing.
She locked the door of her suite behind her, tossed her purse on the bed, then crossed to the sitting area. The card was where she'd left it on the table beside the silver bowl of fruit.
Compliments of the Waterford. Feel free to contact me if we can be of any assistance.
John W. Greenhaw, Manager
Paige pursed her mouth. The only thing suspicious about the card was that Mr. Greenhaw made it sound like he was urging a guest to contact him personally for assistance. However, his switch from using "me" to "we" in his second sentence told Paige the man's subconscious had been at work. In truth, a guest would have to work his or her way through several layers of assistants before ever getting to talk to the hotel's head honcho.
She shifted her gaze to the fruit bowl. She supposed it was possible cards could have been accidentally switched if a number of baskets and bowls wound up on the bell captain's stand at the same time. If that was the case, Mr. Greenhaw's card could have been meant for someone else. Who, then, had sent her the fruit bowl from The Epicurean?
Knowing she couldn't get that question answered until morning, she glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was after midnight. If she had any hope of contacting McCall tonight, she had to make the call now.
On her way to the phone she glanced toward the door to make sure she'd set the swing bar. A flash of white against the dove-gray carpet caught her eye. Moving to the door, she realized the white shape was a small envelope. Had it been there when she'd walked in? Entirely possible, she thought. With her mind so focused on the manager's card, she'd apparently missed seeing the envelope that someone had slipped beneath the door while she'd been at the hospital.
Nothing was written on either side of the envelope. Paige unsealed the flap, peered inside and felt her heart stop when she saw the mug shot of Edwin Isaac. The data at its lower edge identified the Dallas Police Department as the arresting agency. The date was the day Paige and her partner arrested Isaac.
She had seen this very mug shot that morning when she slid Isaac's file into her briefcase.
Hands and legs unsteady, she moved to the bed, upended the envelope and watched the mug shot flutter to the mattress. It landed facedown, revealing the typed label affixed to the back.
We'll be together soon. I promise.
Gentleman Jim
Nausea shot into her throat. Closing her eyes, she saw the bodies of five women, their flesh sliced, the wounds charred from being cauterized with a red-hot knife blade. Each victim's head had been wrapped in plastic that camouflaged the ghoulish makeup applied to their battered faces. During the months she'd hunted their killer, she had sometimes imagined she heard his victims' screams. Deep inside her mind, she still did.
Paige forced herself to take slow, deep breaths to calm herself, trying to control the mix of fear and adrenaline pumping through her system. She would not allow herself to panic. If she panicked, she wouldn't be able to think rationally. Which she knew was Isaac's goal.
The memory of his oh-so-polite voice during their extensive interviews rippled across her nerve endings.
Once I take possession of a person's mind, they are powerless to defend themselves against me.
As a psychiatrist, Isaac was a master at mental manipulation. After he targeted a victim, he knew exactly how to terrify, was keenly aware of the value of breaking down by exhaustion, had become expert at exploiting a victim's thinking until she was thoroughly ripened by fear.
"Devise a plan," Paige whispered. First, she had to talk to McCall. Receiving a personal note from an escaped serial killer was one step from a face-to-face encounter. Second, she needed to pack. No way in hell could she sleep in this room knowing that Isaac, or someone sent by him, had been just outside.
Third, she---
A sharp rap on the door had her nearly jumping out of her skin. Heart in her throat, Paige moved around the bed and grabbed the asp off the nightstand.
She knew that even if a stranger was on the other side of the door, she couldn't let down her guard. Not when Isaac was a master at disguise.
And if it was him who'd knocked, how was he planning to make a run at her? Fire a bullet through the peephole if she was careless enough to look through it? Mace her? Toss acid in her face, like he had one of his victims?
Tightening her fingers on the asp, Paige flicked her wrist. A silver wand shot out of the short black cylinder, transforming it into a solid steel tactical baton as she eased toward the door.
Barely breathing, her palm sweating against the asp's handle, Paige positioned herself at one side of the door.
"Who's there?" Her voice sounded like chipped glass.
"Nate McCall."
Relief rose in her like a wave. She shoved back the U-shaped safety bar, unlocked the deadbolt, then opened the door.
He wore an unbuttoned black trench coat over his black suit; his hair looked rumpled, a shadow of dark stubble on his jaw gave his olive skin a swarthy look. She wasn't too proud to acknowledge how glad she was to see him.
"I called the E.R.," he said. "A nurse said they released you, so I..." His eyes flicked to her right hand and narrowed abruptly. "You planning on trying to take me down with that man-tamer baton, Carmichael?"
Paige realized she must look paranoid standing there gripping the thick, silvery asp that could drop a heavyweight in round one.
"Not you. Someone else." Stepping back, she pulled the door open wider and gestured him in.
He moved past her, then turned, waiting just behind her as she rebolted the door. "Who?"
"The slime who boosted my briefcase." She twisted the asp's spring then shoved the telescoping chrome shaft back into the black handle. "He paid me a return visit."
"He came here?"
"When I was at the E.R. He left me a present." Stepping to the bed, she motioned toward the facedown mug shot. "That typed note is on the back of a mug shot of Edwin Isaac. It was in my briefcase."
"'We'll be together soon,'" McCall read. "'I promise. Gentleman Jim.'" He looked up. "Is that a nickname the Dallas cops gave the shrink?"
"The media. When Isaac was in disguise trolling for hookers, he acted meek. Mild. Like there wasn't a threatening bone in his body."
"Let me guess. After Isaac got a hooker alone, he turned into Jack the Ripper."
"Worse. The Ripper killed his victims within hours of their initial contact. Isaac kept each one alive at least a week."
"For sex?"
"No. To destroy them psychologically while convincing them they were useless sluts and unworthy of living. He brainwashed them. Coerced each victim to perform self-mutilation by slicing her own flesh with a scalpel. Then he used a hot knife to cauterize the wounds to prevent them from bleeding to death."
"Christ." McCall shoved a hand through his hair. "How'd the bastard get so twisted?"
"His stepmother, mostly," Paige answered. "She was an actress who played roles in dinner theater productions. The woman was superdomineering. From what we could find out, she had numerous affairs with various actors, stagehands, theater owners. Even after she married Isaac's father, the affairs didn't stop."
"What happened to his real mother?"
"She died when he was a baby. The stepmom craved the spotlight. Having a child around took some of the attention away from her, and she resented him. Isaac did enough hanging around the theater to learn about costuming and how to use makeup as a disguise."
"So, little Eddie grows up into Edwin the killer who knows how to camouflage himself. To hide in plain sight."
"Exactly. It took us nearly a year to get him because each time he trolled for hookers his appearance changed. But we knew it was the same guy because of witnesses who overheard his unique voice. And the real Isaac is polite. Almost genteel. Even in interrogation when he threatened he'd someday get out and we would meet again on his terms, he was polite about it."
"What kind of guy was the father?"
"He was a genius computer geek who spent his life walking three steps behind his wife, saying, 'Yes, dear.' If he even noticed her affairs he didn't do anything to stop them."
"Two less-than-stellar role models for a kid."
"That about sums it up."
McCall pulled a pen out of his coat pocket, used its tip to flip the mug shot over. "Not bad-looking for a perverted serial killer."
Paige stared into the face of the man who, with one squeeze of a trigger, spun her life onto a path she never would have imagined for herself. Isaac was in his early forties, his thick blond hair carefully styled and feathered back. His forehead was broad and unlined, his eyes deep-set and startlingly blue. His nose was narrow, his chin square, his complexion pale but healthy. His mind was anything but.
"Did you touch the mug shot?" McCall asked.
"Just the envelope it came in."
"Yours are probably the only prints that will show up, but I'll have the lab check." He dipped a hand into another pocket and pulled out a small plastic evidence bag.
She'd done that, too, when she worked Homicide, Paige thought. Constantly carried around evidence bags in her purse and car. There'd been no way to predict from one minute to the next when she'd wind up working a crime scene.
"Let's go with the assumption it was Isaac who slipped this mug shot under your door," McCall said. "How would he know you're in Oklahoma City?"
"My employer, the Lassiter Group, maintains a Web site. The dates and locations for my workshops are listed so students can enroll online."
"To do that, Isaac would have to know you're working for Lassiter. He's been in prison, so how would he find out?"
"My partner and I suspected Isaac had an accomplice working with him during his killing spree. We could never find enough evidence to prove it. But if we're right, that person could have been feeding him information the past three years. I suspect that's how Isaac got my cell phone number."
"He called you?"
"Yes, hours after he escaped. I was on another call so he left a message on my voice mail."
"What did he say?"
"That we'll be together soon."
McCall looked at the mug shot. "Same message he sent tonight. Anybody check to see who visited Isaac in prison?"
"I checked. During the entire time he was locked up, his attorney was his only visitor. The accomplice could have sent information through him."
"You told me on the phone your instincts tell you Isaac isn't who mugged you. Maybe he hooked back up with the unknown accomplice after he escaped? That could be the guy who snatched your briefcase."
"That theory feels more right."
McCall's gaze settled on her cheek. "I take it you got that in the mugging?"
"Yes." She fingered the edges of the bruise. With all that had happened since then, she'd forgotten about it. She glanced up, noting he continued to inspect her intensely. "What?"
"I'm thinking what the mugger gained was minimal compared to the effort he put out, especially since he didn't try for your purse. If he had, he would have at least gotten some cash, credit cards. Is there anyone other than Isaac who'd have reason to come after you like that? Rough you up a little? Then drop off Isaac's mug shot, just to mess with your head?"
"I've been asking myself those same questions. There's no one." She shifted her gaze back to the bed. "When you knocked on my door I was just about to call dispatch and leave you a message."
"About the mug shot?"
"That's one thing." She watched him use the pen to nudge the photo and envelope into the plastic bag. "I need a favor."
He slid the bag into his coat pocket. "What?"
She gave him a rundown on her allergy to peanuts, the E.R. doctor's theory that she could suddenly be allergic to bananas, the information she'd found out about the fruit bowl from the hotel desk clerk and the contents of her briefcase. Then she added that the meds pumped into her at the E.R. prevented her from being tested for two weeks. While she talked, she watched McCall work the information, taking it in.
"You can't be tested, but the fruit can," he said. "You want me to submit it to the cop lab."
"Yes." Paige eased out a breath. "After this morning, I'm not in the best position to ask you for a favor."
"Submitting evidence of a possible crime isn't a favor. It's my job." Moving around the bed, he grabbed a pillow, pulled off its case, then walked to the sitting area where the fruit bowl sat. "I'll write a supplement to the mugging report that Vawter wrote. That'll help push the testing on the fruit."
Paige watched as he eased the bowl and fruit into the pillowcase. It hit her then, how close she'd come to dying only hours before. Her legs went unsteady as the enormity of that sank in.
She lowered onto the edge of the bed, fisted her hands that had suddenly begun to shake. "I had one more reason for leaving you a message."
He flicked her a look as he knotted the ends of the pillowcase. "Was it to admit your theory about lights and sex is a load of crap?"
Paige's mouth twitched. The humor was unexpected, and welcome. "The theory's solid, McCall." She shoved a hand through her hair. "I wanted to thank you for getting help here when I had the reaction. And for staying on the phone." Though her voice had taken on a barely perceptible quake, she continued. "One second my throat was fine, the next it had nearly swelled shut. I thought..." I might die. She took a deep breath. "Just your telling me the ambulance was on the way, that I was going to be fine, helped me focus. So, thanks."
Leaving the pillowcase on the table, he strode across the suite to stand in front of her. "I was scared, too," he said quietly.
She saw sympathy, concern and something more in his expression. She saw a cop's perception of how hard it was for her to think of herself as a victim. "The doctor said you came by the E.R."
"To find out for sure what had happened to you. And check your condition."
"I hate being scared. It pisses me off. I felt the same way when I read the label on the back of Isaac's mug shot. Spooked as hell."
"He's a scary guy."
"At least I can do something about getting myself off his radar screen." She rose, moved to the closet, grabbed her suitcase and plopped it on the bed. "I'm getting out of here tonight."
"And going where?"
"To some hotel where I can check in under an alias and pay with cash." She scooped up everything out of a bureau drawer, dumped it into the suitcase. "Can you recommend a place?"
He nodded. "It's a little less plush than this, but still on the five-star scale. The manager is a pal of mine. If I give him a call, he can have you registered and a room ready by the time you get there."
She glanced at her watch. "He must be a good pal if you can call him this late at night."
"His name's Burke Youngblood and he won't mind." McCall's mouth quirked as he pulled his cell phone off his belt. "Burke lives on-site and he likes to play cop. He's cut me a good rate in the past just so I would house a couple of witnesses under protection there. Burke keeps a good eye on things." He angled his chin. "What alias do you want to use?"
"You pick," Paige said as she emptied another drawer. "That way, it won't tie to me."
"Will do." While McCall punched buttons on his cell, she stepped into the bathroom and gathered her toiletries.
"Burke will have everything taken care of by the time you get there," McCall said when she carried her tote into the room. "Your alias is Fiona Shepherd."
"Fiona?"
His mouth curved. "It's a family name. The place you're staying is the Ambassador Arms, about a five-minute drive from here. You can follow me there. That way I can make sure you don't pick up a tail."
"All right."
"I'm sure this has occurred to you, Carmichael, but I'm going to point it out anyway. If someone's looking to find you, all they have to do is wait for you to show up at the training center tomorrow."
"I know. If I pick up a tail when I leave there, I'll make sure I lose it."
"The homicide I snagged today is political, so there's a lot of pressure to get the case wrapped up fast. That means I won't be back at your workshop. I'll call Steve Kidd, brief him on what's happened tonight. He and Henderson can back you up when you leave the training center. If you do get tailed, they can close in and grab him."
"Thanks." Paige checked all the drawers to make sure she hadn't left any belongings behind.
McCall gave her a scrutinizing look. "It hasn't been that long since you were a cop, so I figure you've still got federal contacts. Are you getting flagged for NCIC off-line searches on Isaac?"
"Yes." As a high-profile escapee, Isaac was listed with the National Crime Information Center, the national database operated by the FBI that was the world's largest collection of information on known criminals. If someone thought they recognized Isaac in Des Moines, Iowa, and contacted NCIC, Paige would receive a message on her cell phone.
"The note on the back of his mug shot is enough reason for me to issue a 'be on the lookout' to local cops," McCall said. "If Isaac is here, he'll need a place to lie low. Food and transportation. For all that, he needs money."
"We never found all his money. He had tons of it, not just from his psychiatric practice, but an inheritance from his grandmother." Paige pulled her cleaned coat out of the closet and stripped off the plastic bag. "My partner and I always suspected he'd stashed funds in numbered accounts in various locations. In and out of the country. If that's the case, he will have made sure he can get that money easily and safely."
"That's going to make him a lot harder to find."
"If he's found at all. Right now he could be overseas while his pal performs the dirty work here." Paige slid her laptop into its leather case. She didn't want to think about the prospect of having to watch her back for all eternity.
"Ready to get out of here?" McCall asked after she shut the lid on her suitcase and set the locks.
"Yes." She shrugged on her coat, then reached for her purse. A thought had her hesitating.
"Something wrong?"
"It just hit me. I didn't ask why you showed up at my door. Why are you here?"
"I wanted to see how you're doing."
"You're under pressure to solve a homicide. You could have just called instead."
"Could have." Gripping the pillowcase holding the fruit bowl, he moved back across the suite. "Look, Carmichael, here's the deal. I've got three younger sisters who are all OCPD cops. It would take a hell of a lot for any of them to admit they have a problem dealing on their own with whatever comes their way."
Her chin angled, she said, "Maybe that's because they can deal with it."
"Female cops," he muttered. "Even former ones work hard to act tough."
"It's no act, McCall. We are tough. And proving it is the only way to get macho male cops to take us seriously."
"Trust me, Grace, Carrie and Morgan have delivered that message loud and clear."
"Good for them."
"Here's a news flash from a brother's perspective. If one of my sisters was out of town and had some escaped psycho killer after her, not to mention getting mugged, then almost checking out while having an allergic reaction, I'd hope to hell some local cop would care enough to lend her a hand."
Paige stared at him while something warm raced through her blood. Every gesture he made brought the layers of the man beneath that pretty face and cocky grin a little closer to the surface. He wasn't just a cop who cared about what happened on his turf, he was a man with a soft spot in his heart for his three sisters.
The realization seemed to have too much influence on her pulse. His dark eyes locked on hers. "You going to go all tough on me now, Carmichael? Tell me you've got a problem with me helping you out?"
"No, I appreciate everything you've done." Easing out a breath, she slid the strap of her computer case over one shoulder. "Greatly."
Before he could make a move for her suitcase, she hefted it off the bed and rolled it toward the door.
She glanced at him over her shoulder. "Just don't be too nice, McCall. You do, you'll mess up my image of you as a slimeball."
Shortly after seven the next morning, a bit sore and fuzzy-brained, Paige settled at the desk in the guest instructor's office at the OCPD training center. The triple-shot latte she'd picked up at the coffee kiosk off the lobby of the Ambassador Arms had done little to make up for snagging barely three hours of sleep.
She would hit the hay early tonight, she promised herself.
In the meantime, the day stretched out before her like fifty miles of bad road. She had a workshop to teach and a trip to The Epicurean to find out who had ordered the fruit bowl the company delivered to the Waterford. She also needed to locate a pharmacy and fill the prescription the E.R. doctor had written her for another epi-pen. She was using her laptop case as a makeshift briefcase, so high on her list was to find a place to buy a new one. And while she muddled through the day, she would guard her own back in case Dr. Edwin Isaac---or whoever the hell mugged her and left the mug shot under her door---decided to pay her a return visit.
Paige rubbed at an ache in the center of her forehead. When she'd worn a badge, she had savored the feel of a hunt, the tracking, the adrenaline rush when she closed in on her quarry. Now, she was on the wrong side of a hunt. The prey. Instead of a rush she felt a dark edginess. And having to deal with grinding fatigue put her at a distinct disadvantage. The best she could do was close down on her nerves and rely on caffeine to get her through the day.
With regret, she downed the last of the latte and tossed the cup in the trash can. After rooting in her purse for her mechanical pencil, she unzipped her laptop case and pulled out the file folder with the anonymous what-I did-yesterday workshop assignments. She would have preferred to wait to analyze the remainder until she felt sharper mentally, but that wasn't an option. Not with the workshop ending the following afternoon.
The first chalky light of the February morning seeped in the window at her back while she systematically analyzed assignments. While she worked, the training center came to life with the hum of distant conversation, footsteps and laughter. When Paige began work on the last assignment in the stack, its spidery handwriting made the reading difficult and slowed her methodical examination.
It wasn't the poor penmanship, though, that heightened her senses and accelerated her pulse.
Feeling herself stiffen up, she rolled her shoulders, then arched her spine while keeping the statement clenched in one hand. Uneasy, she reread the page.
Woke up at 7:30. Decided I would attend the training class on Monday in hopes of learning some secret in interviewing that a person could use in the interrogation that will help him.
Left the house to have breakfast by myself. Drove 'til I found the perfect place. Had breakfast, left. After leaving decided to go for a drive. Went for a drive in the country just to take a look around.
Later I went to the house. Noticed the lights were on. Wife wanted to go eat so I agreed. Drove to Beef N Ail and had late lunch. After lunch drove back to Wal-Mart so wife could get some stuff she needed.
Wife and I then went back to the house and she had some things to do and I took a nap while watching evening news. Wife woke me up at 10:30 to go to bed. Turned out the lights and that was it.
Paige set her pencil aside. The author of the statement had written just four short paragraphs, but they were riddled with strong indicators of deception. Conflict. Gaps in time. Out-of-sequence events. Attempts to conceal information. And the distance he put between himself, his wife and their home life spoke volumes.
Swivelling her chair gave Paige a view of the center's main parking lot where vehicles seemed to huddle together in the wintry morning. Thinking about the statement, she frowned. Her job was to teach cops and other security personnel how people used their own words to betray themselves. In this case, it seemed one of the men in her workshop had done that to himself.
"Ms. Carmichael?"
Paige jolted, then swivelled the chair. She'd been so immersed in thought that the training center's secretary, a blonde in her mid-twenties, dressed in a skintight maroon dress, had walked in without her having heard a thing.
So much for watching her own back, Paige thought derisively.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
"It's..." Paige hadn't realized her throat had gone dry until she tried to respond. Yesterday's events, along with the prospect of Isaac ghosting out of the woodwork, already had her jittery. Reading the bizarre assignment had stretched her ragged nerves tight.
She shook her head. "It's okay, Kassandra."
"I forgot to have you sign this form yesterday. It's a purchase order to process payment to the Lassiter Group for your workshop."
"Well, my boss would have my hide if we forgot that." Paige took the form and the pen the woman offered, slashed her name on a dotted line. "Anything else?"
"That's it," Kassandra said. "If you want coffee, it's ready in the break room. You've got just about enough time to grab a cup before your workshop starts."
"Thanks." Paige glanced at the wall clock. She'd been so engrossed in the assignments she hadn't realized nearly an hour had passed since she arrived.
Rising, she smoothed a hand over the hip of her slim gray wool trousers, then shuffled the assignments back into the file folder and slid it into her case. Her purse went into one of the desk's empty drawers. Paige locked the drawer, using the key Kassandra had given her. Since her classroom was in the opposite direction from the break room, she planned to swing back by and retrieve her belongings on the way to her workshop.
Vending machines and built-in cabinets lined the brightly lit room that was crowded with civilians and cops clad in uniforms and street clothes. Paige nodded to a group of men she recognized from her workshop. Kassandra had mentioned that several other meetings and departmental training sessions were also in progress, which had the building at full capacity.
While squeezing toward the coffee machine, Paige's gaze landed on Steve Kidd. The Homicide sergeant was shaking his head, seemingly disagreeing with something a curvy blond uniformed cop was saying. When he replied, he emphasized his point by stabbing the air with a plastic toothpick. Kidd's partner, Hugh Henderson, had positioned himself inside the blonde's personal space. When the woman shifted her attention to him, Henderson gave her a wolf's smile while one of his hands made a preening sweep down his gray tie. Apparently he was more interested in the blonde's physical assets than in the topic of conversation.
Paige poured steaming coffee into a foam cup, her thoughts going to McCall's comment about enlisting Kidd and Henderson to make sure she wasn't followed when she left the training center for her new hotel. She pegged Kidd as the cop who'd be more serious about watching her back.
"Do you have time to answer a couple of questions?"
Taking care not to slosh her coffee, Paige turned. Tia Alvarado, the Vice detective who'd sat in the first row in yesterday's workshop, was tall and slim with a dusky complexion. Her black hair was pulled back in a heavy braid. She wore a white cable-knit sweater and jeans that fit her slender legs like spandex.
Paige glanced at her watch. "We only have a few minutes before the workshop starts. Why don't you walk back with me? I have to stop by the office first."
"Okay."
As the two women exited the break room, Tia said, "I can't stop thinking about that demonstration you gave us yesterday."
"Demonstration?"
"The way you nailed what Houdini and his female-of-the-moment did." She wiggled her dark brows. "Or didn't do."
"Houdini?"
"Nate McCall." Alvarado dipped her head. "I don't have firsthand knowledge, but the rumor is that in bed, the man performs magical feats."
"Oh." Paige sipped her coffee. Well, hell, the instant she'd seen McCall's grin-that-could-corrupt-a-saint she'd known he was the kind of guy mothers warned their little girls about. But magical feats? She tried not to speculate what exactly had earned him that moniker among the females of the OCPD.
She took another sip of coffee. "I was a little rough on Sergeant McCall yesterday."
"Nate'll get over it," Alvarado said, flicking a wrist. "He's a damn good cop, but when it comes to romancing a woman, he's slicker than black ice. That's another reason for the Houdini aka. He's a pro at making a clean escape before a relationship turns serious. You have to figure a nick to his ego now and then is good for him."
They rounded a corner; just as Paige reached the office door she caught a glimpse of a man in a dark gray suit at the far end of the hallway. A second later, he disappeared into a connecting corridor. Too tall to be Isaac, she automatically calculated before she stepped into the office.
"What precisely did you want to ask me, Sergeant Alvarado?" Paige asked as she set her coffee cup on the desk. Her hand froze as she reached for the drawer where she'd stashed her purse. It was open a few inches. She was positive she'd locked the drawer.
Jerking it open, she stuck her hand inside her purse and felt her heart stop. "Dammit!"
"What's wrong?"
"My billfold is gone."
Tia took a step forward. "Are you sure you had it in your purse this morning?"
"Positive, I bought a latte before leaving my hotel. This lock was either jimmied, or someone had a key." Her eyes narrowed. "That man."
"What man?"
"About six foot four, dark hair, gray suit. He disappeared around the corner just as we walked in here."
Tia glanced toward the door. "I missed him."
"I didn't." Too tall to be Isaac, but maybe his accomplice? Fueled by that possibility, Paige yanked her purse out of the drawer, slung its strap over her shoulder and skirted around the desk.
The hallway was crowded with cops and civilians headed to the various classrooms. Paige threaded through the milling bodies, sweeping her gaze right to left. Her chin came up when she spotted the man at the entrance to a classroom at the far end of the hallway.
"Excuse me?" The curtness of her words had several people turning her way. Including her quarry.
"Are you talking to me?" He was distinguished-looking, in his sixties, with a peppering of gray at the temples. Up close, she saw that his suit was silk and had the look of expensive tailoring. The man was a somebody. Definitely had that air of power rolling around him.
No matter who he was, that wasn't going to stop her from questioning him. She did, however, soften her tone. "Did you just leave the guest instructor's office?"
He raised a brow. "You would be?"
"Morning, Chief Quaid," Tia said, easing in beside Paige.
His gaze shifted. "Sergeant Alvarado."
"Sir, this is Paige Carmichael, she's teaching a workshop. Someone stole her billfold out of her purse while it was in the guest instructor's office."
"You suspect I'm your thief?" he asked, watching Paige closely.
Great, she thought. She'd accosted the freaking chief of police. "I saw you in the hallway near the office. I'm simply following up on that."
"I did pass by there, Ms. Carmichael," he confirmed. "I had just left the main offices where I conferred with my training staff."
"Did you spot anyone in or near the guest instructor's office?"
"Not a soul." He looked at a uniformed officer standing to his left. "Isom, inform your major about the theft. Tell him I want the building and grounds swept immediately for the suspect and billfold. If we at least recover the billfold we may get the suspect's prints."
"Yes, sir," the cop said, then quick-footed it down the hallway.
Quaid looked back at Paige. "I regret this happening to you while at my training center."
"You're not the only one." Paige's hands balled into fists of frustration. She'd been on the receiving end of a mugging. She had doubts that last night's allergic reaction was due to a sudden chemical response to a banana. Then there was the mug shot left under her door. Now, her billfold had been stolen. Was everything related? Was it Isaac's way of playing cat and mouse, just to demonstrate how close he could get to her? She was standing in a building filled with cops, and still the sensation of Isaac's presence closed like a hand on her throat.
"I take it your driver's license, credit cards and cash were inside your billfold?" Quaid asked.
"Cash." Putting a choke hold on her emotions, she dug into her purse, pulled out a small leather case. "I keep my license and credit cards separate." She did a quick inventory. "They're all here."
"Sergeant Alvarado."
"Sir?"
"Take Ms. Carmichael's larceny report. If her billfold isn't found during the sweep, call my secretary to get a requisition number for a cash voucher to replace her money."
"Yes, sir."
He looked back at Paige. "You're instructing forensic statement analysis." It wasn't a question.
"That's right."
"I was at a conference about six months ago. Several other police chiefs there talked about the workshop you'd presented for their departments. They had such high praise I had my training staff arrange for you to come here. In fact, I have it on my schedule to stop by your workshop before I leave here today. I want to see for myself what all the praise is about."
"We'll be glad to have you, Chief Quaid." She held out her hand. "No hard feelings, I hope?"
"None. I admire your style, Ms. Carmichael." His handshake was firm and all business.
Paige waited until he stepped into the classroom to slide Tia a look. "Thanks for smoothing that over. I owe you."
Tia grinned. "I'm a soft touch for female cops who aren't afraid to shoot from the hip." Her expression went serious. "Let's go to the major's office and get the report on your billfold written."
"You probably should combine the larceny with an ongoing investigation under my name," Paige said as they retraced their steps. "I don't know if they're connected, but they might be."
"An ongoing investigation of what?"
"I was mugged in the parking lot here yesterday. The bastard got my briefcase. And last night I wound up in the E.R. after taking a bite of fruit that had been delivered to my hotel suite."
"The fruit was tampered with?"
"That, or I'm suddenly allergic to bananas. The fruit's at the lab now."
"Sounds like you had an eventful evening."
"There's more. Remember the escaped killer I mentioned?"
"The shrink who killed five prostitutes. Who could forget?"
"Someone slid his mug shot with a typed note supposedly from him under my door. The photo had been in my briefcase."
"Holy crap."
"Exactly."
"I need to call dispatch and get the case number assigned to the mugging. Do you remember the name of the cop who took the report?"
"Vawter. Then McCall did a supplemental report on the fruit and the mug shot. He submitted the fruit to the lab."
Tia's forehead furrowed. "McCall's Homicide. How'd he get involved?"
"He ran into Vawter somewhere, and heard about the mugging. McCall called me because he didn't like the fact I got roughed up on his turf. I was on the phone with him when I had the reaction to the banana. He got me help, then dropped by my hotel room after I got back from the E.R. I'd just found Isaac's mug shot when McCall showed up."
"Well, it sounds like Houdini's not holding a grudge over your nailing him in the workshop yesterday."
"No, he's not." Paige thought about McCall, a cop who'd cared enough to check on her after she'd wound up at the E.R. About the man who loved his three sisters. She wasn't surprised to discover that the disdain she'd first felt for him had now turned to respect.
"The established norm is that the true victim of a violent crime will not use the pronoun 'we' when describing interaction with his or her assailant," Paige told the workshop attendees late that afternoon. "Suppose you have two women who claim they've been raped. One says, 'He forced me into the shed.' The second tells you, 'We went into the shed.' The second victim's use of 'we' denotes a sense of togetherness with the suspect. This is an automatic red flag. The investigator should question the victim further. Ask if she knew the assailant. Ascertain if they were together before the incident occurred. If, in fact, the alleged incident truly did occur."
Slowly pacing the length of the classroom, Paige studied the twenty-four men and women seated at the tables before her. She could now see the glimmer of understanding...and beginnings of acceptance in most of the faces. She had made her case; the majority no longer viewed her craft as voodoo science. She had shown there was a legitimacy to using statement analysis that made sense to a cop's logical, methodical thinking.
"For tomorrow, analyze the separate statement I assigned to each of you in the back of the training manual. Be prepared to tell me if its author is being truthful or deceptive." She smiled. "Or both."
While the room emptied, Paige settled her purse and coat beside the laptop case on the table beside the speaker's podium. The fatigue that had hung over her all day now weighed on her shoulders like lead.
And, because her trip to The Epicurean, and then a pharmacy, had taken her entire lunch hour, she was hungry enough to order an entire cow from room service when she got to her hotel room.
She should have just called the catering company that specialized in gift baskets and saved herself the trip there. It would have taken her only minutes to learn that The Epicurean had never received an order to deliver a fruit bowl to her suite at the Waterford.
Even without the results of the lab's analysis of the fruit, Paige was now ninety-nine percent positive she had not developed a sudden allergy to bananas. That whoever delivered the fruit bowl to the hotel had known she was deathly allergic to peanuts and had loaded the fruit with peanut oil. She felt it, like someone walking on her grave. Digging it.
Her brain did a connect-the-dots to Isaac. The mugging. The fruit bowl. The mug shot. His personal note, promising they'd be together soon. Was the psychiatrist nearby, soaking up the satisfaction of having almost killed her last night? Or was he a world away, issuing instructions to an accomplice on the most effective ways to screw with her?
Then there was her billfold, she thought while slipping on her coat. The search of the grounds and building had come up empty. Was it possible she'd been the victim of a random theft? For some petty thief to tempt swiping property in a building filled with cops and civilian security specialists was more than risky. Still, it could happen.
Had maybe happened. Though she doubted it.
"You ready to head out, Teach?"
She looked up. Hugh Henderson lounged in the classroom's doorway, his mouth cocked up on both sides. He carried a wool coat folded over one arm; his black suit, white shirt and dove-gray tie brought to mind a gangster. Henderson and Steve Kidd had approached her during the afternoon break, saying McCall had arranged with them to follow her to her hotel to make sure she didn't pick up a tail.
"Almost." Paige snagged her workbook off the podium. "I appreciate you and your partner doing escort duty, Sergeant Henderson."
"Always happy to help a damsel in distress." Strolling into the classroom, his gaze slicked down her, then up. "Why don't you call me Hugh?"
Oh, brother. She was in no mood to deal with some cheesy come-on. "Thank you, but I keep my association with my students professional."
"Me, I lean more to the casual way of doing things. It's friendlier. Speaking of friendly, since me 'n Kidd are escorting you to your hotel, how about us having a drink there?"
She gave him a look that was all innocence. "The three of us?"
"Nope, Kidd has to get home to his wife. It'd just be me and you."
That the man continually referred to himself first in conversation told Paige he was suffering from a case of egomania. She dropped her gaze to his left hand, noted the gold band. "Don't you also need to get home to your wife?"
He smiled. "She's real understanding."
"How fortunate for you," Paige murmured, lifting the lid of her leather case. "Understand this, Sergeant Henderson. I don't---" As she settled the workbook on top of the file folder that held the workshop assignments, something blipped in her brain.
"You don't what?" he prodded.
She unearthed the folder from beneath the manual. "I don't believe this," she said, holding up the empty folder. "The assignments I had the workshop attendees write yesterday were in here this morning."
"So, what did you do with them?"
"I didn't do anything with them. They're gone."
"You sure they were in there?"
"Positive. I analyzed some of them this morning after I got here."
"Has your case been out of sight anytime today?"
She looked down at the empty folder. "This morning when I went to the break room for coffee."
"The same time your billfold got boosted?"
"Yes." She dropped the folder back into the case. "Why would someone take the assignments?"
Henderson hunched his shoulders. "You got me."
"It doesn't make any sense."
"You're right about that. Look, McCall said you had a rough night, having that allergic reaction, then finding the mug shot with the note from that maniac shrink. That'd throw off anyone's thinking."
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you suggesting I'm delusional, Sergeant? That I just imagined spending an hour this morning in the guest instructor's office working on the assignments?"
"Judging from the bruise on your cheek, that mugger slammed you hard enough to rattle your brain. You maybe got a concussion."
"I don't have a concussion."
"Why would anyone steal those assignments?"
"I have no---"
"What's the holdup?"
Paige looked toward the door. Steve Kidd's heavy coat made his build seem even burlier. His sandy hair looked windblown and his face was flushed from the cold. Clearly he'd been waiting for them outside.
Henderson gave his partner a look across his shoulder. "Teach thinks the assignments we wrote yesterday got boosted."
"They did get boosted," she reiterated.
Kidd moved in, stopping at Henderson's side. "Why would someone steal them?" Kidd's voice and expression held a trace of curiosity, not the open disbelief of his partner's. "Even your most moronic thief would know he couldn't pawn a stack of paper or use them to score dope."
"No kidding," Henderson said, shrugging into his coat.
Kidd angled his chin. "Do you think Isaac had something to do with this? I mean, he's a damn escapee, would he risk coming into a building full of cops? If so, how would he know what office you were using? It's not like you work here day-to-day."
"I know." Paige looked away, her mind picking apart the mosaic of that morning. "The desk in the guest instructor's office sits in front of a window," she said finally. "I worked there for an hour. Anyone walking through the parking lot could have spotted me. Seen which drawer I put my purse in. And a building filled with cops wouldn't be a risk for Isaac because he's an ace at disguise. He could walk by me and I wouldn't even know him. There's also the possibility he's got an accomplice. Someone who's worked with him all along."
"A master at disguise," Henderson said. "An unknown accomplice. Jesus, Isaac can come at you from any direction."
Henderson's voicing what Paige already knew intensified the dread that had hung over her since she'd heard about Isaac's escape. No one had to tell her what it felt like to straddle a fault line, waiting for the earthquake.
"I'm aware of that, Sergeant Henderson," she said levelly.
"It was a smart move to change hotels," Kidd said. "And check in under an alias. We'll make sure you get back to the Ambassador Arms without picking up a tail." He glanced at his watch. "Traffic's hell this time of day, so we'd better get going. I have to drive my wife to an appointment this evening."
"I apologize for holding you up." Paige secured the zipper on her case, slung its strap over her shoulder, then grabbed her purse. "I appreciate you and Sergeant Henderson helping me out."
"It's not a problem," Kidd said as they moved out of the classroom into the hallway. "I'm just dealing with a time crunch this evening. By the way, McCall called my cell a few minutes ago. He's closer to your hotel than he is to here, so he's going to hook up with you there. Henderson and I will tail you to the entrance of the parking garage. McCall will meet you in the garage and make sure you get inside the hotel okay. He said he's got something he needs to talk to you about."
Paige pulled on her leather gloves. "Did he say what?"
"Yeah. He got the lab report on the fruit."
"That was fast."
Kidd's mouth quirked. "Nate's got an in with one of the female chemists."
"I bet. Did he tell you the results?"
"Tried to." At the end of the hallway, Kidd paused, looked at Paige. "Wait here while Henderson and I look around outside."
Kidd swung the door open. He stepped out first, then Henderson. It was barely five o'clock, yet it was getting dark.
Paige watched both men conduct a quick scan of the parking lot. Standing there, she felt like a helpless dolt. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate Kidd and Henderson's help. It simply wasn't in her nature to cower in the background. To hide while someone else did the potentially dangerous work.
Her Grandpa Carmichael had always said a true cop moved toward the sound of gunfire. That's the type of cop he'd been, and she'd followed in his footsteps---assertive, taking the lead. Which is what she'd done the night she and her partner cornered Isaac. She had gone in first, low, gun drawn, her finger locked against the cool steel of the trigger. She could hear her partner breathing just behind her, going in high.
Then the distinctive pop of gunfire sounded. Isaac's shot had been a wild one, the bullet glancing off the metal doorjamb before ricocheting into her gun hand. The pain had been obscene. But not nearly as excruciating as the anguish that had overcome her after she'd arrived at the hospital and discovered how thoroughly her husband had betrayed her.
Kidd motioned her out. "Coast is clear."
Shaking off the memory, Paige stepped outside, her hair whipping in the chilly wind. "What did you mean when you said McCall tried to tell you the results of the lab test?"
"We had a bad connection." Kidd popped a plastic toothpick into one corner of his mouth. "You'll have to wait until you get to the hotel to hear what the lab found out."
Dusk had fully settled in by the time Paige reached the entrance to the Ambassador Arms's parking garage. She glanced into her rental car's rearview mirror, saw Hugh Henderson's gray sedan trailing at a distance. He flashed the headlights off, then on, the agreed-on signal that neither he nor Steve Kidd had spotted a tail. She had lost sight of Kidd's red SUV a few blocks back when Henderson leapfrogged to take the lead. Still, she sensed Kidd had her in sight.
Easing on the brake, she flicked on the turn signal and steered down the ramp.
Bright overhead lights illuminated the garage below the hotel, making the vehicles parked there gleam like a high-end car lot. Paige nosed the rental into a space in sight of the elevator. Before she had time to turn off the engine, someone tapped on the passenger-side window.
She grabbed the asp she'd placed in the console at the same instant she whipped her head sideways. McCall was leaning down, looking through the window while he talked into his cell phone.
Easing out a breath, she punched the button to disengage the door locks.
"Thanks for doing escort duty, Kidd," he said into the phone as he slid into the passenger seat.
While giving McCall a once-over, Paige replaced the asp on the console. His black hair looked windblown. The olive cast of his skin gave him a healthy glow. He was doing detective casual that day, denim shirt, jeans, tan wool blazer.
There was something about him in jeans that made her throat contract. Don't go there. She diverted her gaze out the windshield, doing a sweep of the empty cars parked nearby. She had no idea which one was McCall's.
"I don't know," he said in response to a question from Kidd. "The workshop ends tomorrow. We haven't talked about when she plans to leave. I'll get back to you."
He disconnected the call, slid his cell into a pocket on his blazer. "How's it going, Carmichael?"
"I'll answer that after you tell me what the lab found out about the fruit."
"Nothing like getting down to business." He reached into the same pocket where he'd put his cell phone, pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to her. "It's a typical lab report, most of it written in scientific gibberish only people with pointed heads can understand. Skip to the last paragraph for language common mortals can get a handle on."
Having dealt with countless lab reports, Paige knew his advice was solid so she skimmed to the bottom. Seeing the test results in black and white dropped a hard ball of ice into her belly. "So, every piece of fruit was injected with peanut oil," she said after a moment.
"Swimming in the stuff." He kept his eyes on her face, intense, unwavering. "Someone tried to off you last night."
"At least I can continue to eat bananas," she said, her grim attempt at cop humor an age-old way to get past the eddy of emotion inside her. "All that potassium."
"There is that," he agreed.
"What about prints? Were there any on the bowl the fruit came in?"
"Yours, and a couple of hotel bellmen. Zero from whoever delivered the bowl to the Waterford. And yours were the only ones on the envelope that held Isaac's mug shot. No prints on the photo."
She folded the report, handed it back. "Do you believe in coincidence, McCall?"
"I'm one of those rare cops who do. As long as there aren't too many of them." He leaned a shoulder against the door. "In your case, we've got the mugging. The tampered fruit. Isaac's mug shot with a personal message to you. Your billfold getting boosted. Kidd just told me the workshop assignments were stolen at the same time. It's too improbable that some or all of those occurrences aren't tied together somehow."
"I agree." She turned off the idling engine and slid the key into her coat pocket. "I can accept Isaac, or his accomplice, having a hand in everything. Except stealing the assignments. Why do that?"
"To show how close he can get to you."
"He proved that when he took my billfold. Why take the assignments, too?"
"That's a mystery."
"I went to the training center early this morning to work on the assignments. One of them creeped me out."
McCall raised a dark brow. "How?"
"I found numerous indicators of deception. The guy who wrote it was majorly stressed. He failed to account for huge blocks of time during his day. He made a point to distance himself from both his wife and their home. It's possible he has someone on the side. And there's some sort of sexual thing going on with him."
"Let me guess. You latched onto that angle after he brought up something about turning on the lights."
"As a matter of fact, he mentioned lights twice," she said coolly. "You know, McCall, you've never said I was wrong about what happened between you and your girlfriend on your day off."
"I don't have a girlfriend. And what I said was I think you made a lucky guess." He shrugged. "We've veered off the subject. Did you bring up the creepy assignment because you think the guy who wrote it stole them all?"
Although she also had considered the possibility during the drive, she now realized how far-fetched it was.
"Not really. I mean, why risk getting caught doing something like that? I may suspect the guy was totally deceptive and that he's messing around on his wife, but so what? No matter what he wrote about his day, there's no repercussions for him. And if his goal was to steal the assignments, why take my billfold?"
"I'll turn that around and ask, if the thief's goal was to steal your billfold, why take the assignments?"
Paige raised a hand, let it drop. "Neither scenario makes sense."
"That doesn't mean we should discard either one. Edwin Isaac might be brilliant, but his wiring's twisted. He's psychologically malformed. Some things he does will make sense only to him."
"True."
Voices echoed in through the rolled-up windows. Paige glanced into the rearview mirror in time to see two men wearing dark suits and carrying briefcases move past the car at a brisk pace. She looked back at McCall, saw he was watching the men in the side mirror. "I'm not leaving."
"Where?" he asked, keeping his gaze on the mirror.
"Here. I'm staying in Oklahoma City."
His gaze whipped to hers, his eyes flickering in surprise. "Don't you have another workshop to teach somewhere?"
"I was already scheduled to take a vacation after this."
"Going where?"
"Mexico. My boss owns a villa overlooking the Sea of Cortez. I had great plans to do nothing but soak up the sun, read and drink margaritas." She found it impossible to hold back a sigh. "Damn."
"Don't you know anything about politics, Carmichael? It's not smart to stand up the boss."
She sent him a puzzled look, then tilted her chin when his meaning came through. "My boss is my boss, McCall, nothing more. I wasn't planning on meeting Holden Lassiter at the villa, or anyone else for that matter."
"Vacationing alone in a Mexican villa doesn't sound like fun to me. But it's a good place for you to be until Isaac's found."
"I've already talked to Holden and briefed him on what all's gone down since I've been here. I told him I wouldn't be using the villa if the lab report came back showing the fruit had been tampered with. So, I'm staying in your charming city. For as long as it takes."
"To do what?"
"Flush Isaac out of whatever sewer he's hiding in."
McCall eased toward her. "You sound like a cop."
"I used to be one."
"'Used to be' being the key words. Here's the deal, Carmichael. The lab's findings have put a whole new light on your case."
"Exactly---"
"It's now classified as an attempted homicide. I talked to my lieutenant, told him I'm already in the know about some of your background with Isaac. The lieu assigned the case to me."
"I thought your plate was full with the frozen-body homicide. You said it was political, that there's pressure to get the case wrapped up fast."
"'Twas not a lie." He sent her a smug look. "I'm like a magician who can keep a couple of plates spinning in the air at the same time."
Magical feats, Paige thought.
"So, Carmichael, everything that went down yesterday concerning you is now assigned to me. If you're staying here, you need to be in protective custody while the cops flush out Isaac."
"The cops have had two weeks to find him. And you can forget protective custody. I'm not going to tuck my tail between my legs and go into hiding."
"I was thinking of it more along the lines of you keeping below the radar screen of the sick shrink who's fed you into whatever degenerate nightmare he's spinning for himself."
"I know all about the nightmares Isaac conjures up. And how he operates. I know his mannerisms. How he talks. Sounds. How he thinks."
"Which means you're aware that a deep respect for life is not among his personality traits. The note on the back of the mug shot promising 'we'll be together soon' is proof of whose life he's focused on right now."
"Proof," she repeated. "Since Isaac escaped, there hasn't been a shred of proof of where he is. Not even what country he's in. The fruit bowl and the mug shot are the first solid leads to his location."
"His, or that mystery accomplice you and your partner could never pin down."
"True. But if there is an accomplice and we nab him, that's a step closer to finding Isaac."
"We?" McCall gave her a narrow smile. "If I were practicing statement analysis, I would find a little too much sense of togetherness in your comment."
"Dammit, you don't need to flex your cop muscles by reminding me I'm a mere civilian." She jerked off her right glove, held up her hand so he could see her scar. "This is a constant reminder. I understand why you think it's dangerous for me to stay here because you're right---Isaac is focused on me. But as long as he is, I won't risk going back to Dallas."
His gaze slowly lifted from her scar. "It's always smarter to fight a battle on familiar turf," he said quietly. "Why is going back to Dallas riskier than staying here?"
"Because that might split Isaac's focus."
"Onto?"
"My grandfather owns a ranch just west of Dallas. My mother lives there, too." Paige knew her voice had taken on a raw edge, but she couldn't help it. Couldn't help being afraid for the two people she loved most in the world. "I won't put them at risk."
"What about your father? Could he be a target?"
"He split the instant my mother told him she was pregnant. Since I've never laid eyes on the man, I doubt Isaac would go after him."
"Probably not," McCall agreed. "Look, I'd do whatever it took to keep my family safe, so I understand where you're coming from. But think about your mom and grandfather's feelings. I doubt they'd want you to intentionally put yourself in the bull's-eye of Isaac's target."
"Seems I did that the night I locked him in a cage."
While she tugged her glove on, Paige noted the muscle working in McCall's jaw as he stared out the windshield. He didn't have to voice his thoughts for her to know what they were. Cops received threats, that came with the job. The majority of those threats were meaningless. But you instinctively knew which were the real thing, and you kept those in the front of your memory. Even after thirty years, her retired Texas Ranger grandfather could name the few people whose threats he'd taken seriously. Tate Carmichael even kept their mug shots handy.
"We have reason to believe that Isaac, or someone working with him, is in Oklahoma City," Paige said quietly. "He wants me. To accomplish that, he's going to have to show himself."
McCall looked back at her, his eyes grim. "Problem is, if it's Isaac who comes after you, he'll be in disguise."
"The instant he opens his mouth, I'll know him. Look, McCall, I don't intend to spend my life checking for Isaac over my shoulder. That's what might happen if I burrow into some hole and try to wait him out. I'm staying here. Period."
"And I can't do anything about that." He aimed an index finger at her. "You listen to me, Carmichael. This is my case. My turf. I don't want you going off on some investigative tangent. If you get as much as a hinky feeling that something's not right, I want to know."
"I don't go off on tangents."
"You went to The Epicurean on your lunch hour."
She shoved his hand aside. "Did you put a tail on me I didn't spot?"
The grin he flashed was one decimal point away from arrogant. "I've got a spy network that makes the CIA look like Cub Scouts. By the way, it was impressive how you cornered Chief Quaid as a suspect in the larceny of your billfold."
Her temper boiled up, rattling the lid on her control. "What, you don't question people who are in the vicinity of a crime scene?"
"If it's the chief, I do it with tact. You proved the first day of the workshop just how tactful you can be when that temper of yours gets riled."
The fact she was currently trying to control that temper had her clenching her jaw. "Well, Sergeant, as long as you do your job and find Isaac, I'm not bound to 'get riled' and go off on some investigative tangent."
McCall was about to reply when his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the caller ID. "Hugh Henderson."
"Lucky you," Paige muttered, putting a choke hold on her emotions. The tension between her and McCall was as relaxed as a coiled snake.
After a moment, he slid her a look. "Yeah, Carmichael's still with me."
She arched a brow. He shrugged, then frowned as he listened to Henderson. "You really want me to ask her that, Hugh? Hold on."
"Ask me what?"
McCall pressed the phone against his chest to mute their voices. "Henderson's upstairs in the hotel bar. He wants to know if you'll reconsider his offer to join him for a drink."
"You're kidding, right?"
"When it comes to affairs of the heart, I don't joke around."
Paige rolled her eyes as he handed her the phone. Obviously she had not made her feelings clear enough to Detective Lamebrain.
"Sergeant Henderson, thank you again for helping your partner escort me here."
"I---"
"As to joining you for a drink, I will do that only when the sun is a cold, dark cinder the size of a walnut. I'll see you tomorrow in class. Good night."
McCall's laugh was rich and infectious, and she couldn't help but smile. "It's not like he didn't ask for it." She returned the phone. "I'd already told him no twice."
"When it comes to women, Hugh sometimes needs more convincing than we intuitively brighter types."
"You might want to remind good old Hugh what that gold band on his left hand means." Paige shook her head. "It's easy to understand why you're closer to Kidd than Henderson."
"Am I?" McCall snagged the asp off the console, weighed it in his palm. "What makes you think that?"
"Yesterday at the training center, you told me Kidd and Henderson were waiting for you to go to lunch with them. Then last night at the hotel you said you would have Kidd and Henderson follow me from the training center this evening."
"So?"
"So, you habitually mention Kidd's name first. There's a reason for that. Now that I've met them, I suspect it's because you like Kidd more than Henderson. I happen to share your feelings."
"Do you?"
"Yes." She tapped the palm of one gloved hand against the steering wheel. "Henderson's married, but he has no problem hitting on another woman, and he doesn't care who knows about it. He might be the guy who wrote the assignment that creeped me out."
"Jesus." Nate tossed the asp back on the console where it landed with a clatter. "Do you do this all the time, Carmichael? Analyze every word a person says? Friends? Family?"
If she had known how to dissect all the smooth, charming lines her husband had whispered, she maybe would have been prepared.
"It's easy to deceive someone who isn't paying attention," she said. "I pay attention, is all."
"Is that what the slimeball did to you, Paige?" he asked quietly. "Lie to you? Did you hone up on statement analysis after you stopped being a cop just so you could spot lies?"
McCall's soft tone, his use of her first name had her breath going shallow. Neither of them had moved, but he somehow seemed to have gotten closer. She could smell his cologne, feel the heat of him. His gaze held hers, drawing her in. She felt something she didn't need or want to feel. Back away, she told herself.
Her hand unsteady, she grabbed the asp off the console and shoved it into her coat pocket. "Thanks for arranging the escort." Twisting, she snagged her purse and laptop case off the backseat. "I appreciate it."
She shouldered open the door and climbed out of the car. The garage was cold---the brittle, bone-snapping cold that made people hurry to get indoors. As she moved, Paige scanned the other cars for occupants. She saw no one. By the time she got around to the trunk, McCall was waiting for her.
"Since your information on Isaac was in your stolen briefcase, I called your former partner," he said. "He's emailing me copies of the files."
"I talked to him today, too. He's sending me the same thing."
"Yeah, he mentioned that." He angled his chin. "Are you positive about staying here after your workshop ends?"
"Yes."
"I'll review Isaac's files tonight. Let's get together tomorrow after you're done at the training center and talk about Isaac. I want to hear everything about that bastard."
"Fine."
His hand gripped her elbow. "I'll walk you in."
During those last moments in the car, something between them had shifted. Despite the cold, she felt her blood heat. "The elevator is three yards away. I can make it there on my own."
"No doubt," he said, falling into step with her. "I have to go by Burke Youngblood's office. My sisters are getting married on Valentine's Day and the reception's here." He reached past her to the concrete wall and pressed the elevator's call button. "There's some sort of paperwork I'm supposed to pick up."
"Did you say your sisters are getting married? Plural?"
He nodded. "Grace, Morgan and Carrie are taking the plunge. Also my brother, Bran. He and his wife are renewing their vows. Everything in one huge ceremony."
The elevator dinged to announce its arrival. Paige stepped inside, sliding him a look. "Does that make you Lonewolf McCall? The family's sole holdout who avoids marriage like the plague?"
In the elevator's dim light, she almost missed the shadow that flicked across his eyes. Almost. Perhaps Houdini hadn't made a clean escape from every relationship?
"I've got another brother. Mention marriage around Josh, he cringes."
He's not the only one, Paige thought.
The instant the doors slid closed, she knew she'd made a mistake. Her rental car's closed confines had been bad enough, but the dimly lit elevator seemed more personal. Intimate. McCall's hand still gripped her elbow, her body was very aware of his nearness, responding to it in ways that were instinctive and fundamentally feminine.
He had a reputation for seduction, she cautioned herself. She had her own experience with a man like him and didn't intend to go down that road again. McCall had no business touching her, and she had no business wanting him to.
Easing her arm from his grip, she took a step sideways and slammed a firm clamp on her libido.
Late the following afternoon, Paige ended her workshop. She was on her way out the door when Kassandra, the training center secretary, caught her.
"Ms. Carmichael, Chief Quaid's secretary just called. The chief would like to meet with you in his office."
Paige arched a brow. "Now?"
"As soon as you can get downtown."
"Did the secretary say why the chief wants to see me?"
"No." Kassandra shrugged. "I asked. She has no clue. Want me to call and tell her you're on the way?"
Kidd and Henderson were waiting in their cars to provide escort service. Paige hoped they wouldn't mind changing their destination from her hotel to the cop shop.
"Make the call," she said.
"So, you accepted Chief Quaid's offer to consult on the homicide of a city councilman's wife?" Paige's boss asked.
"A councilman who announced his run for governor a couple of hours before she disappeared." Shoulder-cradling her cell phone, Paige tilted back in the swivel chair at McCall's desk on which file folders and stacks of paper pooled around a computer monitor. It was nearly six o'clock. OCPD Homicide's squad room was staffed only by the lone detective who'd told her McCall was in their captain's office and she should wait at his desk. She knew the reason McCall was meeting with his boss and she felt certain he would not emerge a happy camper. Not her fault, Paige thought, turning her attention back to the phone call.
"Yes, Holden, I accepted the offer. Is the arrangement I made with Chief Quaid acceptable to you?"
"As of tomorrow, you're officially on vacation. Your time is your own." Despite her boss's American heritage, he spoke with a faintly British accent, courtesy of his diplomatic-corps father's overseas service, the majority of which was spent in the U.K. "That is, if you call making yourself a target for an escaped killer a vacation."
Paige lifted a brow. Holden Lassiter had spent over a decade as a CIA case officer collecting intelligence and planning missions in dangerous and often war-torn locales around the globe. If that wasn't making oneself a target, she didn't know what was.
"Granted, I'm on my own time. But Chief Quaid asked me to consult on the case because of my expertise in statement analysis. Apparently, the victim and her husband hosted a party to announce his candidacy and the police took statements from the guests and catering crew. The chief thinks my analyzing those statements might help close the case faster. I wouldn't have this skill if it weren't for you, Holden. It's only right the Lassiter Group receives a portion of the city's payment."
Paige wasn't simply trying to earn points with her boss. In truth, Lassiter and his company were responsible for her well-being. After the breakup of her marriage and loss of her badge, the job Holden Lassiter offered her had given her a reason to get out of bed in the morning. The intensive training had kept her so busy she'd barely had a moment to think about the fact her life had gotten sucked into some dark sinkhole and spit back out in a form she'd hardly recognized. For that, she would be forever grateful.
"Let's debate the money issue when this is over," Lassiter said. "What about Doctor Isaac? Have there been additional suspicious events?"
"Not since yesterday when my billfold and the assignments were stolen." Paige thought again of the what-I-did-yesterday assignment that had contained so many indicators of deception. She glanced around the squad room, her gaze landing on the desk that held the nameplate Hugh Henderson. His blatant insistence that she join him for a drink despite the fact he was married seemed to fit the assignment's author.
"Since you're determined to stay in Oklahoma City and flush Isaac out, I feel easier knowing you're working with the police," Holden said, pulling her attention back. "In this case, there truly is safety in numbers."
Paige was suddenly aware of the clip of oncoming footfalls along the hallway. She glanced up just as McCall stepped through the doorway. His eyes narrowed when he spotted her.
The detective seated at the desk on the far side of the squad room looked up. "Hey, Nate, I took a call for you from---"
"Later," McCall said without breaking stride. He stopped inches from Paige's chair and leaned in. "Follow me." Without waiting for her to respond, he turned and strode toward a door on the opposite side of the squad room.
"In this case," she murmured into the phone, "I'm not sure there is safety in numbers."
"Come again?"
"I'll explain later, Holden. My new partner is apparently anxious to get started on our joint consultation." And in no way happy about doing so.
"Very well. Keep me briefed. And, Paige, don't take chances where Isaac is concerned. The man is deadly."
"I know that all too well." For the hundredth time, she wondered if Isaac was somewhere nearby, waiting for the most opportune time to make another move on her.
Spooked by her own thoughts, she concentrated on her boss's words.
"I've made inquiries to some sources who are attempting to pick up the doctor's trail."
"Care to name some of those sources?" Paige asked. Over the years she and several of her coworkers had begun to suspect that Holden Lassiter had not completely moved away from the CIA to the private sector.
"As you know I prefer to keep my contacts anonymous," he replied without missing a beat. "I'll call if we get new information on Isaac. In the meantime, stay safe."
"That's my plan," she said, watching McCall shoulder open the door and step out of sight.
Easing out a breath, she rose and clipped her phone onto the waistband of her black slacks. "Might as well get this over with," she murmured, winding her way through rows of battered metal desks.
Palming open the door, she stepped into a small, dimly lit file room. The smell of stale, aging paper hung in the cool air. A wooden table with cigarette burns marching around its edges sat in the room's center. Battleship-gray file cabinets lined the dingy walls.
McCall stood at the far side of the room, one shoulder leaning against a file cabinet, his arms crossed over his chest. He had his suit jacket off, shirt collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up and tie askew.
"Glad you could join me, Carmichael. You want to tell me exactly how you arranged this?"
She rested a hip against the table. "Arranged what?"
"Did I tick you off that bad last night when I reminded you you're no longer a cop? Is that why you went to Quaid and got him to agree to let you consult on my case?"
"I didn't particularly like your reminding me of something I need no reminder of," she said. "Even so, I didn't approach your chief. He approached me."
"How'd you convince him to pull you in on my investigation?"
"I didn't. Quaid called me to his office and asked if I was interested in consulting on a sensitive, high-profile homicide case. Since I had already made arrangements to stay in town, I outlined the terms under which I perform consultations for law enforcement agencies. He agreed to them. I didn't hear any specifics on what case he intended me to consult on until after that. When he mentioned 'frozen body' I realized the case is yours."
"Right."
The disbelief in McCall's voice stirred her temper. Still, she knew all too well how maddening and frustrating it was to try to work a homicide while the brass jerked the reins and issued orders. And how she'd unequivocally resented so-called experts being crammed down her throat. Experts who sometimes did more to hinder than help an investigation.
"Look, McCall, Quaid brought me to Oklahoma City to teach statement analysis," she began, trying for the most reasonable of tones. "Yesterday he sat in on my workshop for a couple of hours. He apparently liked what he heard. Right now, OCPD happens to have a red-ball homicide," she continued, using cop lingo for the murder of a prominent official or celebrity. "Call it a twist of fate that I'm in town at the same time. It's Quaid's opinion that using statement analysis in the investigation might help close the case faster."
"And I'm sure you didn't do anything to dispel that opinion."
"Why would I? I happen to agree with him."
"Then there's those of us who find it hard to believe you can figure out what's going on in some illiterate lowlife's brain by reading a couple of sentences he manages to scribble." McCall's dark brows drew together. "Is that why you wormed your way in on my case, Carmichael? Because you know I don't totally buy what you're selling?"
"Right," she snapped. "I was just blowing smoke when I told you I'm staying here because I've got this huge desire to find the escaped psychiatrist who wants to kill me. The truth is, I gave up two weeks in a villa overlooking the Sea of Cortez just so I can prove to you the merits of statement analysis. In fact, I came up with my brilliant scheme the first day of my workshop when you leered at my legs. Even then, I knew somewhere in this city there was a murdered frozen socialite whose husband is running for governor. And that you would snag the case, and your chief would hire me to consult on it." She thrust her arms out toward him. "Slap on the cuffs, Sergeant McCall, you have sniffed me out."
A muscle in his jaw ticked. Once. Twice. "You've got a real attitude problem, Carmichael."
"Me? You're the one suffering from one hell of a bad case of sour grapes, McCall."
He pressed his lips together and stared at her. Her arms still extended in the "cuff me" position, she returned his stare, measure for measure.
"Hell," he said after a moment. He shook his head as he straightened from the file cabinet. "Dammit to hell. This is the last thing I need."
Paige let her arms drop. She knew most Homicide cops preferred to exhaust all the traditional methods first to solve a case before resorting to psychics or unknown quantities.
To McCall, she and statement analysis were unknown quantities.
"I know how it feels to have the brass stepping all over a homicide case," she said quietly. "I didn't like it when it happened to me, any more than you like it now. But I learned to deal with it by reminding myself I had victims who couldn't speak for themselves and it was up to me to do that for them. I learned to ignore all the politics and histrionics and just keep digging and prodding and turning over rocks until I found the truth." She took a step toward him. "I've seen enough of how you work to know you're the same kind of cop, McCall. You care first and foremost about the victim."
He moved toward her, pausing inches away, his dark eyes unfathomable.
She stared at him for a full ten seconds while a knot of nerves she didn't want to acknowledge clenched in her belly. "What?"
"You working me, Carmichael? Saying things you know any Homicide cop worth his salt wants to hear just so I'll get over being ticked that the chief dumped you in my lap?"
"I'm saying what I sense is the truth. If it gets us over this speed bump, that's a plus. The other night you told me your partner is on maternity leave. That means you've probably got other detectives helping you out when they can spare time from their own cases."
"I did have that. As of this afternoon, the chief slapped a lid on this case and screwed down the latches. As of now, all communication, reports and other information about the Gillette case is limited to the chief, my captain, me and my partner."
Having been a murder cop, Paige knew the standard Homicide mantra was: If you're allowed to know, you'll be told. If not, don't ask. And it was a rare Homicide cop who hadn't snagged an assignment at one time or another where communication was even more limited than usual. Some of those cases were sensitive ones like the Gillette homicide. Others were internal investigations on officers. Since things were kept hush-hush, nobody's feelings got hurt if things didn't pan out. If they did, nobody was forewarned in time to hurt the investigation.
"Well, McCall, since there's a gag order on the case, it's fortunate you've got me full-time. And I don't intend to try to tell you what to do. It's your case. What I can do is sit in on interviews and analyze statements. Alert you to sensitive areas about which a person should be questioned. Bottom line is, we need to work together. Need to do the best job we can for that woman who had her lights dimmed then got stuffed in a freezer."
"Yeah, Mrs. Gillette deserves justice." Easing out a long breath, he shoved a hand through his hair. Paige could almost feel the tension of the moment fade. "Then there's the other case I recently took on."
"Mine."
"Yours. You'll recall we planned to get together this evening after I read the reports on Isaac that your former partner emailed me?"
"I remember."
"I can see one benefit to your consulting on the Gillette homicide."
She gave him a brilliant smile. "Just one?"
He smirked. And, dammit, she had to admit he had a great smirk. "With you in close proximity, I won't have to worry about you going off on one of those investigative tangents I warned you about."
With Oklahoma City unfamiliar territory, she had planned to do a little reconnoitering tonight after she and McCall met. And while she was at it, make a stop that might eventually give her a clue to Isaac's whereabouts. Although she'd intended to invite McCall to go along, instinct told her now was not the most opportune time to bring that up.
"I remember telling you I don't go off on tangents."
"That's good to know, Carmichael. Because in addition to the reports your ex-partner emailed, he sent photos of the dead hookers. I saw Isaac's work for myself."
"Sounds as if my ex-partner sent you the entire works."
"I like to know what I'm dealing with. Carmichael, your killer shrink is beyond perverted. With the hookers, he was just getting back at his dear old stepmom. You're different. You tracked him down. Locked him in a cage. Isaac no doubt perceives you destroyed his life, which means he's got a real hard-on for you." McCall dipped his head, his voice going as soft as a lover whispering endearments. "I don't want to think about what he'd do if he got his hands on you."
"I don't intend on giving him the opportunity."
"Good to know," he said levelly. "You ready to get to work?"
"Yes."
"All the paperwork's locked in my desk." He swept a hand toward the door while giving her a pointed look. "After you."
Paige glanced at the door, then looked back at McCall. She didn't for one second interpret the gesture as an attempt on his part to be polite. In the world of law enforcement, prisoners walked in front; guards followed. The person in the back was the one in charge, the one calling the shots. Nobody forgot that. Ever. McCall might concede to working with her, but he wanted her to know who was in charge.
What the hell, she thought. He had done more than a few favors for her and both cases were ultimately his. He deserved to win the point.
She turned and moved to the door. Her hand was on the knob when McCall said, "By the way, around here we don't call the homicide of someone high on the food chain a 'red ball.'"
She looked across her shoulder. "What term do you OCPD guys use?"
"We call them 'holy shit' cases. So far, that describes this one to a T."
"Let me make sure I've got the facts straight," Paige said after she finished reading a slew of reports on the Gillette homicide. McCall had settled her at his partner's desk, which faced the opposite direction from his. With their chairs backing up to each other, she had to swivel hers to face him.
The remaining desks in the squad room were now all empty, the lone detective having left about an hour ago on a homicide call.
"Shoot," McCall said, setting aside the report he'd been reviewing.
"During your interview with Davis Gillette, he said the last time he saw his wife was right after the party they hosted Saturday night. Mrs. Gillette---Lauren---and the housekeeper were in the kitchen, dealing with the caterer, when Davis went upstairs to bed."
"The housekeeper verified that much," McCall said. "She left around eleven-thirty, at the same time as the catering crew. Since the councilman and his wife maintained separate bedrooms, Gillette says he doesn't know if Lauren actually slept in hers that night. My guess is she didn't. The housekeeper was off the next day, and when she got to work Monday, Lauren's bed was in the same condition the housekeeper left it in on Saturday."
"So Davis wakes up Sunday morning and discovers both his wife and her Jaguar gone." As she spoke, Paige slipped the silver chain from beneath the neckline of her white tailored blouse and toyed with the links. "The Gillettes were scheduled to attend brunch at their country club. Instead of searching for her, or at least calling friends to ask if they'd seen her, Davis goes to the club. His wife didn't call or show up at home that night, or the following day. Yet he never notified the police."
"He claims Lauren had a habit of going off without telling him. So he wasn't overly concerned."
"There's an understanding husband. Does he have any idea where she went during those previous times?"
"According to him, she was always with one or the other of the two female friends I told you about. The thing is, neither of them was in town when Lauren went missing. One of those pals, Brenna Freeman, isn't even on the same continent. She's in Botswana."
"Have you talked to her?"
"Yeah. She got upset when I told her about Lauren. But she refused to answer questions over the phone. Said she's cutting her business there short and will get back here as soon as possible."
"What about the other friend of Lauren's?"
"Elizabeth LeMonde. She's jetting home late tonight in her hubby's Lear from L.A., where she spent the past week luxuriating at some ritzy spa. Since she hasn't returned the messages I've left her, the lady will find me on her doorstep first thing in the morning."
"Just you?"
"Here's a news flash, Carmichael. You might be a lot more fun if you'd lighten up and stop analyzing every word a person says."
"I'm not here to have fun."
He gave her a tight smile. "I would have never guessed."
"Getting back to business," she said, sending him a pointed look, "is Lauren Gillette's Jaguar still missing?"
"Yeah. Her purse wasn't with the body, so it's possible that's where we'll find it."
Paige nodded. "So, Lauren disappeared from home late Saturday night, and her body was found Monday in a coffin-size box in a warehouse freezer. How did you ID her?"
"Fingerprints. She met Gillette while working as a cocktail waitress at his country club. The club conducts a background check on all prospective employees, which includes a run on their prints."
McCall snagged a thick manila envelope off his desk, pulled out color photos and handed them to Paige. "Those are the crime scene pics from the freezer. The company that owns the place is called Lang. It's a nationwide food distributor."
Flipping through the photos, Paige studied Lauren Gillette's mink-clad body lying in a cardboard box. Her blond hair was swept up in an elegant twist, her pale skin flawless, save for the gash on her left cheek. "I didn't realize she was so young."
"Late twenties," McCall said. "Hubby is pushing sixty." His mouth curved. "Trophy wife."
"Whom it doesn't sound like shared her husband's bed on a regular basis." Paige leafed through the remainder of the photos, noting the diamond studs that glittered coldly at Lauren Gillette's earlobes. "Has the M.E. established time of death?"
"With the victim a corpse-sicle it's hard to say. We know what food was served at the party she and Gillette hosted, so once we get the analysis of her stomach contents we may be able to close in on a T.O.D." McCall rested an ankle over his knee. "The box she's in is interesting."
Paige glanced back at the photos. "How so?"
"It's got a manufacturer's model number stamped on it. That company went out of business a few years ago. Lang's got a couple of warehouses on its property and there's still some of those old boxes in use there, but not a lot. Right now it doesn't seem like any of them are unaccounted for."
"Any luck getting fingerprints off the box?"
"None, it'd been wiped down with some sort of solvent. Inside there were dust particles, and a couple of different fibers lodged under the corner of one of the flaps. The debris has been sent to the trace lab."
"Is there life insurance involved? If so, how much and who's the beneficiary?"
"The lovebirds took out a 'survivor's' policy right after their marriage. That means when one dies, the survivor gets a cool million dollars."
"Was that Lauren's idea?"
"Given their January-December ages, you'd think so. The odds were certainly in her favor to begin with. But the insurance agent said he got the impression Gillette used it as an incentive to get her to marry him."
"Does he need the million?"
"Good question. I've just started digging into his financials, but on the surface he looks flush. There's a lot of old money in the Gillette family from oil production." McCall angled his head. "Running for governor takes a big chunk of change. Wouldn't hurt to have an extra pot of cash on hand."
"Having his wife murdered would get him some sympathy votes."
"Unless it turns out he's the one who iced her."
"True." Paige paused, her mind working to digest the information. "You said Lang is a food distributor. Does Davis Gillette have ties to the company?"
"Lang's property is located in the ward the councilman represents. He was even on-site earlier this year when Lang finished construction on a state-of-the art warehouse."
"So, Gillette's familiar with the layout of the place."
"Very. He helped Lang get a business-incentive tax reduction from the city. I've got a copy of Gillette's report he submitted to the council that details all of Lang's facilities. The list includes the old warehouse where his wife's body was found. It also states the warehouse is used solely for storage of former employee and other records Lang never got around to microfilming. Its walk-in freezer is kept in operating condition in case it's needed for backup. Lang's manager told me the only time anyone goes to that particular warehouse is to retrieve old files. That happens maybe once a year."
"There was no forced entry into the warehouse. Does Gillette have a key?"
"Not officially. I'm working on finding out if there's a way he could have gotten one on the sly. Or if there's a record of him buying an automatic lock-pick device."
"So, why didn't the killer bury Lauren? Why stick her in the warehouse?"
"We've had an especially brutal winter---lots of ice and snow, multiple days of freezing temps," McCall explained. "The ground is frozen, which means it's way too hard to dig a grave if all you've got is a shovel. The guy could have planned to leave the body in the freezer a few weeks until the ground thawed. Obviously, there's some reason he couldn't stash the body, either frozen or in the crawl space under his house, like Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy did their victims. Our guy could have opted to rent a unit at a storage facility under an alias and keep Lauren in a freezer there, but those places present even more problems beyond his control than the freezer at Lang."
Paige nodded, trying to view the scenario in the killer's mind. "Random burglars, nosy managers with duplicate keys, which most storage facilities demand all unit renters supply. And those on-site managers could ID the guy from photos, which would negate his using an alias. Power out-ages you might not know about until too late."
"All that and more," McCall said. "And if the murder wasn't planned, the guy suddenly has a body on his hands and no idea how to deal with it. Maybe he's in a time squeeze. He's in some way connected to Lang. He knows the odds of anybody going into that old warehouse are on his side. It was just bad luck that a couple of juvies tossed rocks through the windows, and brought a security guard down on them, but shit happens."
"Amen," Paige agreed, rubbing her numb scar. "I take it you've got a list from Lang of all its present and past employees?"
"You take it right. One interesting point about Lang is that it's probably one of the single largest employers of off-duty OCPD cops. The main reason for that is all the traffic coming in and out of Lang's warehouses. A lot of truckers are more apt to take instructions from a cop than a security guard."
"Have you had a chance to question any of the cops who were on duty at Lang between Saturday night and Monday when Lauren's body was found?"
"Yeah. No one noticed anything out of the ordinary. Too bad Lang doesn't have security cameras on that old warehouse. Or the back gate that I figure the killer used."
"No kidding." Paige paused, thinking about the information she'd read in the reports. "You said some of the guests at the Gillettes' party heard them arguing?"
"Right. But they'd closed themselves off in the study so no one knows what the argument was about. That was approximately an hour after Gillette announced his run for governor. You've got to figure the spat with the missus put a cap on his night."
"I can imagine. Chief Quaid mentioned that everyone who attended the party was questioned. Their statements were recorded, then transcribed. If you want, I can get started analyzing them tonight."
"I want." McCall unearthed a bulging file folder off his desk and handed it to her. "I've read them all. There's nothing in any of them that jumped up and hit me between the eyes. Of course, I wasn't dissecting each word under a microscope."
"No telling what you missed," Paige murmured. "What about the catering crew? Did you get statements from them?"
"They're in that same folder, clipped separately. I had the distinct pleasure of interviewing the owner of the catering company. Calls himself Mr. Markie. Guy's so light in the loafers it's a wonder he doesn't float."
Paige rolled her eyes at the description. "Did Mr. Markie overhear the Gillettes arguing?"
"No, he spent most of the night in the kitchen, issuing orders to his worker bees."
Angling sideways, Paige set the file on her desk. When she turned back, she saw that McCall had rolled his chair closer to hers.
"What's this?" His knuckles grazed her throat when he snagged the silver chain. Fire ants, she thought, would have had less effect on her system.
"A real handcuff key," he said. "And a miniature badge. Texas Ranger, right?"
"Right."
He lifted his gaze and gave her a wide, mischievous smile, friendly and gleaming. "You into kinky, Carmichael? Find yourself in a lot of situations where you need a handcuff key?"
"Try to drag your mind out of the gutter, McCall." She gripped the chain between a finger and thumb and slid it from his hold. "The necklace is a gift from my grandpa."
"Isn't that kind of an odd gift from a grandpa?"
"If you knew mine, you wouldn't have to ask." She rolled her chair back until it thumped against her desk. "Grandpa Carmichael's a retired Texas Ranger. One of his former partners was transporting a prisoner when the guy overpowered him and cuffed him to a tree. The Ranger lived about four days before he died of exposure. My grandpa found him. He said he was cuffed with his hands in front of him, and if he'd had a spare handcuff key, he might have been able to free himself. Grandpa gave me this necklace when I graduated from the police academy. He calls it my lucky necklace. He asked me to wear it always, and I promised I would."
McCall wiggled his brows. "Even when you get lucky?"
Damn the man, she couldn't help but give him a reluctant smile. "Even when." No way would she admit she hadn't gotten lucky in three years.
Studying her, McCall angled his head. "When you talk about your grandpa, your eyes go soft. So does your voice. He's special, right?"
"I'm crazy about him." Paige smiled. "He's big as a bear and cantankerous, but has the most soothing touch. He was my surrogate father. While I was growing up, my mom and I lived with him on the ranch he owns outside of Dallas. Grandpa had me up on a horse before I could even walk. He taught me to ride, to rope, to brand."
"You know how to rope and brand, huh?" McCall gave her a head-to-toe study. "You could be a dangerous woman for a man to be around, Carmichael."
"Bet on it, McCall."
She tucked the chain inside her blouse and shifted the conversation back on track. "How did Davis Gillette take the fact his wife occasionally disappeared without telling him?"
"I wouldn't say it was okay with him." McCall stretched back in his chair. Nice stretch. Nice chest. "More like something he had no control over." He pursed his mouth. "It wasn't until after I interviewed him that I found out both Elizabeth LeMonde and Brenna Freeman were out of town. And Gillette knew that."
"So, if he's guilty, why would Gillette name two people Lauren couldn't have been with during the critical time? He could have just said he had no idea where she went."
"That's a matter I've been pondering. Gillette could have done it to tie up my time. Keep me looking in one direction so I wouldn't look in another. Still, I think he'd only do that if he's stupid or panicky. He didn't strike me as either."
"Have you asked him why he told you Lauren might be with either LeMonde or Freeman when he knew for sure she wasn't?"
"Not yet. His lawyer's blocking a second interview. Keeps insisting his client is in seclusion. In mourning. Since the lawyer lives next door to Gillette, I can't exactly drop in on his client to have a chat. It's interesting that the grieving councilman still managed to call the mayor over wanting the media---and most everyone else---blocked from getting additional information about the case."
"Lauren had a habit of disappearing every so often, which tells us she had something going on. Have you found evidence she had a man on the side?"
"Maybe. You might have noticed in the crime scene photos that she was wearing just one leather glove, her right one. I don't know what happened to the other one." He unearthed a file folder from one of the stacks on his desk, flipped it open and handed a photograph to Paige. "That's a picture of the note written on a small cocktail napkin the M.E.'s assistant found folded inside her glove."
"'Meet me at Midnight,'" Paige read. Written in red ink, the words lay like a bloody gash upon the white napkin.
"It's possible some guy at the Gillettes' party slipped that to Lauren. We know that the housekeeper and catering crew left around eleven-thirty. That would have given Lauren enough time after hubby went to bed to change out of her party attire, take off in the Jag and meet some guy at midnight."
"She maybe was going to meet someone, but I disagree about the time. You're making an assumption."
McCall scowled. "How? The note says midnight."
"True, but look at it again." She angled the photo his way. "'Meet me at Midnight.'"
"Yeah, Carmichael, I got that."
"People mean exactly what they say, McCall. Exactly what they write. When midnight is used to refer to twelve o'clock at night, the word isn't normally capitalized. The author of this note used caps. Midnight could very well be a proper name."
"Meaning a place."
"Correct."
"It could also mean that whoever wrote it doesn't care squat about the proper use of lower and uppercase."
"You could be right."
His eyes stayed steady on hers. "And so could you." He tugged open a desk drawer, pulled out a phone book and flipped through the pages. "There's no business named Midnight. Or with Midnight the first word of its title."
Paige returned the photo to him. "It could be a new business that came in after the phone book was printed."
"I'll check with all the utilities in the morning to see if they've got any companies that have Midnight in the title. And with the phone company in case the number's un-listed. Also the Secretary of State's office for incorporated businesses containing that name." He looked back at Paige and shrugged. "Good catch, Carmichael."
"Thanks."
Although Lauren Gillette might have had one lover or several, Paige knew that where homicides were concerned, a true whodunit was the exception rather than the rule. If for no other reason than statistics, the killer was likely to be one of the people closest to the victim. Spouses headed the list.
"So, McCall, give me your take on Davis Gillette."
"He's arrogant. Has money, looks, political power and prestige. Mix all that together and you've maybe got a man who perceives himself to be above the law."
Paige nodded slowly, her mind churning information. "Do you remember Gillette's exact language when he told you he woke up Sunday morning and immediately went to Lauren's bedroom to remind her about brunch?"
"Hold on." McCall retrieved a pad from the pocket of the suit coat he'd hung over the back of his chair. After flipping through several pages, he said, "According to Gillette, he woke up and went to Lauren's bedroom. When he opened the door he discovered she was gone."
"He said 'gone'? You're sure?"
"Positive." McCall closed the pad. "Why?"
"Saying that someone is 'gone' is often used to refer to a person who has passed away. She's gone. It can also be used in instances where a person is nowhere to be found. Am I right to think that the Gillettes live in a big house?"
"A mansion."
"So, the councilman wakes up and goes directly to his wife's bedroom. How did he know Lauren was not somewhere else in that great big house? He didn't say that she wasn't in her bedroom. He said Lauren was gone."
"Jesus." McCall scrubbed a hand over his jaw. "At times, Carmichael, you boggle my mind."
"Just doing my job. Do you think Gillette killed his wife?"
"I think he knows a lot more about what she did during those times she took off than he's admitting to. The jury's still out on whether he offed her." McCall leaned forward. "You suggesting I go slap the cuffs on the guy because he used the word 'gone'?"
"No. Nor would I recommend you do that solely if your gut instinct told you the guy was guilty. Do you have any other suspects?"
"Not so far." McCall shoved a hand through his dark hair, leaving it rumpled. "With all the pressure coming down from the mayor to get this case solved fast, it's a damn shame the Gillettes don't have a butler I can pin this on." McCall glanced at his watch. "I have to testify in court tomorrow afternoon on another case so I need to spend a couple of hours tonight reviewing the file. But there are some things I want to go over with you about Isaac. We can do that while we grab a bite to eat before I drop you off at the Ambassador Arms." He raised a brow. "By the way, how does Fiona Shepherd like her room there?" he asked, referring to the alias he'd chosen for her.
"Fiona likes it just fine. And your manager pal, Burke Youngblood, seems to run a tight ship."
"That he does."
"I have my car here, McCall. Kidd and Henderson did their escort duty again from the training center, so I'm sure I didn't pick up a tail. I can drive myself to the Ambassador Arms after we eat."
"I wasn't thinking about the possibility of your picking up a tail. LeMonde's house is about a mile from the Ambassador Arms. Since that's our first stop in the morning, I can pick you up at the hotel and we'll go pay Lauren Gillette's pal a visit. You'll have your car here tomorrow when you leave."
"Actually, I planned to make a detour on my way back to the hotel. It concerns Isaac." She held up a hand when McCall arched a brow. "Before you accuse me of going off on a tangent, I intended to ask if you wanted to go along."
He gave her a dark look. "Well, now that I've brought up the subject of how we plan to spend our evening, why don't you tell me about your little detour?"
"As you know, Isaac's previous victims were all hookers. If he truly is here, he may decide to pay your city's working girls a visit. They need to be warned."
"I thought about that. Then decided it'd be a waste of time to flash around a mug shot of some guy who's an ace at disguise."
"It would be," she agreed, and patted a hand against her purse. "I had my former partner send me a recording of Isaac's voice. It's distinctive. His speech patterns are cultured. Formal. And there's all that politeness mixed in. If he starts trolling hookers, he might look different, but he won't sound that way. Not totally, anyway."
"Just how do you know where the red-light district is around here?"
"I don't know. Tia Alvarado wrote down the directions for me."
"You and Tia get to be pals during your workshop?"
"More like friendly acquaintances."
McCall studied her. "You sure you were going to tell me ahead of time about your plan to go trolling hookers?"
"I'm sure."
"Well, since you claim most people don't lie, I guess I'll have to believe you."
"You're a quick study, McCall."
"That I am." Rising, he flashed a grin, all power and charm. "Countless women concur."
The grin rocketed a missile straight to her libido, loosening the lid she'd clamped firmly on her emotions the previous evening.
Okay, Paige told herself. Her response to Nate McCall was a matter of simple, unbridled lust. A woman wanting a man. Nothing complicated, nothing emotional. He made her hot, and her body wanted a chance to do something about it.
No way. She rose and snagged her coat off her desk. No way in hell did she intend to go there.
Paige had speculated that Oklahoma City's red-light district was somewhere in the general vicinity of downtown. But after McCall steered his unmarked cruiser out of the cop shop's parking lot, he turned onto an interstate ramp. While the cruiser sliced through traffic like a shark, he explained that the city's commercial business center had undergone a massive revitalization that shoved the hookers south into a neighborhood that had been limping along for years. The locals called the five-block urban wasteland "Low Track" because it was on the wrong side of the railroad tracks.
Now, as Paige stood on a dimly lit sidewalk in wind with a bite that chewed through the bones, she had second thoughts about the wisdom of making this particular visit at night. Overhead, the moon ghosted through thick clouds. A few dark, shuttered buildings lined the crumbling sidewalk, their doorways in shadows, making it difficult to tell if someone was hiding there. Huddling her shoulders beneath her tan cashmere coat, she tugged up its collar.
Low Track clearly had a rundown look, with the kind of street life that suggested Paige might want to look over her shoulder every once in a while. Doing just that, she spotted McCall standing at the end of the block in the hazy pool of a streetlight. He was currently engaged in an intense conversation with a tall, lean man with close-cropped hair and coffee-colored skin. He wore a bulky black jacket and low-riding baggy pants. The way the man sliced one hand through the air as he spoke made it clear he was back-talking McCall. Pimp, Paige thought, returning her attention to the two stiletto-shod working girls currently studying Edwin Isaac's mug shot.
"Haven't done no business with this dude," said the leggy redhead with troweled-on makeup and finger-long earrings dangling from her lobes. She wore a faux-fur jacket in wildly patterned jungle stripes and an orange leather skirt that barely covered the essentials.
"Me, neither," her companion added. The woman had frizzed blond hair reminiscent of scarecrow straw. She chewed a wad of pink bubble gum, working it between her front teeth, then stretching it out with her tongue.
Not woman, Paige amended, trying to imagine what the blonde's face looked like beneath the heavy blusher, murderous red lips and violet eyeshadow. Teenager was more like it.
A mom-and-pop grocery store and a bar sat directly across the street. The bar had glowing beer signs in its windows and flashing neon lights framed the door. Despite the freezing weather, the door was propped ajar, pouring out a haze of cigarette smoke and music that was standard-issue bump-and-grind.
"What'd he do?" the blonde asked, handing the mug shot back to Paige. The teen wore a tattered jean jacket over a bright red polyester dress that clung to her breasts like cellophane.
"Over about a year's time, he picked up five women in the same business as you. He kidnapped them and kept them locked in a basement. He tortured each of them for at least a week before he killed them."
"Hazard of the trade," the redhead stated with a shrug.
"Yeah." The blonde blew a pink bubble that quivered in the wind, then snapped it. "Lots of guys got them a mean streak."
Paige had been a cop too long to be surprised by their lack of concern. Dangerous clientele was just one risk of their desperate profession.
"Those women didn't just suffer a little pain before Edwin Isaac put them out of their misery," she said. "He's a doctor, a shrink who gets off on playing mind games. He messed with his victims' heads so much that they all willingly mutilated themselves with razor blades."
"Crap," the redhead stated, blowing on her bare hands. "Dude must be wired wrong."
"Very," Paige agreed. "Like I said, if he shows up here pretending to be a john he'll probably be disguised, so he won't look anything like he does in the mug shot." She opened her gloved palm, showing them again the micro-cassette recorder. "That's why I played you the tape of his voice. Do you need to hear it again?"
Both women shook their heads. "I got it," the redhead responded, her earrings swinging. "This shrink doctor uses big words, real polite tone. We don't hear much of either. He shows up talking that way, we'll know him, even if he looks like Cinderella."
"Tell the other girls who work around here about his voice," Paige said. "In Dallas, the media dubbed him 'Gentleman Jim' because he was so polite and bashful. Unassuming."
A car turned onto the street, the high beams of its headlights licking across the brick walls of the dark buildings. As it coasted by, Paige glanced across her shoulder. Late-model four-door BMW, black or navy, she thought, her cop's brain automatically recording details. The Beemer's windows were tinted, making it impossible to see the driver. The light over the license plate had either burned out or been removed.
She handed a business card to each woman. "My cell number's on the back. If you even think some guy who shows up here is Isaac, call me. Day or night. Okay?"
The redhead studied the card. "There a reward?"
"The Crime Stopper's program will pay for any tip that leads to Isaac's arrest."
"You want to go to jail, keep it up!"
Paige swung her head toward the sound of McCall's raised voice. He now had the pimp backed against the side of the cruiser and a palm pressed against the guy's chest. The pimp said something, then shrugged and held up both hands, palms out. Apparently he preferred not to spend the night behind bars.
She looked back at the women. "That your man?"
"Yeah." The blonde slid the business card into her coat pocket. "Name's Juju. He's pissed 'cause he don't like us talkin' to nobody who don't pay us for our time. Says our time's his time. What about that man you're with? He yours?"
"My partner." Paige shoved the recorder into her coat pocket, then wrapped her gloved fingers around the handle of the asp. If the pimp changed his mind and decided he wanted to go to jail, she'd back up McCall.
"You told us you ain't a cop," the blonde said. "Your partner sure is. How does that work?"
"I'm consulting on one of his cases."
"Yeah? I'd like to do some consulting with a fine-lookin' man like that." The blonde blew another pink bubble, snapped it. "Lots of consulting."
The redhead scoffed. "Only consultin' he'd do with you was to toss your skinny white ass in a cell."
"Gettin' close to a dude who looks like that might be worth doin' a little jail time." The blonde stomped her stilettos in an effort to keep warm. "Least I wouldn't be out here freezing my ass off when there's hardly no business."
The wind picked up, chasing debris along the street, swirling leaves and bits of rubble upward into small cyclones, then dropping them into piles. The music from the bar blasted on the cold air with a vengeance, hot and ruthless. Raw. Paige could have sworn she saw motion in one of the dark doorways, a shadow gliding among shadows. She shivered, not from the wind but from a twinge of icy premonition. Was Isaac close by, watching her? Or was he a world away, issuing instructions to some accomplice?
We'll be together soon. I promise.
Thinking about his message on the back of his mug shot had her admitting all over again that she was glad she had not ventured to Low Track alone.
"Thanks for your time," she told the two women.
"Yeah."
Paige hesitated while a montage of five dead hookers scrolled through her brain. She had no trouble picturing the two women standing before her in the same condition.
Paige couldn't help but feel empathy for the two shivering women. She knew McCall could run them in for loitering, just to get them off the street and into a warm cell for a couple of hours.
But even as the thought crossed her mind, she rejected it. The minute they bonded out, they'd be back on the street, probably facing a beating from Juju.
And clientele who could prove deadly.
"Keep your eyes open," she said. "Isaac is sick. Be careful. Very careful."
The lobby of the Ambassador Arms Hotel was on a less grand scale than that of the Waterford, but the green-veined marble, polished brass and dark hardwood gave it a cozy feel that appealed to Paige. As did the blazing fire in the massive, copper-faced fireplace that helped take off the morning chill.
Sipping the latte she'd purchased at a coffee kiosk, she stood at one end of the fireplace's stone hearth. Nearby, a mahogany table held an enormous crystal bowl from which red and white roses spilled, their color in celebration of the upcoming Valentine's Day. Across the lobby, several suit-clad men had chosen a grouping of crimson leather club chairs in which to drink coffee and scan the day's newspapers.
From over the rim of her cup, Paige gave each man a hard look. Could one of them be Isaac in disguise? Or his partner? Sitting there, yards away? Sipping coffee.
Monitoring her.
She pulled her gaze from the men. The lobby teemed with people---guests lining up at the front desk, bellmen pushing brass carts piled with luggage, an elegantly dressed couple receiving information from the concierge. Isaac could be any of them.
Paige eased out a breath. If she kept thinking about how close he could get to her without her knowing, she'd have a case of rampant paranoia. Not good when she needed to keep her senses sharp and her thinking processes void of emotion. So she would just keep reminding herself there was no way Isaac could know she had moved to the Ambassador Arms. No way for him to link her to the Fiona Shepherd alias McCall had registered her under.
She looked out the span of front windows, checking the circular drive where McCall had dropped her off last night, and agreed to pick her up this morning. No sign yet of his unmarked cop cruiser.
Just thinking about their upcoming interview with Lauren Gillette's friend, Elizabeth LeMonde, had her adrenaline humming. It was the same type of stirring she'd felt at the beginning of each homicide investigation she'd worked. She hadn't been a cop for three years; still, she sensed the ghosts from her past cases whispering their cautionary tales into her brain. Never take anything for granted. Never accept only what you see in front of you. Never automatically believe the things people tell you.
Her training in statement analysis had taught her just the opposite: believe what people say. Now, though, she was skilled at looking just as closely at what they didn't say.
She nudged up her coat sleeve and checked her watch. Since she had a few minutes before McCall was due, she pulled her PDA out of her purse and began checking the e-mail she'd downloaded from her laptop.
Sipping her latte, she punched buttons, scrolling through messages from various coworkers and friends. Her mother and grandfather had both emailed her. Not surprisingly, the gist of their messages focused on concern for her safety and urged her to hole up on her grandfather's ranch until Isaac's capture. Her boss, Holden Lassiter, advised that certain unnamed contacts had unearthed no new leads to the psychiatrist's whereabouts. Her attorney-cousin in Austin had emailed a joke about a lawyer and a goldfish that had Paige rolling her eyes.
The next message she opened stopped her cold. As she read, her heart rate picked up and her mouth went dry.
My Dearest Sergeant Carmichael. Oh, pardon, it's Ms. Carmichael now, isn't it? For the sake of brevity, I shall be referring to you as Paige, for that is how I think of you. On a personal level. And I am thinking of you often. Are you enjoying the frozen wasteland of Oklahoma for now? In contrast, it is warm here. After three years I can again relish the glorious heat of the sun against my face. My surroundings are much more to my liking than the prison cell in which you locked me. I look forward to sharing some of those wonderful memories of my incarceration with you soon.
I could tell you that I harbor no ill will toward you for finding me. But that would be a lie I suspect you would see through, inasmuch as you are now in the business of unearthing deceit. Back then, you were simply doing your job. A person can look at our relationship and conclude the scales have been balanced. You, taking away life as I knew it. Me, firing the bullet that ended the job by which you defined yourself.
But losing that important function in your right hand wasn't all you lost that night, was it? I smile when I conjecture what a blow that must have been to your pride. Your womanhood. How satisfying for me, knowing my actions brought you such personal humiliation.
In no way will I think it rude if you choose not to respond at this time. I shall soon leave the warm, sunny Eden in which I have placed myself. I am anticipating the day you will answer to me in person.
Hands shaking, Paige managed to set her cup on a nearby table without spilling the steaming latte. Her mind worked automatically to analyze Isaac's words, but this time they were personal. Too personal. Words directed at her by a madman who made no secret of the fact he intended them be together soon. The fragmented thoughts spinning off from Isaac's words hurtled through her brain, bouncing off the edges like bumper cars. She felt both cold and numb, and faintly sick.
Her gaze swept the lobby. The same men were still ensconced behind their newspapers. Bellmen continued to deal with luggage; the clerks behind the counter assisted guests.
No one seemed to be paying her a bit of attention.
You can handle this, Paige told herself. You found Isaac once. You can track the bastard again. Deal with it.
Those words were still scrolling in her brain five minutes later while she sat in the passenger seat of McCall's idling cruiser, parked beneath the hotel's porte cochere. Her initial shakes were gone. She had a choke hold on her emotions now, studying his profile as he read the e-mail. He looked more banker than cop in a dark, conservative suit and gray tie.
He looked up from the PDA. "When did this come through on your e-mail account?" McCall's tone was all business, his mouth set in a firm line, his eyes hard.
"Sometime after I checked my mail last night. That was around ten. It's one of the messages that downloaded from my laptop this morning."
"We need to go to your room and get your computer."
"And take it where?"
"To Wade Crawford, the department's Digital Evidence Examiner. Otherwise known as our gizmo whiz. With luck he'll be able to tell us where Isaac's e-mail originated."
"Don't count on it. Remember I told you Isaac's father was a genius computer geek? When we arrested Isaac, we found five computers in his home. Each had layers of encryption. We sent the hard drives to the FBI. Three years later, there are still files they haven't figured out how to access."
"Crawford's better than a lot of feds I've run across," McCall said. "So he gets the first shot at Isaac's e-mail. Since we're pressed for time to get to LeMonde's, I'll have a patrol cop meet us here and take your laptop to Crawford. I'll call Crawford and give him a rundown on Isaac and the e-mail."
"All right."
McCall glanced back at the PDA's display. "What does this symbol at the bottom of the e-mail mean?"
"Isaac sent an attachment. No way am I going to open it. It could be a virus."
"Crawford can deal with it." McCall gave her a long look. "You okay, Carmichael?"
"Yes."
"I don't want to call you a liar, but..." He dropped his gaze to her hands. Paige hadn't realized she'd pulled off her gloves and was using her left thumb to do a slow massage of her scar. With the nerves damaged and numbed, she barely felt it.
"I'm fine." So much for control. She jerked on her gloves, angry with herself for the outward show of weakness. Isaac's goal was to rattle her. Make her feel vulnerable.
"Fine, huh? If I'd gotten that e-mail, I'd be shaking in my shoes." McCall dipped his head. "Like I figure you are right now."
Paige blew out a breath. "It's not just what Isaac said."
"Go on."
"Last night, I played the tape of his voice for the two hookers. When I read that e-mail, I could hear Isaac recite the words in that cultured tone of his."
McCall looked down at the PDA's screen. "I have to admit, this is the most polite threat I've ever run across."
"Above all else, Doctor Isaac detests discourtesy."
"So you've said. Makes me wonder how polite he was when he murdered those five hookers."
"He told me he apologized to each woman before he killed her."
"Let's get his name on the social register. Is your e-mail address on the Lassiter Group's Web site, along with your schedule?"
"Not the address Isaac used. It's one I reserve for friends and relatives." She furrowed her brow. "I have no idea how Isaac got it."
"Maybe Crawford can give us an idea on that." McCall gave the message a final look before returning the PDA to Paige. "Not that I for one minute take what Isaac says at face value, but it's clear he wants us to believe he's in some sunny paradise, catching rays."
"That's what he wants," Paige agreed. "But that isn't what he told us." She scrolled through the text. "What he said is, 'After three years I can again relish the glorious heat of the sun against my face.'"
"Right."
"I can again relish, not I am relishing." She scrolled the text, then read, "'I shall soon leave the warm, sunny Eden in which I have placed myself.' Isaac isn't saying he went to this Eden. He placed himself there. It's possible he put himself there in his mind as part of his plan to make us think he's a world away. And he might be," she conceded. "It just isn't the linguistic message he's sending."
"Hell." McCall scrubbed a hand over his chin.
"You disagree?"
"No." He let his hand drop. "It's just that sometimes I think statement analysis has an element of voodoo to it. Other times, it makes perfect sense."
"Is this one of those times?"
"Maybe." He turned off the car's ignition, but made no move to get out. "What else did you pick up in that e-mail?"
She looked back at the display. "He wasn't blowing smoke when he said he often thinks of me on a personal level."
"What tells you that?"
"Isaac referenced our relationship. In his mind, what's between us is personal."
"What else?"
"He asked if I'm enjoying Oklahoma's frozen wasteland for now. That tells me he intends for things to change."
"Which is a damn good reason for you to rethink going into protective custody."
"I told you, I don't want to spend the rest of my life checking over my shoulder to see if Isaac is closing in. That could very well happen if I go into hiding."
"Dammit, Carmichael, you've got a psycho drooling over some perceived relationship he has with you. And I'm not so thickheaded that I didn't pick up what he said in his last sentence. 'I am anticipating the day you will answer to me in person.' He intends to make you answer for destroying his life."
Dread tightened Paige's chest. McCall was dead-on.
When she remained silent, he arched a brow. "Most women would be impressed with my detecting skill."
"I'm not most women."
"That's another thing I've detected. I do admit, though, there's a couple of things in Isaac's message I need you to decipher."
"Such as?"
"When he mentioned the blow to your pride. Your womanhood. What did he mean when he said you lost more than just some of the use of your right hand the night you were shot?"
The tightening in her chest hardened into a knot. Isaac's arrow had been well aimed.
McCall hooked a finger under her chin, nudged it sideways until she met his gaze. "My mentioning that made you go as pale as ice, so I figure Isaac knows your Achilles' heel. I'm the cop on this case, and I need to know it, too."
"Later," she said, aware of the thready nerves in her voice. "We'll talk later." She nodded at the clock on the dash. "We need to hurry if we're going to get my laptop and still be on time to interview Elizabeth LeMonde."
With time, Paige hoped she could get control over the vicious memories.
Paige and McCall cooled their heels in Elizabeth LeMonde's pink marble foyer where hand-painted vines of ivy crept up the linen wallpaper. In the foyer's center, a dark wood table held a massive vase with sprays of gladiolus, snapdragon and baby's breath that ripened the air with a heavy funereal scent.
"Think she's ever coming back?" Paige asked.
McCall shot a dark look up the horseshoe-shaped double staircase that swept up three levels. "She damn well better."
The "she" was the gray-haired housekeeper who had answered their knock at the front door of the LeMondes' sprawling residence. The housekeeper had informed them that "Madam" had returned home from the West Coast last night and had a morning filled with appointments. McCall had politely explained that "Madam" could either talk to them now in the comfort of her own home, or in an interview room at police headquarters.
Paige knew McCall's either/or comment was lip service. Although the cops could ask or even insist that a person talk to them at the station, it remained only a request unless the police had probable cause and were prepared to make an arrest. At that point, the subject was considered "in custody."
Elizabeth LeMonde's current status was that of a murder victim's friend who might have information about the deceased's activities. It was curious that the so-called friend had chosen to ignore the messages McCall had left her.
McCall's cell phone trilled. He pulled it out of his coat pocket and answered. After a short conversation he disconnected and turned to Paige. "That was Wade Crawford. The patrol cop just delivered your laptop to his lab. He'll let us know if he can trace the origin of Isaac's e-mail."
"I hope Crawford's as good as you say he is."
"He is." McCall's gaze dropped to her hands. "You okay, Carmichael?"
"I'm fine."
"That so?"
Only then did she realize she was again rubbing her thumb over her scar. She imagined she looked something akin to Lady Macbeth, trying to rid herself of that damned stain.
I am anticipating the day you will answer to me in person.
She shoved her hands in her coat pockets while Isaac's message continued to tap a menacing rhythm in her thoughts.
The sound of footsteps had Paige looking up just as the housekeeper appeared on the second-floor landing and began descending the staircase. Tall, bone-thin and dressed all in black, the woman resembled a stiff-spined crow.
"Madam will see you now."
McCall gave a curt nod. "Smart choice."
"You are to wait in the drawing room." Her movements crisp, the housekeeper led them into a spacious room reeking of style and obvious wealth.
"I will take your coats, if you wish."
Paige shook her head. "We'll keep them, thank you."
As the double doors clicked shut on the woman's retreating form, Paige settled her purse beside a wingback chair upholstered with needlepoint roses. Facing the chair was a massive couch sprouting identical blooms.
McCall directed a scowl toward the doorway. "I thought the hired help was supposed to be nice to guests."
"Think your threat to haul her boss in for questioning turned the encounter sour?"
"Yeah, well, if LeMonde had returned any of the messages I left her at the L.A. spa where she was staying, I'd have been my usual charming self."
He tossed his dark coat across the back of an armless French antique chair then moved to the far side of the room, pausing in front of a fireplace of gray marble where flames blazed. Shoving back one flap of his suit coat, he rested his hand beside his gold badge and holstered automatic while he studied the oil portrait hanging over the carved mantel.
"'Madam' might be full of herself, but she's easy on the eyes," he commented.
Paige draped her coat on the wingback chair, then stepped around a coffee table polished to an almost painful gloss. The closer she got to the fireplace, the stronger the scent of fragrant wood.
No ceramic logs for the well-heeled LeMondes.
She scanned the portrait. Elizabeth LeMonde, gowned in mauve silk, stared out at the world through emerald-colored eyes. Raven-black hair framed a creamy-skinned face with classic cheekbones. A choker of diamonds blazed at her throat. Gorgeous and refined were terms that materialized in Paige's mind.
Just then, the doors slid open. She and McCall turned in unison.
As her portrait hinted, the mistress of the house was tall and elegantly thin, clad this morning in a jacket and trousers in a rich green wool that matched her eyes. Her dark hair was swept up into a sleek coil; discreet daytime diamonds winked from her earlobes.
LeMonde gave Paige a cursory inspection. "Are you Sergeant McCall?"
"I'm Paige Carmichael. This is Sergeant McCall."
LeMonde shifted her gaze. "I understand you left a message for me at the spa, Sergeant." She settled on one end of the couch and waved a hand. "Have a seat."
Paige sat on the opposite end of the couch.
"I left several messages." McCall remained standing, giving himself the automatic advantage of height during the interview. "Why didn't you return them?"
"I was in seclusion mode, undergoing a week of herbal detoxification and lymphatic drainage."
His forehead furrowed. "Lymphatic drainage?"
"That's correct. Understandably, I didn't even speak to my husband during that time. He did call and leave a message that Lauren had been murdered and found in that warehouse freezer." She shook her head. "Terrible."
"You knew your friend had been murdered," McCall said. "But you didn't bother returning calls from the police."
"By the time I heard about Lauren, I had been out of town half a week. I hardly have any idea about what might have happened to her."
The analyst in Paige jumped on the word, hardly. She glanced at McCall, lifted her chin minutely. He gave her an imperceptible nod that told her he'd caught it, too. Paige eased back against a cushion, choosing to remain silent. At this point, she could be more effective by paying close attention to every word the woman uttered.
"Maybe you don't know for sure what happened to Lauren Gillette," McCall continued. "But you do have a theory. Suppose you share that with us."
LeMonde angled her chin. "Let's just say Lauren was adventurous. She didn't let being married stop her from having a variety of sexual partners. I assume one of the men she was seeing is responsible for her death."
Paige mentally reviewed the reports she'd read on the case. None of the people interviewed to date had mentioned this "adventurous" side of Lauren Gillette. If what LeMonde said was true, it could send the investigation into an entirely different direction.
McCall crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you know the name of any of those men?"
"No. I didn't ask."
"According to Davis Gillette, his wife often disappeared and for lengthy periods of time. During some of those instances she told him she was with you. Was she?"
"No."
"Did you know about those absences?"
LeMonde shifted on the plush cushions. "Yes."
"What was Mrs. Gillette doing?"
LeMonde raised a shoulder, her tailored jacket flowing with the movement. "She was meeting someone. To have sex."
"Did you ask Mrs. Gillette who she was meeting?"
"No, it was none of my business."
"What were you doing during the times Mrs. Gillette used you as an alibi?"
"Tending to my own business."
"Which is?"
"In addition to overseeing the operation of this household, I have a full social schedule. I serve on several boards. I do volunteer work for a museum and I oversee the annual arts festival. Then there's the fund-raising for the symphony. All of that takes a great deal of time." She slid back a cuff, checked her diamond-encrusted watch. "I have a meeting in half an hour. You'll have to excuse---"
"This shouldn't take long," McCall said. "Were you worried about running into Davis Gillette during those times you were supposed to be with his wife?"
LeMonde eased out an impatient breath. "Not at all."
"You say you didn't ask Lauren who she was meeting," McCall continued. "Did you discuss what she did during those times?"
"You mean, did I ask her what positions she favored? No, Sergeant, Lauren and I never really talked about sex."
Several red flags had popped up in Paige's brain and were waving madly. Leaning in, she went for the bluff. "Mrs. LeMonde, Sergeant McCall and I have information that you did, in fact, talk with Mrs. Gillette about sex. And the reason you weren't worried about running into Davis Gillette while Lauren used you as an alibi was because you were also using her as one."
Astonishment crossed LeMonde's perfect face. Replaced by uneasiness. "Who told you those things?"
"How we obtain our information isn't important," Paige said, certain now her statement analysis skills had ferreted out LeMonde's Achilles' heel. She glanced at McCall, hoping to gauge his reaction to her taking over the questioning. He might as well have been sitting at a poker table for all she could tell from his expression. If he didn't like it, he could jump back in. "What is important is that you tell us the truth. I'll ask you again. Do you know the names of any of the men Lauren Gillette was involved with?"
"No. I didn't want to know."
"Did you ever see Lauren with any of the men she met on the sly?"
"No, never."
LeMonde's last two answers were strong denials and Paige believed her. Time now to refocus on areas of deception. "Let's get back to the discussions you and Lauren Gillette had about sex. What specifically did she say?"
LeMonde slicked her tongue over her red-glossed bottom lip. "Lauren told me she liked having a variety of lovers. Often more than one at the same time."
"So, we're talking group sex?"
"Yes."
"Just men? Or men and women?"
"She didn't go into specifics."
"Were you one of those lovers?"
LeMonde's cool green eyes went frigid in a finger snap. "No. I have no desire to engage in sex with another woman. Or several men at the same time."
"Are you sure Lauren didn't mention the names of any of her lovers?"
"Positive. She acted very secretive about their identities. And where their encounters took place."
The image of the note that had been found folded inside Lauren's glove gelled in Paige's brain. "Did she mention anything to you about meeting someone at a place called Midnight?"
"No."
"Did Davis Gillette know about his wife's affairs? The group sex?"
"I'm not sure. A politician's career would have a hard time surviving something like that, so if he had known, I imagine he'd have done something about it."
"Such as?"
"Divorce Lauren?" LeMonde spread her elegant fingers. "Murder her, maybe?"
"Do you think Davis Gillette is capable of murder?"
"I think most men are when they become obsessed with a woman who won't give them what they want. Don't you agree, Ms. Carmichael?"
Paige had no intention of allowing the woman to take over the interview by asking questions. "Was the councilman obsessed with his wife?"
"Completely. A little over a year ago, Lauren was hired as a hostess in the bar at our country club. My husband and I were having drinks with Davis her first night on the job. Lauren was young and beautiful. He didn't say as much, of course, but I could tell by the way Davis watched her that he wanted her. And he got her." LeMonde angled her chin. "I believe he would now agree that he got more than he bargained for."
From what Paige had heard so far, she'd say LeMonde had hit a bull's-eye on that point. "You say you knew Lauren only a year. She's a former cocktail waitress, you're a socialite. Not your typical backgrounds for two women to become friends."
"We weren't extremely close."
"Close enough for you to give her an alibi," Paige countered. "Why is that?"
"I liked Lauren. And she married a man who has immense social standing. Davis might possibly be our next governor, Lauren would have been the state's First Lady. Considering those things, it isn't odd we became friendly. Became aware of each other's...interests."
Paige nodded. "Let's get back to what you were doing while Lauren was off with other men."
LeMonde's eyes narrowed. "I told you, I was tending to my own business."
"That business being a full social schedule that includes serving on several boards, volunteer work and fund-raising," Paige said. "All areas where you might possibly run into Davis Gillette. Yet you were 'not at all' worried about that. Which tells me you weren't going about your usual business during those times. What were you doing, Mrs. LeMonde, while Lauren was using you as an alibi?"
"That's none of your business. It's private."
"Privacy doesn't figure into a murder investigation," Paige countered. "If you don't answer our questions now, we'll keep coming back until you do."
LeMonde linked her fingers together, forming a blockade with her arms while her gaze flicked to McCall. "I want assurances that what I say stays in strict confidence. There are...issues that would be devastating to not only my own marriage, but someone else's if this information got out."
"We'll do what we can." McCall's expression remained unreadable, but he'd warmed his voice up a couple of notches from Paige's own cool tone. She knew he'd stepped into the "good cop" role because when a subject had something you wanted, someone needed to treat him or her with respect and importance.
"And we do appreciate your candor," he added. "The best thing you can do for yourself is take Ms. Carmichael's advice and tell the truth."
"I have a...close relationship with another man. Lauren and I agreed that we would use each other as an alibi for those times we needed to be away from our husbands."
Paige shifted closer on the couch, invading LeMonde's personal space. "So, while Lauren was off engaging in group sex, you were with your own married lover. Did Lauren know the man you're seeing?"
"No." LeMonde's creamy skin was flushed now. "And before you ask, there is no way I will divulge his name. My husband is a respected surgeon. Well-known in the community. But...he has a medical condition that no longer allows us to be intimate. And I have certain needs." She shifted on the couch. "Quite frankly, I'm concerned about all the people who would get hurt unnecessarily if my other relationship were exposed. It's as simple as that."
Despite her best intention not to react to LeMonde's comment, Paige felt a tightening in her chest. Professionally, she should not feel this squeeze of resentment for the woman, but she did. And there was no rationale for Paige to acknowledge a common thread with both LeMonde's husband and Davis Gillette, who on the surface had no idea of their spouses' betrayal. Yet, sitting there, Paige felt empathy for the two men. Just as she again felt the nasty stab of hurt from her own husband's treachery.
And then came Isaac's words, magnifying the pain. But losing that important function in your right hand wasn't all you lost that night, was it? I smile when I conjecture what a blow that must have been to your pride. Your womanhood. How satisfying for me, knowing my actions brought you such personal humiliation.
Paige studied LeMonde. And felt her dislike for the woman intensify, curling inside her into a hard ball. She knew she had to get out of LeMonde's presence before she screwed things up.
"Excuse me," she improvised, "I set my cell on vibrate mode and I have a call coming in." She unclipped her phone off the waistband of her slacks, pretended to check the display, then rose. "I've got to take this."
McCall's eyes met hers and he squinted slightly, then he nodded. "All right."
"I'll meet you outside." She snagged her purse and coat, then headed out the door.
"Why did you cut out of the interview?" McCall asked.
They were the first words he'd uttered since he'd slid behind the wheel of his unmarked cruiser and driven away from the LeMondes' stately digs. He'd steered through the rich neighborhood of professionally maintained landscapes and architect-designed houses, then pulled to a stop in a park as well tended as the surrounding lawns. The parking lot was deserted on this cold February morning.
"I had to get out of there." Paige's chest gave a small heave as she stared out the windshield. Talking about what happened was like touching a wound, keeping it fresh and bleeding.
"Yeah, I got that. What I don't know is why."
"LeMonde was sitting there, spouting off 'quite franklys' and 'it's as simple as thats,' and other phrases that show a total lack of commitment to what she's saying. She wanted us to believe she was so worried about her husband's feelings if he found out about her affair. She doesn't give a damn about how he feels. Or about the vows they exchanged. All she cares about is protecting her own sorry butt."
Angled in his seat to face her, McCall rested one wrist over the steering wheel. "So, you picked up on some hot phrases that told you she was lying, and that pissed you off. Since a lot of people view lying to the cops as the equivalent of an Olympic sport, I have to figure this isn't the first time you've encountered this particular phenomenon. And if you're so sensitive about being lied to in general, you'd have never gotten pegged to work in Homicide at the Dallas PD. Which means there was something specific about LeMonde that tripped your trigger. We're partners now, Carmichael. I need to know what's going on."
Paige conceded he was right. Partners had to be able to trust each other, to know ahead of time how the other might react during interviews and interrogations. Having that information helped avoid potholes that could derail an investigation.
"It's a long story."
He checked his watch. "I don't have to be in court to testify in that murder case for a couple of hours."
"Fine." Paige settled back in her seat. "Right before I got promoted to Homicide, I pulled some ligaments when I tackled a do-wrong. My doc prescribed strengthening exercises. The personal trainer I was assigned to was a good-looking guy who was quick to flatter, quick to give compliments. Quick to charm. In short, I couldn't resist him. Didn't want to. We got married after about four months of heavy breathing.
"Three years went by and things between us were great. Or so I thought. We'd even begun talking about starting a family. Then I snagged the 'Gentleman Jim' investigation and everything got put on hold. My husband said he understood, that the case could shoot my career up the ladder. Other cops on the task force were griping about the pressure they got at home over the long hours. Not me. My husband never once complained. I considered myself lucky to have found a guy like him."
Paige stared down at her hand. The scar symbolized so much more than just her taking a bullet. "The night Isaac shot me, I wound up in the E.R. A nurse was prepping me for surgery when this paperwork drone showed up, asking how I could have been admitted to their maternity ward that afternoon, and wound up in their E.R. that night, suffering from a line-of-duty gunshot wound. I told her she'd made a mistake. She showed me the forms that had been filled out that afternoon---everything was right, my name, address, date of birth, insurance information. And at the bottom of the forms was my husband's signature."
"Christ," McCall said, the investigator in him clearly theorizing what was coming.
Paige stared out at the park's bleak winter landscape. "I had no clue he had a girlfriend, much less a pregnant one. She didn't have a job, and I covered him on my city health insurance, so he came up with this scheme to have her use my name when she saw an obstetrician. And when she gave birth. That way, my insurance would pay for everything. And I'd be clueless, which I might have been if we hadn't all wound up at the same hospital."
"You found all that out the night Isaac shot you?"
"Yes. I refused to let them put me under until I confronted my husband. Which was easy to do, since he was upstairs, cooing over his infant daughter."
"Talk about brutal."
"Almost as brutal as when the charming son of a bitch admitted he'd been seeing other women the entire time we'd been married." She met McCall's gaze. His dark eyes were steady, his expression straightforward with no hint of pity. "For a while, I couldn't absorb the fact my marriage had been a scam. A joke. When it finally sunk in, I felt like a total idiot. I was a cop, I was supposed to be able to read people, not just accept at face value things people said to me."
"That's the job, Carmichael. In an ideal world, you're not supposed to have to put your personal life under a microscope."
"If I had, I maybe wouldn't have wound up playing the part of the stereotypical gullible female."
"So, I take it that's what Isaac was referring to in his e-mail. The blow to your pride, your womanhood. The humiliation."
"Yes. I have no clue how he found out about what happened to my marriage. Isaac was in custody. The jailers kept him in solitary, away from other prisoners. Nothing was said about my personal life during his trial."
"Sounds like he's had someone delving into your business. That's another reason your theory about him having an accomplice is sound."
"One who apparently knows the right places to dig." The cruiser's engine continued its soft idle while Paige again directed her gaze out the windshield. A swing set sat a few yards away, its empty swings stirring in the cold wind. The sun reflected brightly off a slide's shiny surface. Scanning the park, Paige saw no one, yet the possibility she and McCall were being watched was real. Too real.
She flexed her fingers. "Look, I'm sorry about walking out on the interview. Having Isaac goad me about my marriage, then listening to LeMonde talk about her affair... I just had to get out of there. Hardly professional on my part."
"Wrong," McCall countered. "I've worked with cops who didn't have the sense to take themselves out of an interview when things got personal. One detective I worked with totally lost it and let a child killer see how much he sickened him. The bastard clammed up just as he was about to tell us where he'd stashed a little girl's body. That was two years ago, and we still haven't found her. It says a lot for you, Carmichael, that you knew when to get yourself away from LeMonde."
She raised a shoulder. "Thanks."
"And it doesn't say a lot for me that the first time you laid eyes on me, you thought of your slime-bucket ex."
"It was your charming grin, McCall. Then there was the oozing confidence that sent the message you might be considering me as your next conquest."
He gave her an appraising look across the car's bench seat. "I haven't tried to conquer you, now have I?"
"No, and I salve my disappointment by telling myself Houdini is a busy guy." She glanced at the clock in the dash. "Now that we've got this hashed out, why don't we---"
"What's this 'Houdini' deal?"
She saw from his slightly puzzled expression he didn't know. Great move, Carmichael. "Nothing. Just a name I tossed out."
"I don't have your skills, but I've got a bullshit meter that's got a high success rate when it comes to spotting a lie. It's blaring an alarm right now. Try telling the truth."
She rolled her eyes. "It's a nickname you seem to have earned. Through your dealings with certain female coworkers."
He arched a brow. "Dealings?"
She hesitated only a moment, then plunged in. "The rumor is that in bed, you perform magical feats."
"Well, now." He tried hard to look wounded. "I feel so cheap."
"No, McCall, what you feel is your ego swelling because I just stroked it with that comment." Some corner of her mind told her she ought to let things go. But the emotions that had rocked her over the past hours had kicked in and, as with riding a sled down an icy hill, there was no stopping. "You also happen to have earned the 'Houdini' nickname because you're a pro at making a clean escape from any relationship. And it's just too damn bad if the woman who gets left behind has a few scrapes to her heart."
Annoyance flickered over his face. "You listen to the department's grapevine, and you think you know all about me, don't you, Carmichael?"
"You, and every other guy whose little black book has more entries than the Dallas white pages." She blew out a breath, kicking herself mentally for letting her temper get the best of her. "Look, can we go now? We do have a homicide investigation to conduct."
His response was to reach for the key and shut off the idling engine. When he looked at her, the heat in his eyes was so intense it could have thawed an iceberg.
Feeling a ripple of unease, she held up a hand, like a cop trying to slow traffic. "McCall---"
He locked a hand around her wrist, pulled her a few inches closer. "Here's some information the rumor mill seems to have forgotten. Probably because it happened when I was still in uniform. Back then, I was all ready to settle down. I wanted marriage, picket fences, kids, Little League, PTA, the works. And I knew exactly who I wanted that kind of life with. She was a former Miss Oklahoma, and we'd dated a couple of years. She said she wanted it all with me, too. Turns out, she changed her mind. The morning of the wedding, she called it off. Said she'd realized she had warm, fuzzy feelings for her talent manager. Does hearing that make you think I know a few things about scrapes to the heart?"
"It makes me think you know plenty," Paige managed around the tightness in her throat.
"I wound up with a head full of doubts, not even able to hang on to the memories because I wasn't sure they were valid. What about all the things she'd said, the things we'd done over the years? Which parts of my life with her were truthful, which were the lies?"
God, she'd felt the same thing. The very same.
"McCall, I'm---"
"It's a fact I've been with my share of women since Miss Oklahoma did her disappearing act. I always make things plain that I'm not interested in anything long-term. And I don't make promises I have no intention of keeping. So when things end, I walk away with a clean conscience. If that makes me a slimeball in your eyes, Carmichael, that's too damn bad."
He released her wrist. A muscle worked in his jaw as he kept his gaze locked on hers. "Hell, it's been years since I talked about my past."
"So, why tell me?" she asked quietly.
"Seems you have the ability to push the right buttons. You've done that since I first laid eyes on you." Angling his head, he regarded her with an unnerving intensity. And then she saw something settle in his eyes, a look as clear and knowing as a lion on the prowl. She knew instinctively that somewhere in the moment, his perception of her had changed. "Good thing I'm an ace detective."
She studied him warily. "Why do you say that?"
"Because I suddenly have my own mystery to solve. That mystery being you. Why you get to me." He skimmed a fingertip down her cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. "You want to talk about this sudden development, Carmichael?"
Awareness rose inside her. Which was not a good thing, since she had sworn she would never again act on any sort of attraction she felt to a man with the ability to juggle women with such skill. Don't go down that path, she warned herself.
"No." As a matter of prudence, she slid closer to the passenger door. "We're on city time. We should talk about how things went with LeMonde after I left the interview. Specifically, how did you deal with her insistence on keeping the identity of her lover secret?"
McCall hooked a brow. "All right, we'll shelve the personal topic for when we're off the city's clock. As for LeMonde, how do you think I dealt with the matter?"
Thankful to have the topic of conversation back in a safe area, Paige pursed her mouth. "I think you reminded her she'd already trusted you with her secret about having a lover. And it didn't make sense not to reveal his name so you can keep things quiet when you talk to him. After all, if he's not a suspect, LeMonde's husband doesn't need to find out about him. If that didn't work, you probably got tough. Reminded LeMonde that Lauren Gillette is dead, and you're not worried about whose feelings you hurt. Then you clued LeMonde into the fact that if you have to do things the hard way, it will be just that---harder for you, harder for her. That when, not if, you find out who she's screwing on the side, you might not be inclined to be as discreet in interviewing him. And she could have prevented all that, if only she'd told you his name."
McCall nodded. "Bingo. Her lover happens to be a criminal defense attorney, with an office near the courthouse where I'll be this afternoon. If I finish testifying in time, I'll drop in on him."
McCall bounced a palm against the steering wheel. "As for our victim, we now know Lauren was far from a faithful wife. Whether hubby knew that is still up in the air."
"LeMonde is the only acquaintance of Lauren's you've interviewed who's said anything about her sleeping around. Of course, if she was sleeping with the interviewee, they'd keep quiet."
"True." McCall paused, then shook his head. "I haven't gotten any vibes that anyone else I've talked to is holding back information about Lauren. That's just my gut feeling, though. You might think differently after you're finished analyzing the statements from everyone who attended the Gillettes' party."
"So, are you changing your tune?" she asked. "You think my using statement analysis just might be the thing that helps break the case?"
"I think old-fashioned police work is what will do the trick. But since the chief stuck me with you, you might as well have a go at those statements."
"Oh, I will," Paige said. And hoped like hell she found something that would make McCall eat his words.
Paige spent the next three hours working in a small office just off of Homicide's squad room. According to McCall, the office was used as an overflow area to conduct interviews, as well as a temporary workplace for detectives assigned to sensitive investigations. Not only could the door to the soundproofed office be opened only with a special key card, it held several file cabinets with combination locks that were immune to picking. The thick glass pane installed in the wall facing the squad room saved the windowless office from a toiling-in-a-cave atmosphere.
Presently, the thin-slatted blind over the pane was open, allowing Paige to see out into the squad room.
Approximately half of the desks were now occupied. And, although the only Homicide detectives she'd officially met were Steve Kidd and Hugh Henderson, Paige had no doubt the majority of the detectives knew who she was and why she was there. Homicide cops possessed an insatiable curiosity that veered to nosiness. Still, due to the tight lid Chief Quaid had clamped on the Gillette investigation, it was a sure bet every cop in the unit was doing their best to respect her privacy.
Paige's gaze drifted to Hugh Henderson's desk. Detective Sleazoid hadn't asked her about the Gillette case today when she'd run into him at the unit's coffeemaker, but he had hit on her again. Steve Kidd had just rolled his eyes at his idiot partner and popped yet another plastic toothpick into his mouth.
She thought again about the what-I-did-yesterday workshop assignment she suspected Henderson had written. Something more than just cheating on his wife was going on, she suspected. But what?
Finding no answer, she shifted her attention back to analyzing the remaining statements from the guests who had attended the Gillettes' party on Saturday night.
When she finished reading all of them, she stretched, then dug a fist into the small of her back to try to ease out the stiffness in her lower spine. Dammit, she'd found nothing in any of the partygoers' statements that raised red flags. Oh, she'd spotted a couple of unconscious references to guests who'd had a tiff with their respective spouses. Several people had been running late to the Gillettes', and the strain of that had been reflected in their word usage. A few would have rather been elsewhere instead of attending the party.
But she'd seen no hint that anyone harbored a grudge or ill feelings toward either of the Gillettes. Which wasn't a surprise, since they'd invited friendly acquaintances to witness Davis Gillette's announcement that he planned to run for governor.
Still, he and his wife hadn't been on the best of terms, considering the argument various guests had mentioned in their statements. Too bad none of them overheard what the Gillettes had been arguing about.
Paige jabbed a hand through her hair, then loosened the clip on the statements taken from the catering crew. The first handful provided nothing relevant.
Easing out a breath, she flipped over another statement, written by one of the male waiters. Her initial read-through started a pinging in her brain. Turning her pencil end-over-end, she reread the man's words.
I saw the party's hostess several times off and on throughout the evening. During that time I was carrying around trays of champagne, serving canapés, picking up empty glasses. I didn't pay her a lot of attention.
A few paragraphs later, the waiter related:
The last time I actually saw the lady was in the hallway near the door to the kitchen pantry.
Paige checked the top of the statement that listed the waiter's name. Leandro Ramirez. She jotted her comments on a sticky note, then affixed it to the page. As soon as McCall returned from court, she'd tell him about Ramirez's statement. And recommend a follow-up interview.
The telephone on the desk trilled. Paige reached for it, thinking the caller must be McCall. When she answered, however, the male voice that responded was one she'd never heard.
"Is it true what Daphne said? That McCall left you there to slave while he's at the courthouse, chasing skirts?" The deep voice had a low, rich accent, and came from farther east than Texas.
Daphne, Paige knew, was Homicide's attractive auburn-haired secretary. "It's true I'm slaving. As for McCall, I can't vouch for what he's up to at the courthouse. To whom am I speaking?"
"Wade Crawford. Do you have time to visit my digs? Daphne can point the way."
"Sure." Paige felt her chest tighten. "I take it you have information about the e-mail I received this morning?"
"Yeah. I think I know where Dr. Isaac is."
The audiovisual/digital evidence examining services lab of the Oklahoma City PD was housed in the basement, two flights directly below Homicide. Paige pushed open the door and stepped into a room crowded with a vast assortment of video and computer equipment, some recognizable to her, some not. The air in the lab held a definite chill, and she gave thanks for the red cashmere sweater she'd pulled on that morning over her thin white wool turtleneck.
Her gaze went to the room's sole occupant, a man with one hip propped on a long-legged stool. He was leaning over a workbench, soldering small pieces of metal.
"Sergeant Crawford?"
"Yo." He looked up, a smile spreading across his face as he rose off the stool. "You must be Carmichael."
"Must be."
He was in his early thirties, Paige judged, tall, lean and lanky. He wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt; his long coal-black hair was tied back with a leather thong. Like McCall, he was olive-complected, but a shade darker, as if Crawford had found a source of sun to bask in during the winter months.
He stepped to her, shook her hand. "Welcome to the dungeon."
"Thanks."
His brown eyes narrowed on her face. "Do I hear Texas in your voice?"
"You do." She returned his discerning look. "Louisiana?"
"Bingo. New Orleans, to be exact." He gestured her across the lab to a desk on which a computer sat. "So, how'd McCall get lucky enough to get you as a partner?"
"I don't believe he'd consider himself lucky. Your chief ordered him to work with me."
"McCall's one of those guys who always snags a break. If Quaid did that to me, I'd wind up with some overweight male tech with plastic protectors in his shirt pocket." Crawford rolled an extra chair up to the one already at the desk. "Have a seat," he said, settling into the extra chair.
He toggled a few buttons then began typing commands. His fingers raced across the keyboard with such speed it was like watching a spider spinning a web in fast-forward mode. "So, have you met the sisters?" he asked.
"What?" Distracted, Paige looked his way. "What sisters?"
"The McCall sisters."
"No."
Crawford entered a command, then muttered under his breath when the computer beeped. He typed another line of code, then hit the enter key. His satisfied grunt told Paige he'd won the match. "The sisters are all gettin' hitched on Valentine's Day."
"McCall mentioned the wedding."
"Damn," Crawford said while he continued typing. "Three gorgeous women and I let 'em all slip through my fingers. Shows how rusty I am."
Paige smiled. She couldn't help but like Crawford. "Maybe you should get out of your dungeon more often, Sergeant."
"Wade. You're right, I should." He slid her a look. "How about getting out with me, Ms. Carmichael?"
The question shot Paige's thoughts back to the instant McCall had pulled her closer in his cruiser. To the heat that had flickered deep inside when he slid a fingertip down her cheek. She couldn't even pretend she hadn't liked him touching her. But, she wasn't sure she could bring herself to act on the strong attraction that was too close for comfort to what she had once felt for the man who'd betrayed her.
She met Crawford's gaze. "Call me Paige. And I've got a full plate these days, Wade. Sorry."
"Had to give it a shot," he said amicably, then looked back at the monitor.
The screen was now filled with symbols, a mix of letters and numbers. Paige shook her head. "I hope you don't expect me to know what that means."
"Nope." He leaned back in his chair. "Just wanted to show you the route Isaac's e-mail took to get to you." He flicked a hand toward the screen. "It bounced between a handful of countries. I had a hell of a time tracking its route since a series of anonymous remailers got tossed into the mix."
"I'm not surprised at anything Isaac does on a computer. His father was a programmer, so he learned from an expert."
"The doctor's good." Crawford gave her a smug smile. "So am I."
"That's what McCall said." Paige glanced back at the monitor. "When you called, you said you think you know where Isaac is?"
"I should have said I know where the e-mail originated. Whether he's there or not, or ever was, is something I couldn't swear to in court, but I'd be willing to bet on it."
"Okay, what's your best bet?"
"Egypt."
Paige blinked. "Egypt?"
"More specifically, a cybercafe in downtown Cairo."
Paige thought for a moment. "Can you pull up Isaac's e-mail?"
"Sure." Crawford tapped keys. "There."
Just rereading Isaac's polite references to their meeting at a future date had Paige's flesh prickling. "Scroll to the last paragraph."
"Done." Crawford shook his head. "Nate gave me a rundown on Isaac. And I read this e-mail a couple of times. Your shrink doctor sounds warped to the max."
"An accurate description."
"So, what's with the last paragraph?"
"I wanted to make sure I remembered exactly what he said about Eden."
"'I shall soon leave the warm, sunny Eden in which I placed myself,'" Crawford read. "I'll bite. What about it?"
"Besides having a passion for torturing and killing hookers, Isaac loves to delve into religious theories. In fact, he regularly spoke to theology classes at several universities. When I had him in interrogation, he quoted a lot of religious references to try to get mind games going with me. Your mentioning Cairo reminded me he'd said something about the Garden of Eden."
"What about it?"
"That some people believe it was located in the land of Goshen. Wasn't that supposed to be Egypt? Or nearby?"
"You got me. But if that's the case, sounds like the doctor was sending you a clue."
"Maybe. If he has left the country, his winding up in Egypt makes sense, in his own twisted way of thinking."
And if Isaac was thousands of miles away, had it been his shadowy accomplice who'd mugged her? Injected the peanut oil into the fruit that had nearly killed her? Slipped Isaac's mug shot under her door? Then boosted her billfold and the workshop assignments? Or, it could be Isaac's accomplice who was in Egypt, and Isaac was here.
"The attachment to Isaac's e-mail didn't contain a virus," Crawford said. "It's a photo. Of you."
"Me? Where?"
"Sitting at a table with an umbrella spiked through it. Looks like some outdoor restaurant. Give me a sec and I'll pull up the pic."
While she waited, Paige's stomach knotted. She couldn't recall the last time she'd eaten at an outdoor restaurant.
The photo winked on the monitor. Paige stared at her own image sipping from a tall glass containing a frothy beverage. Her hair was long and loose, and her skin looked bronze against the hot-pink sundress she had bought only days before. The time and place flooded back from a distant memory. She'd been on vacation in Hawaii, a badly needed respite after a heavy workshop schedule.
By then, Dr. Edwin Isaac had been in prison a year.
"Jesus." She felt faintly sick.
"Hey, you don't look so good," Crawford said, his eyes crimped with concern. "Can I get you some water?"
"No." She dragged in a deep breath. "Thanks. I'm fine."
"Okay, if you say so." He glanced back at the screen. "I take it you know when the picture was taken?"
"About two years ago." She sent Crawford a grim look. "Which means Isaac has had me under surveillance for a long time. Maybe for as long as he's been locked up."
"Guy's a badass, all right. I guess you're watching your back?"
"As best I can." She patted her cell phone, clipped to the waistband of her slacks. "I'm flagged to get notified of any NCIC off-line searches on Isaac. I keep hoping he'll get stopped for some traffic violation and I'll get a call saying he's back in custody. That won't happen if he's in Egypt."
"Afraid not." Crawford retrieved a business card from the desk's center drawer. Turning the card over, he jotted on its back. "If you get another e-mail from the bastard, forward it to this address. Then call my cell to let me know you sent it. Day or night, I'll drop what I'm doing and start a trace."
"Thanks, Wade. I appreciate it."
"Glad to help. I've got your laptop over on the workbench. You can pick it up on your way out." The telephone on Crawford's desk rang. He snatched it up, answered. "She's still here."
"For you," he said, handing Paige the receiver. "It's Ryan."
She gave Crawford a quick, searching look. "Ryan, who?"
Crawford grinned. "Captain Ryan. Nate's boss. Yours, too, for the duration."
Paige gave herself a mental kick. She had yet to meet the captain of Homicide, who'd been attending a law enforcement conference at the State Bureau of Investigation. "Captain Ryan, this is Paige Carmichael."
"Sorry I haven't had a chance to introduce myself, Ms. Carmichael, but that's about to change. A patrol cop just found Lauren Gillette's Jaguar ditched in the country. McCall's still testifying in court, so you and I need to get to the scene."
Paige knew that protecting the murdered woman's car---and whatever evidence it might contain---was paramount. She also realized that due to the gag order on the case, Ryan couldn't send another team of detectives to the scene.
"I'm on my way to your office, Captain," Paige said, ending the call. Anticipation charged through her at the thought the Jaguar might hold the evidence to the killer's identity.
"Let's hope the weather holds until we're done," Captain Michael Ryan said while steering his unmarked cruiser along a graveled country road.
"It looks iffy." Leaning forward, Paige gave the sky a dubious look. The day had started out bright and sunny; the sky was now gray and the smell of snow was in the air. "McCall said Oklahoma City's had a brutal winter. Which is probably why Lauren Gillette's killer stashed her body in that warehouse freezer instead of burying it."
"Ground's so frozen, he would have had to use a back-hoe just to dig a couple of inches," Ryan commented. He was a tall man with a rangy build, handsome face and brown hair just beginning to gray at the temples.
The cruiser bounced over a pothole, causing Ryan to wince. The road they'd turned on several miles back was lined with leaf-barren trees, and pockmarked like a lunar landscape.
Even though Ryan kept the speed to a minimum, the next rut the cruiser went over jarred Paige's teeth.
He shot her a look. "Sorry about the rough ride."
"No problem. My grandpa's got a lot worse excuses for a road on his ranch, so I'm used to getting my bones rattled." She estimated they'd gone at least three miles since she'd seen a street sign. "I don't think I could have found wherever we're going, even with a map."
"The guy apparently knew where to stash Gillette's Jag so it wouldn't get spotted easily. The scene is on the far outskirts of Oklahoma City. Less than a quarter of a mile north, the jurisdiction falls to a county sheriff. It was just a fluke that one of our guys had a slow day and patrolled the area."
"Is this the ward Councilman Gillette represents?"
"Yes." Ryan slid her a look. "Interesting, isn't it?"
"Very."
He nodded toward an upcoming one-lane bridge. "The scene's about a mile on the other side of that bridge."
"Too bad it's not on this side." Paige held her breath as the ancient-looking wooden structure creaked and moaned beneath the cruiser's weight.
Once they had again gained firm ground, she forced her shoulders to relax. To pass the time, she said, "I know how the Dallas PD handles discovery of evidence relating to a case that's been locked down, information-wise. What's OCPD's policy?"
"It's pretty cut and dried. McCall flagged the plate when he first put out an alert on Gillette's missing Jag. So today when the patrol cop ran its tag, the computer alerted the dispatch supervisor. The cop was told to treat the Jag like a crime scene and keep discussion of it off the air. The supervisor then contacted me." Ryan veered around a pothole that looked big enough to swallow a compact car.
"So, I'm guessing the only person at the scene will be the uniform who called in on the Jag? And maybe one CSI, whom you got to handpick because the Gillette case is high-profile?"
"Right. Keeps the people in the know to a minimum." One-handed, Ryan clipped his badge to the breast pocket of his tan overcoat.
Past the next curve, Paige spotted the lone black and white parked on the side of the road. Behind it sat a white van with Crime Scene Unit printed across the rear door. Neither vehicle had its light-bar flashing, a precaution against attracting news-team helicopters flying over the area.
Looking past the vehicles, she saw a hulking uniformed cop standing about fifty feet from the road. He had his shoulders hunched beneath his black insulated jacket while he watched the parka-clad CSI walk a wide circle around Lauren Gillette's hunter-green Jaguar. Every few steps, the CSI paused to snap a photo. His red plaid bomber cap with the flaps hanging down like hounds' ears made Paige think of Elmer Fudd.
She pulled on her leather gloves then slid out of the cruiser. And instantly hunched her own shoulders against a blast of icy wind. She tugged up the collar on her coat, giving thanks that, in addition to her red cashmere sweater and white turtleneck, she had on wool slacks and leather half boots with a low, practical heel. Even so, the gravel-and rock-strewn ground made the going slow as she and Ryan walked toward the cop.
The captain nodded, then instructed the uniform to call a wrecker to the scene and have it stand by. The cop moved away a few steps while he punched a number into his cell phone.
After a few more snaps the CSI lowered his camera and looked in their direction. Acknowledging their presence with a nod, he set his camera on top of a metal crime scene kit and headed their way.
"Ulysses Wright, meet Paige Carmichael," Ryan said. "Ms. Carmichael is a civilian consultant, working with McCall on this case. She's authorized to receive all information."
"Nice to meet ya," Wright said, extending a latex-gloved hand toward Paige. The ear flaps on his cap mimicked wings in the wind.
"Same here," Paige said, returning the man's firm handshake. He was medium height and thin, and she estimated his age to be near forty.
Wright looked back at Ryan. "Guess you lost my memo requesting that I get called to outdoor crime scenes only when the temp is above freezing?"
"Guess so," Ryan murmured. "But since you're here..."
"Yeah." Wright sent a resigned look toward the road. "How long until McCall shows up?"
"Best estimate is half an hour," Ryan answered. "When I got the call on the Jag, he was testifying in court." Ryan looked at the car. "What do we have so far?"
"No outer damage that I can see. Both driver and passenger doors are locked. Key's in the ignition. Small amount of what looks like blood on the steering wheel. There's a purse with its clasp open on the passenger seat. Trunk hasn't been pried or the lock popped." Wright glanced down. "There's too much gravel and rocks to try to get casts of tire and footprints."
Ryan nodded. "Are you finished taking pictures?"
"Not yet. I need to get more from a couple different angles. I'll do that while we wait on McCall."
"Sounds like a plan," Ryan said.
Although Ryan was ranking officer, Paige understood that his---and her---function was merely to "protect" the scene until McCall arrived. He was the primary on the Gillette investigation. He had the most intimate knowledge of the case and it fell to him to follow it from cradle to grave. Therefore, the handling of and all testing done on the Jag was under his direction and would not commence until he arrived.
So, even though the wind was like a razor, slashing at exposed skin, they waited.
McCall's cruiser pulled in behind Ryan's fifteen minutes later. Which was perfect timing, since Ulysses Wright had just finished photographing the exterior of the victim's car.
Standing in a huddle with Ryan and the patrol cop, Paige watched McCall stride across the uneven terrain, gravel and rocks crunching beneath his feet. As he moved, the wind whipped his dark hair and blew back the flaps of his black wool coat.
He did a quick study of the Jag before he joined them. "What have we got, boss?"
Ryan briefed him on the CSI's observations.
Nodding, McCall looked at Wright who'd joined them. "Nice hat, Ulysses. It ought to get you on the cover of Field and Stream. You have a slim jim on you?"
"You'll be begging to borrow this fine hat when your ears freeze off, McCall. And, yeah, I got a slim jim. You want me to unlock the Jag?"
"I do."
McCall fell in beside Paige as they moved toward the Jag. "How's it going, partner?"
For an instant she thought she detected a hint of warmth she'd never heard before. She slid him a look, saw only the intensity of a cop focused on the job. "It's going. How was court?"
"The scumbag'll get the death penalty. I feel it in my bones. In the middle of my testimony, the judge called a recess to check some point of law. So I paid a visit to the office of Elizabeth LeMonde's attorney lover. Long story short, I believed him when he said he'd never met Lauren Gillette. We need to do some behind-the-scenes checking to verify that, but I doubt he'll get to the top of our suspect list."
They paused near the Jaguar. "What about you?" McCall asked. "Anything new to report?"
Paige thought about the statement by the catering company's waiter that had raised questions in her mind. Then what Wade Crawford had determined about Isaac's e-mail, and the photo of her that had been attached. "A couple of things. They can wait until we're done here."
They watched as Wright retrieved the slim jim. As the CSI threaded the thin piece of metal between the driver's window and the door, a wrecker pulled into view.
"I'll tell the driver to stand by," the patrol cop said, then crunched off toward the road.
McCall met Paige's gaze. "Since you've worked Homicide, I guess you know what happens after we check the Jag and send it to the lab for processing?"
The frigid air stung her cheeks, scraped her throat like little bits of ice. Even so, she smiled. Until this moment, she hadn't realized how much she'd missed working Homicide. "The immediate area around the car will be searched," she said. "Since the lid is on the case, we can't call additional officers to help us do that."
McCall raised a brow. "And you look happy about that because?"
"Got it," Wright said before Paige could answer. He eased the slim jim out of the Jag's door, then pulled it open with a gloved hand. Bending in, he shone the beam of a small flashlight at the stain on the steering wheel. "Looks even more like blood up close," he said. "Might be another swipe of blood here on the driver's headrest. Won't know until I get this baby to the evidence bay and run a test."
Paige mentally reviewed the autopsy report on Lauren Gillette. The only wound she'd sustained before being strangled was a single blow to her left cheek. If it was her blood on the steering wheel and headrest, she had apparently encountered her killer while sitting in the Jag's driver's seat. Thus, making it the crime scene.
Wright looked back across his shoulder. "McCall, you got a description of the purse the vic had when she went missing?"
"Small gray leather."
"This one's a match."
"It's a pretty sure bet it's Gillette's so we don't need to check for ID now," McCall said. "Dust it for prints when you get to the bay. We can inventory the contents there."
"Will do. Ready to take a look in the trunk?" Wright asked, holding up the key he'd pulled from the ignition.
"Ready," McCall answered.
They moved en masse to the Jag's rear. Wright unlocked the trunk, lifted the lid. "Got a metal suitcase. And a box. The type you get at a department store when you buy clothes." He looked at McCall. "Want me to open them here?"
"The box, yes. The suitcase only if it's unlocked."
Seconds later, Paige heard the distinctive snick of latches releasing. She watched Wright raise the suitcase's lid. Then do a double take. "Jay-sus!"
In unison, she, McCall and Ryan stepped closer.
Good thing she'd once worked a stint in Vice, Paige thought. Otherwise, she'd have no clue as to the ID---and use---of some of the items in the suitcase. But she had worked Vice, so she readily identified the cock and nipple rings, gel balls, dildos, clamps, suction devices, leather strap-ons, soft leather bondage cuffs and keys, a ring gag, riding crop and numerous battery-operated instruments. "A lot of sex stuff," she said.
"A heroic amount," McCall added. "Gives a new definition to exactly what type of extracurricular activities Gillette was into. What's in the box, Ulysses?"
"Let's see." The CSI eased off the lid. "A black leather dress. And a mask. The kind that fits over your entire head." He used a pen to nudge at the leather. "Looks like it's got dark gauze over the eye holes."
The description had Paige leaning in for a closer look. In the gray afternoon light, she couldn't make out enough of the mask's detail. "Sergeant Wright, can I borrow your flashlight?"
"Here ya go."
Paige directed the beam at the mask. And felt a chill ripple through her that had nothing to do with the biting wind. "I don't believe this."
McCall leaned in. "What don't you believe, Carmichael?"
Turning her head, she met his dark gaze. "Except for being smaller, Gillette's mask is an exact match to the one worn by the guy who mugged me."
"Now that we've thawed out, let's talk about masks," Paige said as she scooped up a spoonful of stew. The steaming, hearty mix of beef and veggies was welcome after the afternoon spent in the biting wind.
Once their painstaking---and futile---search of the area surrounding Lauren Gillette's Jag was completed, McCall had suggested either dinner at a restaurant or a stop at his place for what he claimed was the best stew on earth.
He'd been right.
"Specifically," McCall began, "the two identical masks you've run up against this week." Sitting across from her at the small pine table in the middle of his kitchen, he spooned up stew from his own bowl. "One worn by a mugger, the other by a woman into group sex. With an apparent hard-core twist."
"You don't just walk into any store and find a full-headed leather mask with dark gauze covering the eye holes," Paige commented. "You buy those in sex shops. Over the Internet. What are the odds of my coming into contact with that type of mask on two totally unrelated cases?"
"I'd say huge. Finite."
"Agreed." Sipping her coffee, Paige swept her gaze around the kitchen. When they'd first arrived at the brick house that looked deceptively small from the outside, McCall had mentioned he lived there with his younger brother. Both men obviously spent little time in the kitchen, which was neat enough to indicate it was seldom used.
She sat her mug aside. "Despite the odds, the mask deal could be a coincidence. One that seems almost impossible." She raked a hand through her hair. "You did say you believe in coincidence."
"I do." He gazed at her over the rim of his coffee mug. Earlier, he'd stripped off his suit coat and rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue dress shirt. His navy tie was still perfectly knotted. "And the seemingly impossible types are the kinds that actually happen. There's no way to logic out why they occur. They just do."
"True."
"You don't look convinced, Carmichael."
"I don't have a reason to think these two cases are anything other than unrelated occurrences." Except for a deep, intuitive disquiet that had gnawed at her stomach since she'd seen the leather mask in the Jaguar's trunk.
McCall leaned back in his chair. "Let's go at this from a different direction. If the mask deal isn't a coincidence, that could mean your mugging and the Gillette homicide are related. I don't see how. But if you do, speak up."
"The only connection is the masks. Well, and me. On one investigation I'm a paid consultant, on the other I'm the victim."
She shifted her gaze to the door through which they'd entered the house. The top half was glass; on the other side, the evening sky had already turned black. Dammit, she hated thinking of herself as a victim. But somewhere in the world's dark abyss, sexual predator extraordinaire Edwin Isaac was possibly hunched over some cybercafe computer, cooking up another e-mail to send her. Or worse.
God, what plans were brewing in the shrink's brilliant, twisted mind? From what direction would he come at her next? How long would he wait? A Day? One week? Six months? A year? Years?
The press of McCall's hand on hers had her jerking her head back to face him.
"You're thinking about Isaac." Both his expression and his voice were even and level.
Too bad her heart rate didn't stay that way, she thought as his fingertips glided over the numb flesh that bordered her scar. Unnerved, she eased her hand from beneath his.
"Have you started reading minds, McCall?"
"No. I've just been around you enough to peg the look you get when you think about the bastard."
"Speaking of the bastard, Wade Crawford thinks he tracked the origin of Isaac's e-mail to an Internet café in Cairo. I haven't had a chance yet to tell you."
"And I haven't had a chance to mention I called Crawford while I was on my way to meet you and Ryan at the Jaguar. He filled me in. The photo of you taken while Isaac was locked up is solid proof he's had someone working for him. Maybe still working for him."
"In my mind, there's no 'maybe' about it. I never could buy it was Isaac who mugged me. Granted, he'd have planned it because he wants me to feel vulnerable. Exposed. Head games, after all, are his speciality. But actually doing the mugging?" Paige shook her head. "No, Gentleman Jim's into observation. He likes to watch his victims use a scalpel to mutilate themselves. He does get into the act by cauterizing their wounds. But that's just so they won't bleed to death until he's finished with them."
"You know him better than anybody," McCall said, his expression grim. "Crawford mentioned you think Isaac put a reference to Egypt in his e-mail?"
"'I shall soon leave the warm, sunny Eden in which I placed myself,'" Paige quoted, then explained about Egypt and the land of Goshen. "Sort of negates my theory that Isaac was blowing smoke about being in some warm, sunny locale because he said he'd placed himself there, not that he was there."
"Just goes to prove statement analysis isn't a totally accurate discipline," McCall drawled.
Paige felt her defenses shoot up. "Tell me one that is."
He studied her, his expression somber. After a moment he tapped a fingertip against her empty bowl. "Want more?"
She eased out a breath. "Yes, but I don't have any room to put it." She relaxed deliberately, muscle by muscle. "The stew was delicious."
"Told you." He grabbed both bowls, rose and crossed to the sink.
"Which of your sisters made it?"
"Morgan. In addition to being a cop, she's an awesome cook." He sat the bowls in the sink, then turned and leaned against the counter. "Morgan thinks the only kitchen appliance Josh and I are capable of operating is the microwave."
"Is she right?"
"No." He sent her a quick, self-satisfied smile. "But why clue her in? She might stop feeding us."
"Good point."
McCall crossed his arms over his chest. "While we were dealing with the Jag, you said a couple of new things on the case came up, but they could wait. What things?"
"One was what Crawford found out about Isaac's e-mail." Paige leaned back in her chair. "The other is that I finished analyzing the statements from the guests who attended the Gillettes' party on Saturday night. Except for a few mentions of the mystery argument between the host and hostess, I didn't pick up on anything of real concern. But there's a statement from a waiter named Leandro Ramirez that got my attention."
"Why?"
"He started out calling Lauren 'the party's hostess.' Later, he said she was 'the lady.'"
"She was both."
"True. But something caused him to use different terms when he referred to the same person. Where statement analysis is concerned, that's a red flag."
"Give me an example why."
"Okay." Paige ran a fingertip around the rim of her mug. It was possible McCall was one of those cops who would never totally buy into the investigative technique she had absolute faith in, but she didn't care. Most of the time, she was right.
"I consulted on a rape case in which a teenager said she was hitchhiking when a neighbor picked her up. She claimed he raped her. There was no physical evidence because she waited a few days to file a report. The neighbor, Mr. Upstanding Citizen, swore she'd lied about the rape. In his statement, he said he spotted the girl hitchhiking, and later let the woman out at her house. Sometime between his picking her up and dropping her off, the way he perceived her went from 'girl' to 'woman.'"
"And that told you he raped her?"
"No. It clued me that something happened to change the way he viewed her. Hell, for all I knew she recited the complete works of Shakespeare on the drive home. I recommended the sex crimes detective keep at the guy. He did, and eventually got a confession on the rape."
"Think an experienced sex crimes cop would have kept pressing the guy without your telling him to?"
"Meaning, do I take credit for solving his case?" she asked tersely. "No, that goes to the cop who knew how to press the guy to confess. As for our case, I have no idea why the waiter, Ramirez, changed his perception of Lauren Gillette. But I guarantee there's a reason. He needs to be questioned about what type of encounters he had with Lauren."
"All right, we'll get to him."
Her frustration mounting, Paige planted her elbows on the table and stabbed a finger in McCall's direction. "If you view talking to Ramirez as a waste of time, I'll do it. I do recall how to conduct an interview on my own."
McCall strode over toward her, planted his palms on the table and leaned forward so that her line of vision was effectively blocked by his body. "You're a civilian. This is a formal police investigation. My investigation. We'll get to Ramirez. Together."
Paige was sorely tempted to wrap her hand around his perfectly knotted tie, jerk him closer and rip out his tongue. However, she knew the situation called for tact, rule number one in the care and handling of overbearing detectives.
"Look, McCall, I'm aware Chief Quaid crammed me down your throat. If I were in your place, I'd resent that. You do a good job of keeping your resentment from showing. You've got huge doubts statement analysis is viable. Fine, you don't have to be a believer. All I ask is that you follow up when I spot a red flag in someone's writing or speech. Ramirez's, for example. I recommend we reinterview him as soon as possible. Like tonight."
"I've got other plans for us tonight." He said it very softly, very smoothly.
She matched his level stare across the table's narrow span. And was suddenly aware they were alone in the house with its warm dark woods and conventlike quiet.
Alone with Houdini of the magical-feats-in-bed fame.
She eased back in her chair, crossed her legs. "What plans?" she asked, infusing an utter coolness into her voice.
"Body language is a wonderful thing," he murmured. "Relax, Carmichael, I'm not planning on trying to talk you into bed. Not yet. I'm still working on figuring out what it is about your go-to-hell attitude that pushes my buttons."
She could feel her face grow red. He'd read her so easily. "Perhaps your 'buttons' wouldn't get pushed if you'd lighten up on the this-is-my-turf issue."
"Don't look for that to happen." He shoved away from the table and went back to lean against the counter. "As for tonight, we've got a few more hours to spend on the city's clock, working a different angle on the Gillette investigation."
She sucked in her first full breath since he'd closed in. "What angle?"
"We know Lauren was far from a faithful wife. And we now have some serious sex toys to back that up. Hard-core stuff. It's time to drop in on hubby for another chat. Tonight."
"You said Gillette's attorney lives next door to him. And that the attorney told you to contact him if you want to reinterview the councilman. Even if we just show up on Gillette's doorstep on the chance he'll talk to us, his attorney might spot us and mosey over."
"There won't be any moseying on the lawyer's part tonight."
"And you know that how?"
"This afternoon, during the court recess when I chatted with the defense attorney who LeMonde's screwing, I spotted an invitation on his desk. There's a big law gala tonight. I did some detecting, found out Gillette's attorney is one of the speakers. That clears the way for us to drop in on Gillette, acting like we expect him to cooperate with us."
"Which any innocent husband would do," Paige murmured. She had to admit, the timing was excellent.
"Exactly." McCall angled his chin. "As for statement analysis, I can see some logic to it. Just not all of it. Meaning, I'm not totally buying into it the way you do or the chief," he added, sending Paige a pointed look. "As for our next step, do you think it might be more important for you to first do an in-person analysis of the guy who heads our suspect list, instead of the waiter who just got tacked onto the bottom?"
"Only if the waiter isn't the guy who killed Lauren Gillette."
Just then, the kitchen's outer door swung open. The man who stepped in from the cold night was tall and lean with dark eyes and straight black hair. And very good-looking.
Has to be the brother, Paige thought, noting the striking resemblance to Sergeant Skeptical.
The man had shrugged halfway out of his coat when his gaze landed on her. "Well, now," he said, giving her a slow grin. "Just this morning I wished I'd find a goddess sitting at my kitchen table. And here you are."
She arched a brow. Someone had definitely coded "charm" into the McCall DNA. "Here I am."
Jerking her a look, McCall pushed away from the counter and stepped into his brother's path. "Cool your jets, bro. The lady's working with me."
"That's a shame." Still holding the door open a crack, he glanced across his shoulder and whistled. Seconds later, a German shepherd loped into the kitchen, toenails ticking against the ceramic tiles as it bounded for Nate.
"Hey, girl." Nate bent and rubbed the dog's head. In exchange, he got a sloppy grin. "She belongs to my parents," he said, glancing at Paige. "Since their house is wedding central, she's been exiled here."
"Seems your manners got exiled, too," the other man said. Dressed in worn jeans and a khaki shirt, he carried his coat slung over one shoulder as he walked to Paige and extended his hand. "Josh McCall."
"Paige Carmichael. Nice to meet you."
"Likewise." His eyes narrowed. "The accent's Texas, right?"
"I swear, I don't know what accent y' all Oklahomans are talkin' about."
He chuckled. "I like a sense of humor in a woman. Of course you'd have to have one to work with Nate."
"It's damn disappointing we can't stay around to hear more of your witty remarks," Nate said, rolling down his shirtsleeves. "But we've got an interview to conduct tonight."
"Don't forget, the bachelor party starts in a couple of hours. You and I are designated drivers, so you have to show."
"I'll be there."
Josh sniffed the air. "Morgan's stew?"
"Yes, and it's delicious," Paige said, just as the German shepherd trotted over to inspect her. One scratch behind the ears had the dog's entire body waggling like a fish on a hook.
"Hope you saved me some," Josh said.
"There's plenty," Nate confirmed. "And since I don't have time to do our dishes, they're yours, too."
"I'll make sure you return the favor." Josh looked back at Paige. "Hope to see you around again."
"Same to you."
He snapped his fingers. "Come on, Fiona. I'll show you where you get to bunk."
Realization hit Paige, and she shot McCall a look as the dog pranced out the door behind Josh.
"Fiona Shepherd. You registered me at the Ambassador Arms under a dog's name?"
"Like I said, it's a family name." He retrieved his holstered automatic off the counter, clipped it onto his waistband. His gold badge followed. "And no one, namely Isaac or his mystery pal, will make the connection, which is the point of your using an alias."
"True. But so wrong!"
He snagged her coat off the counter, held it open. "Time's a wastin'. Let's go chat with our number one suspect."
Davis Gillette's entire being, from the top of his styled silver mane to his off-white silk shirt, gray woolen slacks and polished Italian loafers, spoke money. His attitude, as he surveyed Paige and McCall from behind the massive wood desk in his mansion's study, beamed a sense of arrogant self-importance.
As far as being pegged a suspect, the man's demeanor didn't do him any favors. In Paige's experience, most husbands of homicide victims usually dropped into shock and stayed there for a while. The innocent husbands, anyway. If Gillette had suffered any trauma from his wife's murder, it had healed rather quickly.
"My story hasn't changed, Sergeant McCall. So there's no need to go over it again. You should be spending your time searching for my wife's killer."
Uh-oh, Paige thought. Red flag number one.
Sitting in the visitor chair beside hers, McCall nodded. "That's what we're doing, Councilman. Did Mrs. Gillette know anyone, or have any sort of business, near the intersection of Morgan and Sandford roads?"
Gillette frowned. "There's nothing there. I'm sure you know that location is on the outer edges of the ward I represent."
"Is it? Would that have given Mrs. Gillette a reason to be there?"
"None that I'm aware of. Why?"
Paige knew that McCall had asked about the site where Lauren's Jaguar had been found for the sole purpose of gauging the man's reaction.
"Councilman, you told me you didn't report your wife missing because she often went off with friends without informing you of her plans," McCall said. "Those friends being Elizabeth LeMonde and Brenna Freeman. I've since found out that both LeMonde and Freeman were out of town when your wife disappeared. And that you knew they were gone."
"I have my business, my candidacy for governor to deal with." Gillette's mouth thinned. "My grief. The exact vacation schedule of two of my wife's friends must have slipped my mind."
"Must have." McCall leaned forward. "Ms. Carmichael and I have learned some additional information about your wife. We're sorry we have to ask certain questions, but we all want to catch Mrs. Gillette's killer."
"Ask your questions, Sergeant."
"We've turned up the possibility that Mrs. Gillette may have been involved with another man."
"Who?"
"We don't have a name." McCall waited a beat. "There may have been numerous other lovers. Were you aware of that?"
Gillette looked down at his hands, splayed on the desk in front of him. "Not really."
Red flag number two, Paige thought.
McCall didn't press him on the point. "I understand Mrs. Gillette carried a silver metal suitcase in the trunk of her Jaguar. Do you know what was in the suitcase?"
"No."
"We've interviewed all guests and service personnel who were here on Saturday night. We know that you and Mrs. Gillette shut yourselves in this room and argued. What was your disagreement about?"
"A personal matter that doesn't apply to this." He made an impatient gesture. "Move on, Sergeant."
"What about Midnight?" McCall asked.
"What about it? It's the cutoff point between day and night," Gillette shot back. "These questions are a waste of time."
"They're pertinent to your wife's murder."
"They don't sound that way to me."
Paige studied Gillette, considered. She accepted that McCall had to tiptoe around this guy because he sat on the city council. One word from him, McCall could spend the remainder of his police career investigating lawnmower thefts. She, however, wasn't a city employee. The worst Gillette could do to her was make waves with Chief Quaid and get her tossed off the case.
That wouldn't exactly upset her temporary partner, she thought dryly. First, though, she intended to prove to McCall the merits of statement analysis. Since she saw an opening, she figured she might as well go for it.
Hoping to hell she was right, she stood, stepped to the desk. "I agree we're wasting time. So, I'll cut to the chase. You and the missus argued about what happened between her and one of the caterer's waiters. His name is Leandro Ramirez. How about you tell us your version of what happened?"
Gillette looked stunned. Then his expression darkened and his face tightened with suppressed anger. "He told you." A muscle jerked in his cheek. "I paid him off, yet he told you."
McCall was on his feet now, moving to the opposite side of the desk from her. The gesture was intended to make Gillette feel like they were closing in.
Paige shrugged. "Apparently the amount you paid Ramirez wasn't enough to ensure his silence."
"What Lauren did..." Gillette looked away. "Dammit, the party was to announce my candidacy for governor. You'd think my wife could control her urges for one night."
Paige's thoughts raced to Ramirez's statement. The last time I actually saw the lady was in the hallway near the door to the kitchen pantry.
"But she didn't control them," Paige said. "And you caught her with Ramirez in the pantry. In the dark."
"One of the guests mentioned she hadn't seen Lauren for a time." Gillette shoved a hand through his hair. "I was afraid I knew what that meant, so I went looking for her. She wasn't in the kitchen, dealing with Mr. Markie. I glanced down the hallway just as the door to the pantry swung open. A waiter stepped out, still zipping up his pants while he walked down the hallway away from me." Gillette's hands clenched against the desk's surface. "Then Lauren slipped out of the pantry. The light in there was off. Clearly, they hadn't been looking for extra serving trays."
Paige glanced at McCall. He raised a brow. Then gave her a slight nod, indicating she continue with the questioning.
"What about Ramirez? Did he demand payment?"
"No. But the last thing I needed was for him to brag to his coworkers about Lauren. What if one of the guests overheard? So, I found him, told him what I knew. I shoved some cash into his hand and told him to keep quiet about it. He pocketed the money and went back to work, just like nothing had happened. Nothing."
"Is that when you and your wife came in here?"
"Yes. Lauren was addicted to sex. A fact I discovered on our honeymoon when she sneaked off for a tryst with a masseur. She promised me then she would get help. She made that same promise every time I caught her in a lie. And again on Saturday night." Gillette met Paige's gaze. His eyes were dulled now with what might have been grief or weariness. "She told me everything stemmed back to when she was a child."
Without realizing it, Gillette had, with one word, provided Paige an explanation. "Do you know who molested her?"
"No." If the question surprised him, he didn't show it. "Her mother had numerous live-in lovers. Lauren never said who."
"Do you know the names of any of those men?"
"No."
"Mr. Gillette, why did your wife leave the house after the party?"
"I imagine because I told her I'd had it. That I intended to file for a separation. And eventually a divorce if she didn't go into therapy and get some help." He took a long breath. "Do you believe in the sanctity of marriage, Ms. Carmichael?" He continued on without waiting for Paige's response, which was probably just as well, considering her experience with that institution. "Despite everything, I loved Lauren. I worked hard to keep our marriage intact. I failed."
He leaned back in his chair. "I know how things look. An older man, a younger woman. Her running around..."
Gillette directed his gaze to the dark fireplace across from the desk, concentrating on it almost fiercely. "I didn't kill her," he said softly. "I wish to hell I knew who did. And why. But it wasn't me."
Paige nodded. And knew he was telling the truth.
"So, McCall, what do you think?" Paige tugged on her gloves as they descended the porch steps of the Gillette mansion, lit by a milky glow from the carriage lamps lining the curved drive.
The bone-chilling wind that had gusted while they'd searched the Jaguar had died, and the snow that had threatened all day now drifted down in a wispy powder.
"I think you rolled the dice."
"And?" she prompted.
"Won."
When they reached the passenger door of his cruiser, he gripped her arm, turned her to face him. "You don't always get lucky that way during interviews. But then, you know that."
"My pegging what happened between Lauren and the waiter wasn't all luck." She regarded him through the light veil of snow. "You probably know that, too. But all that macho cop cynicism won't let you admit it."
"Contrary to what you might think, Carmichael, I'm not so closed-minded that I'd dismiss something that helps an investigation. I saw you handle LeMonde. And just witnessed you getting Gillette to spill information he hadn't planned to give. I'm now one hundred percent convinced statement analysis has its merits. Happy?"
"Very." She sent him a smug smile. "About time you got with the program."
He gazed at her, a measuring look in his eyes. "Doesn't mean if I've got questions I won't ask them. Like now."
"Ask away."
"How did you come up with Lauren and the waiter hooking up in the pantry?" As he spoke, his breath made small puffs of steam on the still air. "In the dark?"
"Because in his statement, Ramirez wrote that the last time he actually saw her was in the hallway near the door to the pantry. He didn't need to include the word 'actually' for the sentence to make sense. So, why had he?"
"Hell if I know."
"Okay, here's the deal. By the time Ramirez mentioned the pantry, he'd gone from calling Lauren 'the hostess' to 'the lady.' Like I said earlier, that's a flag---it told me something happened to change his perception of her. Also, Ramirez could have just said he saw her in the hallway near the kitchen. But he added her exact location, so that made me suspect the pantry held some meaning for him. Now, keep in mind we're talking about a woman who's as loose as ashes in the wind. So, I asked myself, what if Lauren and the waiter had been in the pantry together with the lights off? He wouldn't have actually seen her in there while they engaged in some major groping."
"Amazing." McCall lifted his bare hand, feathered snow off her hair.
In the wash of light from the carriage lamps, she saw a new kind of intensity in his eyes.
Wary, she took a step back. "What's amazing?"
"For the first time in my life, I'm beginning to admire a woman's mind almost as much as I do her legs."
Just then, a dog in a nearby yard issued a flurry of gruff, threatening barks. Then fell abruptly silent midbark. Paige looked across her shoulder. A deep, intuitive disquiet had her sliding her right hand into her coat pocket.
Gripping the asp, she glanced at McCall. He'd shoved one side of his coat back and had his hand resting on his holstered automatic. His gaze shifted from point to point along the shadowy street.
"Spot something?" She strained to catch movement near the sprawling homes now dusted with powdery snow.
"No." Reaching past her, he pulled open the cruiser's passenger door. "Let's get out of the snow."
She met his concerned gaze, uneasiness gripping her. "You sensed something, too, right?"
"Yeah." He gave the street another quick scan. "Don't know what. Just...a feeling."
She slid into the car. McCall moved around the cruiser and climbed in behind the wheel. He set the locks, twisted the key in the ignition, then shifted the cruiser into gear.
As he steered out of the mansion's driveway, Paige kept her gaze on the far side of the street. She saw no movement, nothing that looked out of place. Spooked, she thought. Now Isaac had them both spooked.
McCall broke the silence. "You were saying the waiter wouldn't have actually seen Lauren Gillette while they were going at each other in the dark pantry."
"Right." She shifted slightly, trying to shake off the disturbing sensation of being watched. "Without realizing it, Davis Gillette backed up what the waiter said. According to Gillette, he saw Ramirez exit the pantry, still zipping up while he headed down the hallway in the opposite direction. Lauren slunk out seconds later. Gillette told us the pantry light was off. And it's very possible Ramirez didn't lay eyes on Lauren again that evening. She was a busy lady, what with her hostess duties and that big blowup she and hubby had in the study. On the surface, it looks like Ramirez told the truth about what happened at the party."
"Being, the last time he saw Lauren was in the hallway outside the kitchen before they slipped into the dark pantry."
"Exactly. The big question is, did Ramirez and Lauren hook up after he and the other catering personnel left the mansion?"
"We're on our way to ask him."
"Are you sure you have time before the bachelor party?"
"Doesn't matter if I'm late. I just have to show up in time to do the designated driving bit." He kept his attention on the traffic. "What tipped you to the fact Lauren was molested while she was growing up?"
"Gillette said Lauren told him her addiction to sex stemmed back to when she was a child. That sounded like he was quoting her."
"Why does that matter?"
"Because when most people talk about their early years they say stuff like, 'when I was a kid' or 'I used to do this when I was little' or 'while growing up, I.' In theory, when a person refers to him or herself as having been a 'child,' it can mean he or she was abused earlier in life, and it was very likely sexual abuse. That's no doubt where her addiction to sex stemmed from."
"Yeah." McCall rubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose. "Give me your take on Davis Gillette."
With her nerves leveled out, Paige settled back in the seat. The roadway was covered with a wet sheen that reflected the brake lights of the cars ahead of them. "I got a blip on my radar screen when he told you his story hadn't changed. The word 'story' can be used to describe a created tale. You don't expect a truthful person to focus on the lack of change in their stories, since truthful accounts don't change."
"I sense a 'but' coming."
"But," she obliged, "Gillette recounted the events of that night and the following day chronologically and concisely. That's one indicator of a truthful statement."
"I've had stone-cold killers give me statements that were chronological and concise."
"So have I, which proves there are exceptions to everything." Paige paused to do a mental replay of the interview. "Here's another deal about Gillette. When it comes to Lauren's murder, he didn't say he was innocent. Or that he wasn't guilty. He said, 'I didn't do it.'"
"Are you about to tell me there's a difference?"
"A huge one. Remember, with statement analysis you view things with the mind-set that people tell the truth. Suppose a suspect who has yet to go to trial claims he's innocent. Not guilty."
"Happens all the time with scum-sucking dirtbags."
"And they're technically telling the truth. Because according to our legal system, a suspect is innocent until proven guilty. So someone who hasn't been tried yet truly is innocent. Legally, anyway." With the heater now blowing warm air, she slipped off her gloves. "Davis Gillette's 'I didn't do it' is a strong denial. In my opinion we should give him the benefit of the doubt."
"Not a problem." McCall kept his gaze focused forward where snow danced crazily in the beams of the headlights. "Just don't take it personally that I insist we eliminate him as a suspect the old-fashioned way."
"We'd be idiots not to."
A little over an hour later, Paige felt vindicated where Leandro Ramirez was concerned. The waiter had verified his rendezvous with Lauren Gillette in the pantry during the party. And that an angry Davis Gillette had crammed money into his hand, warning Ramirez to keep his mouth shut about Gillette's wife.
Ramirez had claimed he hadn't met up with Lauren Gillette after leaving with the rest of the catering crew. A phone call had confirmed Ramirez's alibi that he'd gone to a party with one of the other waiters.
Now, back at the cop shop, she and McCall walked through the main door and were hit by a wave of heat.
"It feels like Texas in summer," Paige said.
"At least eighty degrees." He'd shrugged out of his coat before they made it halfway to the elevator.
"Eighty-four," the heavyset cop manning the information counter informed them. "The entire building's a sauna."
"Anybody call maintenance?" McCall asked.
"Yeah, me." Sweat stains formed darkened pools on the cop's gray uniform shirt as he fanned himself with a magazine. "All those geniuses could tell me was the heating system's gone haywire. Never would have sleuthed that out by myself."
Her coat draped over one arm, Paige stepped on the elevator. The small cubicle was even steamier than the lobby. "I bet you're sorry you decided to check your messages before heading to the bachelor party."
"Real sorry." McCall jabbed the button for Homicide's floor. "I won't hold you to your offer to start working on the Gillette and Ramirez interview reports tonight."
"Not here," she said as they stepped off the elevator. "I'll get my laptop from our office and work in my hotel room."
He paused at Homicide's door, tried the knob. "Locked." He pulled out his keys. "No surprise the night team got out of this heat." He swung the door open, letting Paige pass through first into the empty squad room.
While he headed for his desk, she retrieved her key card. Seconds later, she stepped into the office assigned to her and McCall. With the blind closed on the glass panel that looked out onto the squad room, the small space seemed even more cramped.
She picked up her laptop, thinking it felt like days instead of hours since she'd retrieved it from Wade Crawford's basement lab. She considered checking to see if Isaac had sent a second e-mail. The dry-as-old-bones heat, along with the dread that settled in her stomach, changed her mind. She would download her e-mail at the hotel.
"If you're ready to go, I'll give you a ride to your car," McCall said, stepping through the doorway.
"I am." She noted the stack of pink phone messages in his hand. "Since you'll be off tomorrow for all the wedding festivities, is there anything I can take care of for you?"
"Call the lab and give them another nudge on processing the fibers found in the box with Lauren Gillette." He tossed the stack on the desk. "Everything else can wait."
When her gaze flicked across the top message, Paige's eyes widened. "Wait a minute." She picked up the message for a closer exam of the spidery handwriting. "Hugh Henderson wrote this, right?"
McCall glanced down. "No, Kidd."
"Steve Kidd? You're sure?"
"Yes. Why?"
She hesitated, knowing McCall and Kidd were close.
"Spill it, Carmichael."
She eased out a breath. "Do you remember me telling you about the what-I-did-yesterday assignment from the workshop?" She laid the message aside. "The one that creeped me out?"
"What about it?"
"I thought Henderson wrote it. I mean, it goes with his personality. The way he keeps hitting on me, asking me to join him for a drink, saying his wife is understanding." Paige shook her head. "All along, it was Kidd who wrote that assignment."
"So?"
"What reason would he have for being deceptive about what he did on Sunday?"
"Beats me. Maybe he thought what he did was no one's business but his own." McCall sent her a pointed look. "In retrospect, I wish I'd fictionalized my entire assignment."
She ignored the jibe. "Whatever Kidd did, he made a huge effort to conceal it." Looking back at the message's hurried scrawl, Paige attempted to recall as much of his language as possible.
"He was under mega stress," she said after a moment. "Neglected to account for blocks of his time. And some events were out of sequence. He made a point to distance himself from both his wife and their home." She tapped a fingertip against her mouth. "He mentioned a restaurant that had the word 'Ale' in its name. Only he spelled it A-I-L. It's like he was unconsciously saying he felt sick. And he didn't mention it, but I could tell he was with someone that morning. It may have been his mistress because I picked up on some sort of sexual overtones."
"Steve Kidd is the last guy who'd have a mistress. About the only bad habit he has is chewing on plastic toothpicks."
"All I know is, on Sunday morning he was with someone else." She furrowed her brow. "For a while, anyway."
"You know that how?"
"He wrote that he left his house and had breakfast by himself. And he drove to the perfect place. Then he went for a drive in the country."
McCall crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm waiting for the punch line."
"Kidd mentioned that later in the day he drove his wife to the restaurant. Then they drove to Wal-Mart, then drove home. Drove. Kidd habitually uses that verb when he's with someone. That morning, he drove to the perfect place. Then went for a drive in the country. His change in verbiage indicates a change in reality. He was with someone, later he was alone. Who was he with and what happened to them?"
McCall took a step toward her. "Carmichael, the reality is you need to chill. The assignments were stolen. Your workshop's over. Why Kidd wrote what he did doesn't matter."
"Maybe not, but it snagged my interest." She patted her laptop. "Enough that I recreated as much of his language as I could. The syntax. Something...I don't know, weird's going on with him."
"You're off base." McCall's voice had gone toneless.
"I don't think so." She angled her chin. "Earlier this evening you told me you buy into statement analysis one hundred percent."
"And you admitted there were exceptions to everything. This is one."
"I'm not so sure."
He moved toward her, his face tense in the harsh fluorescent light. "This skill of yours has merit when it comes to bringing down bad guys. Do-wrongs deserve having every word they utter put under a microscope for you to pick at and tweeze apart. That's your job."
"And I'm damn good at it."
He closed the distance between them until he was inches away, looming over her. "No one's debating that point."
Paige recognized the move as a typical cop tactic, attempting to physically dominate, to show who was in control.
She countered by stepping around him to put herself between him and the doorway. "You sure know how to make a girl feel hemmed in, McCall."
"Ever think you might be too damn good?"
She narrowed her eyes. "When it comes to detecting lies, a person can't be good enough."
"You look for a hell of a lot more than lies. The first day of your workshop, I pissed you off by, as you termed it, 'leering' at your legs. I reminded you of your bastard of an ex-husband, so you used your expertise to get back at me. That had nothing to do with the job. It was personal."
Okay, he had her there. "It was," she conceded. "And I apologized."
"Yeah, you did. So, before you wind up having to apologize to Kidd, here's something to mull over in that amazing, maddening mind of yours. Steve Kidd has certain unfortunate personal issues he has to deal with every day. Day after day. Gut-wrenching issues that I'm not sure I'd be strong enough to handle. Trust me when I say you don't want to put Kidd's life under a microscope. It's none of your business, Carmichael. Do everyone, including yourself, a favor and leave it alone."
She glanced again at the handwriting on the message slip. Despite what McCall said about his coworker, she was a firm believer that when a smoke alarm went off, that meant there was a fire.
"Delete the file off your laptop," McCall said, pulling her gaze back to his face. His dark eyes telegraphed the annoyance in his voice. "Forget about that damn assignment. Concentrate on Gillette's murder, for which we have no viable suspect."
"I'll consider your advice."
When she turned toward the door, Paige thought she glimpsed movement near the squad room's entrance. But when she stepped out of the small office, no one was there.
Great, her nerves were still sending echoes of the spooked feeling she'd gotten outside Gillette's mansion.
She looked back at McCall. He was still scowling.
She sent him a mild smile. "Let's just agree to disagree on the Kidd issue."
The next morning, Paige checked her e-mail. One of the messages stopped her heart.
After placing an urgent call to her grandfather, she stabbed in the private number for Holden Lassiter's office.
"Be there. Be there. Be there." She whispered the words like a plea, her gaze going to the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly eight; she should be on her way to the PD by now. Instead, she still wore the red camisole and boxers she'd slept in. Her hair was disheveled, her stomach knotted, her legs unsteady from a black, engulfing fear.
Fear not for herself, but for the people she loved.
"Lassiter here."
Hearing Holden's faintly British accent had a steadying effect on her pulse. Thank the gods the former CIA operative was in Dallas, not on the other side of the globe where he'd be less able to deal with this personally.
"Holden, it's Paige. I just received another e-mail from Isaac."
"The second one in as many days. Have you forwarded it to me?"
"Yes."
"Give me a moment to pull it up."
Listening to the muted click of a keyboard, Paige settled on the bed beside her laptop. Her mouth dry, she stared at Isaac's e-mail.
"I have it on-screen, Paige."
"Read the last paragraph."
"'While you still can, bid farewell to Tate and Sara Sue.'"
Holden paused, then said, "I'll put protection on your grandfather and mother immediately. Do you know if they're both presently at your grandfather's ranch?"
"They're there and they're okay." Paige closed her eyes. "I didn't tell Grandpa about the mugging, the attempt on my life with the tampered fruit or Isaac's first e-mail. I knew if I did he'd strap on his revolver and show up here to do bodyguard duty. That's exactly what he wanted to do this morning when I called and told him about this e-mail. It took some fast talking on my part to get him to agree he needs to stay there to protect my mother."
"I agree, the ranch is the safest place. I'll make sure they're both looked after. It will be the type of protection they won't know is there. Nor will anyone else, unless it becomes necessary to step out of the shadows."
Paige felt a measure of relief. She fully trusted in Holden's ability to provide an impenetrable shield of covert security around her family.
"I owe you, Holden."
"Consider this a perk that comes with your employment by Dallas's most elite security, protection and private investigations firm." Additional clicks of computer keys sounded across the line. "Paige, I've now read the complete text of Isaac's e-mail. Do you agree that I'm the mentor he mentioned in his first paragraph?"
"Yes." Looking back at her laptop, she reread Isaac's words.
I anticipated having you by now. It is an anomaly that your entombing me in a cell these past three years has left me many details to see to before I complete my mission. It is a slippery slope. I am sure your mentor will concur. Still, the ark of time that separates us lessens each passing second.
While you still can, bid farewell to Tate and Sara Sue. Soon, Paige.
She pulled in a deep, controlled breath. "Isaac's first e-mail contained a clue to his location. He wants us to believe this one does, too."
"Go on."
"In his reference to the 'ark of time,' the proper spelling should be A-R-C. Taking into account Isaac's love of religious theories, I think he's referencing either the ark of the covenant or Noah's ark."
Paige looked down, realized she was scrubbing her scar. She forced herself to stop. "While I was on the phone with Grandpa, I did a quick Internet search. There's tons of hypotheses on where the ark of the covenant might be. But basically one general consensus on the location of Noah's ark. Turkey."
"On or near Mt. Ararat. Which is indeed a slippery slope."
"You've been there?"
"It appears Dr. Isaac believes I have."
Veil of secrecy, Paige reminded herself, wondering again if Holden had completely severed his ties to the government. "I found articles that say the CIA has declassified documents concerning the remains of Noah's ark having been possibly found on Mt. Ararat."
"True. Agency insiders refer to whatever is entombed in ice on one of the mountain's slopes as the 'Ararat Anomaly,' which many believe is Noah's ark. It's interesting how Dr. Isaac seems to have certain knowledge about the CIA. And myself."
"He's brilliant with a computer."
"Apparently. So, he wants us to believe he's in Turkey."
"I've forwarded the e-mail to OCPD's computer whiz. I anticipate Crawford will contact me in a few hours and tell me it originated in a cybercafe in some Turkish city."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm not. After all, Isaac didn't say he's sitting on some slippery slope. For all I know he's in the hotel room across the hall, disguised as some mild-looking business executive. The only thing he really tells us in this e-mail is that he's got a lot of stuff to take care of before he completes his mission."
"Which is having you."
Dread surfaced inside her like something corrosive. "It's all about pressure and mind games. He wants me to feel like I've got a target painted on my back. Vulnerable." She threaded her necklace through her fingers, sliding the handcuff key and miniature badge over the silver links. "Mentioning my family is Isaac's way of twisting the screws. Upping the stress."
Dammit, it was working.
"The OCPD sergeant you're working with who is also overseeing the Isaac investigation from that end. What's his take on this latest e-mail?"
"McCall hasn't seen it yet. He's out of pocket all day for a quadruple family wedding." If she remembered right, there was a brunch scheduled before the late-afternoon ceremony. Then a dinner reception. "McCall couldn't do anything more at this point than forward the e-mail to the department's computer guy."
"Paige, it might be wise for you to cancel your contract with the police department there. My villa on the Sea of Cortez is very secure. I know ways of making it even more so. The company jet can pick you up within the hour."
"Isaac somehow found out about your connection to the CIA. He could eventually locate me at your villa."
"Anything is possible," Holden concurred. "Just agree to think about staying there. I'll keep the plane at your disposal."
"I appreciate it." She swept her gaze around the elegant suite, decorated in subdued hues. Everything was neat and tidy. It was her life that was in shambles.
"Holden, take care of my family."
"I'll see that they stay safe. You have my word."
"Thanks. I'll hold you to that."
With dread lodged in her stomach, Paige took a quick shower, threw on jeans and a sweater, grabbed a latte from the lobby kiosk and managed to make it to the cop shop within the hour. The Homicide squad room was manned by a skeleton crew, the majority of the detectives having taken off to attend the McCall festivities. The phone in her small office was ringing when she slid her key card into the lock.
"Paige Carmichael."
"This is Brenna Freeman. I just now got back in town and I need to speak to Sergeant McCall."
Brenna Freeman, Paige thought. Lauren Gillette's friend who'd been in Africa and refused to answer McCall's questions over the phone.
"Sergeant McCall isn't available. I'm his partner on the Gillette investigation, so---"
"So, you come see me, honey. I've got a good idea who killed Lauren."
Brenna Freeman was close to fifty, short and curvy with an attractive, creamy-skinned face framed with flaming red hair. Wearing shimmering ice-blue pants with a loose blouse of the same silk, she led the way down a hall toward the back of the enormous house, talking as she went. "You're not a police officer?"
"No, ma'am, a former one," Paige answered, trailing in the wake of the woman's expensive French perfume. "Chief Quaid hired me to consult on the Gillette case."
"I expect that means you know what you're doing."
Tell that to McCall, Paige thought. She fully expected him to go into full-tilt it's-my-turf mode when he found out she'd conducted this interview solo. Tough. She'd swung by Ryan's office to see if he was available. According to his secretary, the captain was attending a regional law enforcement meeting this morning, then planned to attend the McCall wedding that afternoon.
Paige knew when an investigation started burning hot, you had to jump into the fire. After hearing Freeman's comment that she might know who killed Lauren Gillette, Paige had jumped in with both feet.
As they moved along the marble-floored hallway, she noted the walls of every room they passed were loaded with framed artwork. She was no connoisseur, but she knew quality when she saw it and estimated the thick, gilded frames held a collection of art worth millions. Then there were the antique furnishings, porcelains and blown glass sculptures that glinted beneath strategically aimed lights.
"When I think about what happened to Lauren, I just get sick," Freeman said when they neared the end of the hall. "The minute Sergeant McCall told me about her murder, I asked myself if I hadn't had to leave for Africa, could I have talked her into staying here instead of going to wherever it was he killed her."
"And he is?"
"That's one of the problems---I don't know his name or what he looks like."
Paige followed the woman into an enormous room with cathedral beams soaring overhead. The walls, floor, couches and chairs were snow-white, as were the plethora of pillows and throws. Smoldering red paper-thin screens, brilliant area rugs and vases were arranged to provide pools of color in the otherwise monochromatic room.
"It's a long story, so let's get comfortable." The woman waved Paige to one of the couches, then tugged on an embroidered bellpull that hung beside the white marble fireplace. "What'll you have, honey? Rent can mix about anything. I'm having a Bloody Mary."
"Rent?"
Freeman winked. "Sexy name for a houseboy, isn't it?"
"Uh... Just coffee. Black."
Rent looked to be in his twenties, two hundred pounds of sculpted bulk, with bright blue eyes and corn-colored hair. He wore dark tailored slacks and was bare-chested beneath a spotless white jacket that hung open. While he poured Paige's coffee, his muscles flexed and bulged.
She pulled her recorder from her purse, noting the open admiration in her hostess's gaze while the houseboy made a sedate exit. Obviously Rent did more around the mansion than just mix drinks.
"Mrs. Freeman, I'd like to record our conversation."
"Call me Brenna. It makes me feel younger. And considering what we're about to discuss, we ought to be on a first-name basis. Yours is Paige, right?"
"Yes." Paige sipped her coffee. This was an interview, not an interrogation. She didn't care what Freeman called her as long as she talked. "About the recording?"
"Fine. But, with the understanding that some of what I'm about to tell you has to remain confidential."
"This is a murder investigation. I can't promise that."
The comment in no way threw the woman off stride. "Paige, I know you have to give me the standard company policy. Later on you'll understand why I refused to answer your partner's questions about Lauren on the phone. And why it'd be best to keep a lot of this under your hat."
"You said you have a good idea who killed Lauren."
Stirring her Bloody Mary, Brenna settled back in an overstuffed chair. "She was so mixed up. Growing up, sex had been used against her. As a woman, she used sex to get what she wanted."
"What did she want?"
"I'm not sure Lauren even knew. I've been around the track tons of times so, to my way of thinking, she wanted a man who would look beyond the surface and see what was inside." Brenna sipped her drink. "Lauren was beautiful. And she sure knew how to work men. All she had to do was bat her lashes at Davis Gillette. Before you knew it, he'd married her."
"Did he love her?"
"At first. I don't know about now. A man's ego is a fragile thing. All her running around would've played hell with Davis's self-esteem."
"Mrs. Freeman---Brenna---we know Lauren was into kinky sex. Hard-core stuff, maybe. It's possible she left home on Saturday night to meet a lover. I need you to tell me who you think killed her."
"It'll be easier for you to understand if I give you some history."
Paige replaced her coffee cup on the saucer on the table beside the couch. "Fine."
"A friend of my dear late husband was always thinking outside the box, coming up with ideas about how to cater to the needs of the wealthy that weren't being met. Sex, for instance. People who have lots of money might not have a problem getting power and celebrity, but when it comes to getting safe sex it isn't easy."
"Safe sex?"
Brenna flapped a wrist. "Honey, I'm not talking about wearing a rubber. What I mean is sex that offers variety, toys, group stuff if that's what gets you off. So, what are your choices? Buy sex from a prostitute and end up seeing your mug shot in the newspaper? Cruise bars and risk getting recognized, robbed or worse? Sleep with the spouses of friends if you're prepared for emotional and matrimonial complications? None of those options are too attractive. So, my late husband's friend created a club where a certain class of people can go to engage in guilt-free sex with one or more partners who enjoy the activity as much as they do. It's sex with an edge of secrecy and slight risk, which makes it even more tantalizing."
"Your late husband was a member of this club?"
"He was. And I'm not going to beat around the bush. I joined, too. It just added zing to our marriage. And I kept up my membership after my husband died six years ago." Brenna tilted her head to the side, the dark blue stones at her ears catching light and glinting. "It's nothing I'm ashamed of. Going there keeps me young. Vibrant."
"Did Lauren Gillette belong?"
"Yes. When I first met her, I could almost read her mind and knew what she was all about. And I'd already heard a rumor she was running around on Davis. Despite all that, she was a sweet girl, just so mixed up. I knew she wasn't going to stop what she was doing, so I thought recruiting her into the club would keep her safe."
"What's the name of this club?"
"Midnight."
Paige felt her heartbeat hitch. Finally, finally the investigation was going somewhere.
"I want you to understand that just by telling you, I'm breaking an oath," Brenna continued. "But if the man who killed Lauren is who I think he is, the only way you'll catch him is through Midnight."
"What do you know about him?"
"Hardly anything. That's because nobody knows who belongs to Midnight. There's no membership list. Everyone wears a mask. We're forbidden to speak while we're there. It's a bit theatrical, but it adds to the attraction."
"Where do you meet?"
"In a house north of the city. I don't know the address, but I can tell you how to get there. The place looks like it ought to be sitting on an English moor. It's way back from the road so you can't see it. There's a high fence and electronic gate that blocks the drive."
"Does someone live there full-time? Part-time?"
"I have no idea."
"There has to be someone who maintains the house and grounds."
"I'm sure there is."
"How are the meetings set up?"
"On an encrypted Web site. The members check it for the date and time of the next meeting. There's a code that opens the gate. It's changed after each meeting, and a new one is posted on the Web site."
"Do you know when the next meeting is scheduled?"
"No. That information's announced only a couple of hours in advance."
"All right. So, you recruited Lauren into Midnight. When?"
"About six months ago. To say she was a natural would be an understatement."
"Did Lauren attend all the meetings?"
"As far as I know. I had to miss the last two."
"Any particular reason?"
"I'm a businesswoman. My daddy had money and he never could stay in one place very long. So he traveled all over the world, buying up property on a whim. Which is why I now own a chunk of the West Coast. Then there are my holdings overseas. My trip to Botswana wasn't a vacation. I'm building a resort there for tourists who go on safari. So I had a boatload of details to take care of here before I left, and they kept me from doing a lot of things, which included going to Midnight and seeing Lauren. The day I was scheduled to fly out, my jet was sitting on the Tarmac when Lauren called. She was there at the airport. She said she just had to see me before I took off. I had my pilot delay the flight and I met her at my hangar."
My jet, my pilot, my hangar, Paige thought. A chunk of the West Coast. Brenna Freeman was stinking rich.
"All Lauren could talk about was this man she'd partnered with a couple of times at Midnight. Called him Loverboy. She said she'd never had a man touch her the way he did. One who made her feel like he wanted her, not just her body." Brenna shook her head. "She was totally obsessed with him."
"What else did she tell you about Loverboy?"
"The last time they were at Midnight she waited for him to leave, then followed him to his car." Brenna held up a hand. "I know what you're thinking---what's the point of all the secrecy if you can just get someone's tag number off their car?"
"You read my mind."
"Everyone pulls over before they arrive at the property and affixes a special metal plate over their tag. It's got a lock. You reverse the process after you leave. Easy on, easy off."
"So, Lauren couldn't just spot which car was Loverboy's and try to find someone to run his tag," Paige reasoned. "She would have had to follow him. Home, probably."
"That's exactly what she did."
"Did she tell you where he lives?"
"No. And, damn me, I didn't ask. I was more concerned about Lauren's plan to confront him there. I reminded her that just by following him she'd broken one of Midnight's sacred rules. It's forbidden to exchange personal information, much less to meet outside the club with any member but the person who sponsored you. Lauren was all set to confront this man and tell him she loved him."
"Do you think she really loved him?"
"No. I think she loved the idea of the conquest. That's one reason she slept with almost any man she could."
As she spoke, Brenna rubbed her throat in long, soothing strokes. "Remember, Midnight was created for the type of men and women who are used to power and the manipulation of power. People who would never willingly believe they could be in danger. When---if---Lauren showed up at Loverboy's house, he must have perceived her as a very real threat. Perhaps one who could devastate his business, his family. His entire life."
If that were the case, thought Paige, Lauren had given Loverboy ample motive to kill her. "She had a note in her possession that referenced a meeting at Midnight. Was she planning on giving it to Loverboy?"
"I don't know. She didn't mention a note."
"Was there anything else Lauren told you that might help us identify the man?"
"I've racked my brain. There's nothing."
"Did you ever see Loverboy at Midnight?"
"Honey, it's possible I've had sex with him."
Paige kept her expression unreadable while trying to wrap her mind around the concept of a playground for the rich to engage in sex with no consequences. One thing about it, she couldn't fault Brenna for her honesty. "Okay, maybe something will come to mind if you tell me about Midnight's operations. You said you recruited Lauren. Is that how everyone joins?"
"Yes. The only way to get in is to be brought there by a current member. Females are allowed to recruit only females, same for the men who belong---only males."
"So, in theory, the only members of Midnight whom you know are the other women you recruited?"
"It's not a theory. That's how it works." Brenna leaned forward. "This isn't some ratty sex brothel. People belong to Midnight because they can remain anonymous. They wear masks. They don't speak. By taking those precautions, they get their every desire fulfilled without paying any consequences. It doesn't matter who does the fulfilling."
"It did to Lauren."
"Yes, you're right. Unfortunately."
Paige did a mental review of the information they'd covered. "You said Lauren had partnered a couple of times with Loverboy. I understand that build and body shape must come into play, but if everyone is masked, how did she know for sure she'd had the same partner twice?"
"It just dawned on me." Brenna blinked. "His ring."
"His ring?"
"The whole point of Midnight is to obtain pleasure. Let's say I find someone whose expertise I admire. I'm going to want to hook up with him again. I could identify him by his gold ring. We are all required to wear one. A distinctive one."
"Distinctive, how?"
"Doesn't really matter. The ring must be gold and worn on the right ring finger. Other than that, any shape is acceptable. There can be a small figure on the ring's face. Or a design."
"Did Lauren mention what type of ring Loverboy wears?"
"No, I... Wait, she said he's 'the wolf.' I thought she meant he's a wolf in the sack. It's the ring he wears." Brenna's eyes widened. "I remember seeing that ring. I've seen him."
"Just how close up have you seen him?"
Brenna shook her head. "We haven't gotten it on. There's no real reason for that, except neither of us chose the other during what's called the rite. But he did catch my eye because he's got a great build. Tall, maybe six-three. Two hundred pounds, give or take. The leather clings to his muscles in a really nice way. I was interested enough to glance at his hand to see his ring. It's a wolf's head."
"Before I leave, I'll need you to draw a sketch of the ring."
"I'm no artist, but I'll give it a shot."
"Okay, Loverboy is about six-three, two hundred pounds. Is there anything else you can tell me about his physical description? Marks? Scars? Tattoos?"
"I haven't seen him out of his leather, but nothing like that caught my eye. Remember, Midnight is all about staying anonymous. The only way for me to spot him again is to watch for that ring at the next meeting. I could do what Lauren did and follow him to his car. Then call you and let you know after he's left the grounds."
"Brenna, we're talking about a man who may have murdered a woman and stuffed her body in a freezer. You've called the police, given us a lead on where to find him. We're going to have to go into Midnight. Surely you knew it would come to this."
"Oh, honey, of course I knew that's how the police would think. Which is why I said there's some things you're going to want to keep under your hat. You need to remember that Midnight is a private club with an elite membership. There's no telling who might get snared if some SWAT team rushes in and tosses a net over everyone. Chances are, there'd be a slew of civic leaders, politicians, a judge here and there. Who knows? Maybe even the chief's mother."
"The chief's mother?"
"Just hypothetical. Which is the point. Except for the women I've recruited, I don't know who belongs to Midnight. And think about this---nothing going on there is illegal. No one is being exploited or used, no one is doing it for money, no one is underage. Drugs and alcohol aren't allowed. We're all consenting adults. We don't force anyone to show up, or make them stay a second longer than they want."
Brenna sat back in her chair, crossed her legs. "Just inform whoever it is you report to that the members of Midnight are most likely prominent people sufficiently in the public eye to cause scandal. And there's no telling just how far that scandal could reach. I'm sure you can convince those involved in the investigation to be discreet."
"I'll convey your message. But I can assure you the police won't agree to leave it up to you to spot a possible murderer, then follow him to his car. What if he sees you and gets spooked? If he did kill Lauren, I doubt he'd have a problem doing the same to you."
Even as she spoke, Paige was working things out. The information on Loverboy was the first sniff they'd had of Lauren Gillette's killer. Granted, it was just a whiff of his track, but instinct told Paige the answers to solving the case would be found at Midnight.
"What do you have to do in order to take a new recruit to Midnight?" she asked Brenna.
"Nothing in advance. I just take her to a meeting. There's a small amount of business to deal with when we get there, then that's it. Why?"
"Because if you take me to the next meeting at Midnight, I can maybe get a lead on Loverboy."
Brenna nodded slowly. "And if you do spot Loverboy and his wolf ring, you can fade into the woodwork and then leave when he does. I'm sure the police can come up with a reason to pull him over on his drive home. I like the way you think, Paige."
"Glad to hear it," Paige said. Her civilian status meant she'd have to do some fast-talking to get Captain Ryan and McCall to agree to her plan.
She pulled a card out of her purse. "I'll leave you mine and my partner's cell numbers so you can reach us anytime."
"Good. Now, you'll need a black leather dress." Brenna examined her from head to toe with an expression of frank admiration. "You've got a great body, honey. And I have to tell you, I envy those long legs of yours. None of my leather getups will fit you, so you need to see to that yourself. Buy a black leather mask, too. And a gold ring."
"Any suggestions on where I should shop?"
"I order my outfits over the Internet. But I understand there are some speciality stores in the south part of town."
Low Track. She'd noticed several sex shops when she and McCall were there.
Brenna dipped her head. "That scar on your right hand, you'll need to cover it with some heavy makeup."
"Could I wear the ring on my left hand?"
"No. A ring on the left hand signifies marriage. Commitment. That's not what Midnight is about."
That, Paige thought, was an understatement. "After you sketch the ring, I need you to write down the directions to the house where Midnight meets."
"Remember, there's no chance of your being able to see it from the road."
"I understand." Paige wasn't thinking about the road. She knew OCPD had an aviation division. Still, with the gag order on the case, she wasn't sure she could utilize it. With McCall and Ryan out of pocket, she would have to go to Chief Quaid to find out. And if he did grant approval, all police markings on the helicopter would have to be covered. Having a cop helicopter hovering overhead would be a sure tip-off if someone on the grounds of Midnight spotted it.
Brenna sat her glass aside. "You strike me as a smart woman, Paige. So I figure you're sitting there, planning how to go about getting a look at Midnight from the air."
Paige arched a brow. "You strike me as a smart woman, too, Brenna."
"Well, then, why don't I save you time and call my pilot? He can take you up in my chopper this morning."
"You own a helicopter?"
"Honey, I've got two."
Late that afternoon, Paige slid into her rental car and tossed a sack of paraphernalia into the passenger seat. Cranking on the engine, she shook her head. She'd just charged more than three hundred dollars for a full-head black leather mask and a dress that required a shoehorn to get into. And out of.
She didn't want to think about how many hoops she'd have to jump through to get the OCPD bean counters to reimburse her. Since the sleaze store in the center of Low Track had a no-return policy, she couldn't even bring back the damn stuff if the brass nixed Brenna Freeman's plan to take her into Midnight.
As for the ring required to complete her evening-at-a-sex-club ensemble, she planned to buy a gold-plated cheapo at the first discount store she spotted.
The garish red neon lights of the sleaze store reflected off the windshield. Dusk was settling in. More snow was predicted, so it was fortunate she'd already taken the aerial photos of the house Brenna had accurately described as belonging on an English moor. Amazing how fast things got done when you dealt with a megarich widow who owned a small aviation company. Not to mention aerial photo and processing equipment. Paige had stowed the developed photographs in the car's trunk and planned to drop them by McCall's house on her way to the hotel.
She had yet to talk to him today. Since he was tied up with wedding events, she'd opted to update him via his home answering machine. She counted on that giving him time before they came face-to-face to not only get over being nuts about her interviewing Freeman on her own, but to swallow the fact his civilian partner had dug up a lead on Loverboy, the man who may have murdered Lauren Gillette.
While the engine idled, Paige scanned the street. Not surprising, Low Track looked seedier than it had on her nighttime visit. Most of the buildings were boarded up; the ones still inhabited were rundown eyesores.
She checked in the rearview mirror, then the side ones. All day she'd watched for a tail. She'd seen nothing. Sensed nothing. Holden Lassiter had called to assure her he'd cast an impenetrable safety net around her grandfather and mother. Paige breathed a little easier knowing that.
What didn't make her breathe easy was that she didn't totally buy into Edwin Isaac being on the other side of the globe. As she'd suspected, Wade Crawford had tracked that morning's e-mail to a library in a Turkish city. Which, considering the escaped shrink was good enough on a computer to fool even the most expert gizmo whiz, proved nothing.
If Isaac were out of the country, why would he have tried to kill her with tampered fruit? Maybe he didn't like to get his hands dirty, but he did get his rocks off watching his victims die. During interviews, he'd described in detail the deaths of each of the five prostitutes who'd mutilated themselves while he held them captive. His eyes had absolutely glittered.
The shrink clearly liked watching his victims close-up.
Since she was in Low Track, Paige figured she would try to spot the hookers she'd talked to two nights ago. Just a check to make sure no john had shown up looking or sounding like Isaac.
She glanced around to get her bearings. The corner that the redhead and bubble-gum chewing blonde had identified as "theirs" was one block east.
Paige pulled the car from the curb. The instant she steered around the corner she witnessed a towering black man deliver an open-handed blow to the blonde's cheek. Arms flailing, the woman stumbled sideways in her stilettos.
"Bastard!" Paige shoved the car into Park. The guy was Juju, the pimp who'd given McCall lip.
She shouldered open the door at the same instant Juju delivered a second blow to the blonde's face. This time she went down.
"I wasn't holdin' out, Juju," she sobbed, attempting to scramble away on hands and knees.
"Lying piece of trash." He grabbed a handful of bleached hair, jerked her up and slammed his fist into her belly.
The pimp was big, six-five and muscled. Physically, Paige was in prime shape, but a large man was still a large man. She didn't have a gun so the only way to control him was to get him off his feet. Fast.
The fact he had his back to her gave her the element of surprise. Good thing, since an unexpected attack was necessary when trying to topple a mountain.
She dashed toward the melee, yanking the asp out of her coat pocket. A flick of her wrist telescoped the thick, silvery baton.
With his fingers clenched in the hooker's hair, she dangled from Juju's hand like a puppet. He pulled back a fist. "Teach you ta lie, whore---"
Paige landed a full-force flying kick, her foot smashing into the side of his knee. The blow drove him sideways. Attacker and victim crashed to the sidewalk.
The hooker rolled away, blood spurting from her nose.
Paige had never encountered a pimp who didn't carry a gun or at least a knife. So she was ready when Juju's right hand swept up, switchblade snapping open with the movement.
Dark eyes blazed in a face twisted with instant rage. "Gonna slice you bad, bitch!"
"Not going to give you the chance." Evading the slashing blade, she swung the asp, smashed the baton against his wrist. Bone crunched; the knife vaulted into the street.
Howling in pain and fury, two-hundred-plus pounds of muscle surged off the sidewalk.
Paige whipped the baton against the side of Juju's skull.
The mountain dropped like a sack of sand.
Taking deep breaths, she tried to control the adrenaline rushing through her system. Her hand trembled when she jerked her cell phone off the waistband of her jeans.
Juju groaned, shifted positions and continued kissing the sidewalk.
While talking to the police dispatcher, Paige patted him down for weapons. She pressed two fingers to his throat. Even through her leather gloves she felt his strong pulse.
She moved to the blonde, helped her ease into a sitting position. Blood, sticky and brilliant red, matted her hair and glazed her cheeks like candy on an apple.
"Help's on the way," Paige said.
The hooker stared at Juju through dazed, swollen eyes. "Hope you didn't hurt my man bad."
The next hour was a wasteland of questions and answers. While cooling her heels in the back of a black and white, Paige watched an EMT strap an ice pack to the now-conscious Juju's right wrist. That done, a cop placed him in the back of a second patrol car for transport.
The blond hooker refused treatment and declined to file assault charges. So Paige did.
Which required additional report writing on the part of the cop in whose car she sat.
It was dark by the time she carried the envelope of aerial photos onto the porch of McCall's house. Only faint light glowed behind the front windows. The porch light was off.
Using her small penlight for illumination, she lifted the lid on the mail slot. At the same instant, her cell phone vibrated against her waist and the front door swung open. She nearly jumped out of her skin.
"Oh, my God!"
"I was just calling you." Snapping his cell phone shut, McCall locked a hand on her arm and pulled her inside.
"You've been busy today, Carmichael." Both his voice and expression were mild and put her on instant alert.
"Extremely." She watched him close the door. "I didn't think you were home."
"I've been here long enough to check my messages." The tails of a black bow tie hung down the front of his crisply pleated shirt. A satin cummerbund circled his waist. "That's why I was calling you."
To her right was the living room, a long sweep of warm color with heavy, masculine furnishings. He'd draped the jacket of his tux over the back of a chair.
Looking back at him, she angled her chin. "So?"
"So, are you waiting for me to go into orbit over your going it alone with Brenna Freeman?"
"In a word, yes."
He sent her a benign smile. "I've got a champagne buzz going, so I'm in a mellow mood. Also, it would be damn ignorant of me to give you grief about snagging the first firm lead on our case. Loverboy." He dipped his head. "Besides, you did check to see if Ryan was available to go with you to Freeman's."
She narrowed her eyes. "I didn't mention that in any of the messages I left you."
"I've got this spy network, remember? Sounds like you handled Juju without any problem. Too bad the hooker wouldn't file charges against him."
Paige heaved out a breath. "What hooker ever files against her pimp?"
McCall's gaze sobered. "Has Crawford come up with anything more on the e-mail you got from Isaac today?"
"No." She shoved her hair behind her shoulders. "Holden Lassiter is taking care of security for my grandpa and mother."
"If you trust them to your boss, he must be good."
She thought about Isaac unearthing Holden Lassiter's ties to the CIA. "The best."
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"You left the text of the e-mail on my machine. Isaac didn't sound quite as polite as last time. I got the impression he's closing in." He took a step toward her. "Do you believe he's in Turkey?"
"No. I'm not sure. We know Isaac's had someone watching me. He probably found out a long time ago that I'd gotten into statement analysis. Something like that would intrigue Isaac. He might have studied it, too. Might be as proficient as I am."
"If so, every flag you spot in his e-mails might have been planted on purpose. Another way for him to play mind games."
"Yes."
"Carmichael, you need to be in protective custody."
"I'm not locking myself up somewhere and going stir-crazy while I wait for Isaac to show up. That could take months. Years. He may never come. And wouldn't he have a good laugh, watching us in ten years on some unsolved mystery show, asking people to call in if they spot him?"
"He could make a run at you tomorrow."
Avoiding the grimness in McCall's gaze, she turned and laid the manila envelope on a small table snugged against one wall. "I know."
"Carmichael." She felt one of his hands slide across the back of her neck. "You're not alone in this," he said, gently drawing her toward him.
Their faces inches apart, he looked intensely at her for a moment, then pressed his lips to hers. Softly, as if his intent was more to comfort than arouse.
Then, as if he'd changed his mind, he parted his lips and deepened the kiss until his tongue was tasting hers, and her hands clenched his shoulders.
He was holding her so closely her breasts were pressed against him. The heat of his body seeped through the layers of clothing between them, and the scent of him wrapped around her, warm and masculine.
His touch, his kiss unleashed a deep current of emotions inside her. Passion, fear, need, a dangerous excitement.
Even more dangerous because she wanted it. Wanted him. Now. Right this minute.
She pulled back from the kiss, panting. "Red light, Detective." She turned her face away, and felt his lips graze her throat.
She nearly moaned. Her heart was beating too fast. She couldn't quite get her breath and her legs were trembling.
If she wasn't careful, she'd be involved in a full-fledged affair with him before she knew it. Hell, before the night was over. She did not intend to wind up another notch on Houdini's magical bedpost. She had to get herself under control while she still could.
He had his hands locked on her waist and his breath was ragged. He rested his forehead against hers. "Just how red is that light?"
"I don't know." She eased her head back. God, could the man kiss. "This wasn't a good idea."
"That's not the message I got while I was kissing you." He traced his thumb down her throat to the hollow where her pulse throbbed. "And it sure as hell isn't the one I sent you."
"You're right." She took a step back, feeling like dry kindling a match had been touched to. She saw the wrinkles in his shirt where her fingers had gripped. She had no trouble imagining herself ripping off that shirt to get to him. "We just have a lot more important things to deal with."
He stepped toward her. "Kissing you is suddenly high on my list of important things."
Slanting him a look, she motioned an unsteady hand toward the manila envelope. "You need to see the aerial photos of the house where the members of Midnight meet. It's Baskerville Hall in Oklahoma. And I've got the tape of my interview with Freeman."
"Yeah." Sighing in obvious frustration, he scrubbed a hand over his jaw. "I've got tons of questions for you about Freeman and how Midnight operates. As for you wanting her to get you into the next meeting, we don't take that suggestion to Ryan until we have a firm plan mapped out. And that includes my meeting Freeman so I can get my own take on her."
"Where do you want to work?"
He gestured toward the living room. "Take your coat off and get comfortable. I'll make coffee."
"That'd be great."
He turned toward the hallway, then paused and looked back at her. "We can take what's going on between us as fast or as slow as you want, Paige. But eventually we're going to see where it goes."
She tossed her coat on a chair. "I'm not sure I want it to go anywhere."
"I appreciate a challenge." His gaze dipped to her booted feet, then skimmed up. "You look damn good in jeans."
And you don't look too shabby in a tux, she thought, watching him stride down the hall. For an instant, she thought about going after him. It was her heart that held her back. She just couldn't take the risk.
Over the next twenty-four hours, Paige and McCall drafted a "Meet Me at Midnight" ops plan, conducted a second interview with Brenna Freeman, then submitted their refined plan to Captain Ryan. He approved it, then took it to Chief Quaid. The chief gave the plan his blessing.
"So, we wait for the next meeting," Paige said, settling across the small table in the cop bar McCall had sworn served the best burgers and fries in Oklahoma. The place was packed with day-shift cops gearing down and graveyard guys grabbing dinner, killing time before their tour began.
"Waiting is all we can do at this point."
While McCall gave a waitress their order, laughter erupted from a nearby table. Paige recognized it for what it was---raw, hard laughter that came from people who saw too much ugliness on a day-to-day basis.
She glanced at the bar on the far side of the room. All the long-legged stools were occupied, the mix of males and females about even. Henderson and Kidd were seated there, apparently shooting the breeze with two other Homicide detectives.
Her gaze kept returning to Kidd. He was nodding at something Henderson said, smiling around one of his ever-present plastic toothpicks. As if on autopilot, her thoughts blipped to the workshop assignment. Who were you with last Sunday? Why all the attempts at deception?
"Guess you haven't gotten Kidd's assignment off your mind."
She looked at McCall, realized he'd followed her gaze...and her thoughts. "I know he's your friend---"
"A good one. So, maybe it'll help you understand a few things if I fill you in on what Kidd has to deal with at home."
"All right."
He waited while the waitress delivered the longnecks he'd ordered. "Steve's wife, Ashley, got pregnant after they'd tried to have a baby for years. The little girl was stillborn. Ashley went into a depression. She attempted suicide. Therapy hasn't helped. Kidd worries about what she'll do if she's left alone, so he's hired a nurse for her. Insurance doesn't cover that, so most nights he works off-duty security." McCall glanced toward the bar, nodded. "That's probably where he's headed now."
Paige glanced over. Kidd was standing by his bar stool, pulling on his coat. He tipped his head in their direction before heading out the door.
"Kidd and I have been friends since the academy," McCall continued. "When my engagement went south, I got drunk for about a week. Kidd hung with me, played chauffeur, poured me into bed. And when I got ready to sober up, he brewed the coffee."
Paige sipped her beer. "I understand you don't like me thinking something's going on with him."
"What's going on is he buried a child. And the fear his wife might kill herself has to be like an acid drip in his gut. As for your thinking he's got a mistress, anything's possible. All I know is, I've seen more than one friendly dispatcher hit on him, and he's always said no."
"That's admirable," Paige murmured, thinking about her ex.
"You admit statement analysis isn't perfect." McCall leaned in. "So, why not agree it's possible the only place Kidd has done anything deceptive is in your head? That way you can focus on the other things."
"My focus is the truth."
"And you think you'll get there by drawing conclusions about the personal life of a guy you met less than a week ago?"
"I met you the same day, McCall."
"And the conclusions you drew about me weren't entirely accurate."
She arched a brow. "Well, Houdini, some were."
"Not the one about me being a slimeball like your ex." He toyed with her fingers. "I won't lie to you."
"Everyone lies. Some people just do it better than others."
He took her chin in his hand and looked into her eyes. "I won't lie to you, Paige. Ever. What happened between us last night wasn't just physical. I care about you and I enjoyed the hell out of kissing you. I plan on kissing you again. And doing a lot more, if you decide that's what you want, too. Now, here's a tip---don't waste time trying to spot a lie in what I just said. There isn't one."
"Here you go," the waitress said, settling plates loaded with hubcap-size hamburgers and piles of fries on the table.
Paige took a long, slow swallow of beer. A couple of warning flags were waving madly in her head. Not because McCall had lied. She simply had no idea what to do about her temporary partner. And, dammit, the man was an ace at seduction. So, the thought of a replay was very tempting.
She plucked up a fry, dipped it in ketchup and took a bite. Being good at something usually meant a person had a lot of practice at it. No doubt McCall was so practiced at kissing due to his having a monopoly on charm. Like the quick-to-flatter husband who'd betrayed her. And the rodeo-riding cowboy who'd sweet-talked her mother into bed.
Now that she thought about it, Paige knew exactly what to do about Nate McCall. More important, what not to do.
By the time Paige steered her rental car away from the bar, she was sure she'd made the right decision. She barely knew Nate McCall. They'd kissed once. Big deal.
She wanted him. Bigger deal, but she'd get over that.
When her cell phone vibrated against her waist, she tensed, fearing the call might be bad news from Lassiter. But when she checked the display, she didn't recognize the number.
"Paige Carmichael."
"Um, I got your number from a friend." The voice was female, breathy. "We work Low Track. She says you're lookin' for a john. Real polite?"
Paige tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Isaac. "Yes. You've dealt with him?"
"My friend says there's a reward."
"If your tip leads to the man's arrest."
"I might know where he's stayin'." The clatter of dishes and an indistinct pop sounded in the background. "I heard you've got a tape of his voice."
"I do." And it was in her purse. "My partner and I can meet you tonight. Where in Low Track are you?"
"I don't want nobody seein' me talk to you, specially not Juju. He's pissed over what you done to him last night."
"We'll meet you wherever you want."
"I'm at this diner in the north part of the city. My ride's pickin' me up in like fifteen minutes. Don't know when I'll be able to get away from Low Track again."
Okay, Paige thought. She'd call McCall and tell him about the meet. Hopefully one of them could get to wherever the hooker was before she took off. "Where's the diner?"
"Don't know the address. It's Ruby's Place. East side of Overholser."
"What's Overholser?"
"A big-ass lake. You from out of town, or somethin'?"
"How do I get there?"
"Where are you now?"
"Hold on until I get to the next intersection. What's your name?"
"Aphrodite."
Right. When Paige braked at the light, she squinted past the glare of headlights and streetlamps. She gave Aphrodite her location.
"Keep goin' the way you're headed."
"For how long?"
"Ya got me. Just read me the street signs as you pass 'em."
"Fine." Paige wished to hell she had another phone or a cop radio so she could alert McCall. Since she had no clue where she was going, all she could do was wait and call him when she got to Ruby's Place.
Ten minutes later, she turned south on what Aphrodite said was the road that edged the lake. The car's headlights cut into a swirling fog that seemed to boil up from the asphalt. The only illumination came from a few far-off streetlights that took on the hazy glow of tiny moons.
"Okay, Aphrodite, I made the turn. It's foggy so I can't see the lake. How do I get to Ruby's Place?"
"My ride just pulled up. I'll call back sometime." The comment was followed by a pop, then the line went dead.
"Stay there!" Paige felt like an idiot shouting into the phone, but she couldn't help it. Aphrodite's was the first possible sighting she'd had of Isaac.
She'd have to find Ruby's Place and hope she could catch the hooker before she left. At the very least get a description of her from some waitress. Aphrodite had said the diner was on the east side of the lake. That's the side Paige was on. So far, so good. The next item on the agenda was to call McCall.
With one eye on the road, the other on her cell, she tapped her brakes to slow her speed while she scrolled through her list of contacts. She glanced in the rearview mirror as her brake lights flashed---illuminating the silhouette of a pickup behind her. A big pickup. A monster one. Too close. No lights.
She cursed herself for not paying attention. She had no idea how long the truck had been behind her or where it had pulled onto the road.
As if the driver had sensed her going on alert, the truck's headlights flared on---high beams glaring and blinding. She stepped on the gas with the pickup tight on her bumper.
"Crap!" She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and bore down on the gas pedal. The truck's bumper might as well have been welded to her car's trunk.
Fog closed around them, like a curtain pulling shut. The lake road was as crooked as an arthritic finger. Did it have shoulders? Paige wondered. Places to swerve off so she could try to shake the bastard?
The truck swung into the left lane and roared up beside her. In the glint of headlights its color seemed black. Navy, maybe. The rolling fog prevented her from getting a look at the driver. Was it Isaac? His accomplice?
The truck bore sideways, smashed against her car. Paige grunted when her head slammed against the side window. The truck delivered another slamming jolt. Metal ground against metal as the truck muscled her toward the lake's edge. The passenger-side wheels hit the shoulder, spraying gravel beneath the car's undercarriage. She gripped the steering wheel, fighting to hold on to control.
She knew one more good hit like that and the monster truck would send her into the lake. "Gotta lose it."
She hit the brakes and went into a skid. As the truck shot past her, she whipped the wheel, doing a one hundred and eighty degree turn. She tromped on the gas. In her rearview mirror, she saw the truck's brake lights glowing red.
Still, the fog slowed her down. She could see only inches in front of her.
Again, the truck's headlights bore down from behind. She gunned the engine just as it swerved into the lane beside her.
The truck slammed against the car. Metal screamed. The driver's window shattered, chunks of glass raining in on Paige. The car bounced off the truck like a rubber ball, then spun into the fog.
Engine roaring, wheels churning, the car jolted over rough terrain. It shot like a rocket into the water with a crushing jolt.
The air bag deployed, the equivalent of a fist slamming into Paige's face and chest.
In an instant, she was in water so cold it clapped the breath out of her lungs. Sheer panic threatened to paralyze her. She was going to drown!
"Oh, God. Oh, God."
Frigid water gushed in through the car's broken window while Paige fought the deflating air bag. Her other hand flailed wildly, groping for the seat belt's release. Once she found it, she was shaking so badly it took three tries to get it undone.
The car angled at a crazy forward tilt, the hood completely submerged. Repeated ramming from the truck had jammed her door, so she dragged in a deep breath and surged out the open window.
Her cashmere coat was like a leaden, sodden weight, pulling her down. She wrestled it off and held on to it long enough to dig the asp out of the pocket. She shoved the weapon into her pants pocket as she swam upward.
Her head broke the surface and she gasped in air. Just as quickly, she dove back under.
The fog wasn't as thick over the water; if the bastard who'd tried to kill her had night-vision equipment, he could be standing on the bank, looking through a rifle scope. It would be easy to pick her off.
The water churned, sucking the car downward. Paige fought against the force that threatened to drag her with it. She stroked her arms through the icy water, scissored her legs, staying under until her lungs burned.
She surfaced, gasping for air. Her hair hung in her face, blinding her. She shoved it out of her eyes, and spotted the glow of the far-off streetlights she'd noted when she turned onto the lake road. They were her compass.
Repeatedly, she submerged, swimming until her lungs were near bursting. Each time she came up for air, she used the streetlights as a directional beacon to stay her course.
Swimming in the black murky depths, she lost all sense of time. Had she been in the water five minutes? Thirty minutes? She didn't know.
The brittle cold cut through her, chilling her bones. She was tiring rapidly, her kicks becoming less forceful, her arm motions jerky instead of smooth. Still, she broke through the surface yet again, sucked in air, then went back under.
Then her right hand impacted with something solid.
She jerked back, recoiling in the water. And felt the lake bottom beneath her feet. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
She rose slowly. The "something solid" was a boulder. A huge one that sat halfway underwater near the bank.
Staying submerged up to her chin, she checked the lights, got her bearings. She had to stay on the side of the boulder away from where her car had gone in. Away from whoever it was who'd tried to kill her.
Her lungs were pumping, dragging in the cold air for her oxygen-starved muscles. She had no clue how much time it took for hypothermia to set in, but the way she was shaking, she figured she was well on her way. She had to get out of the freezing water. Get dry. Get warm.
When she stood, she realized her thigh muscles had gone beyond tired, beyond burning. Her legs were in agony. Exhausted, trembling, she leaned her weight against the boulder.
And through the stillness that settled around her, she heard the hard idle of an engine.
He was still there.
She edged sideways, water streaming from her clothes and hair as she peered around the boulder. Through a break in the fog, she saw him. A tall dark shadow, silhouetted in the monster truck's headlights. He faced the lake, holding a night-vision scope to his eyes while he did a slow survey of the still water. Light glinted off the gun in his other hand.
Was it Isaac? She was too far away to tell.
Paige was suddenly aware of another sound coming from behind her. Looking across her shoulder, she saw headlights spearing through the mist. She looked back at the dark figure. He was on the move now, walking swiftly around the truck. She held her breath when he jerked open the door, hoping the cab's light would come on. The interior stayed dark.
Smart bastard.
He shifted the truck into reverse, did a half turn then sped off in the opposite direction. The headlights of the approaching car glinted off the truck's rear. Mud obscured the tag.
Dammit!
Still hugging the boulder, Paige closed her eyes. He was gone. She was alive. Freezing her ass off, but alive.
She was shaking harder now, not just from the cold, but the aftereffects of the adrenaline that had surged through her system. Her heart was hammering, her pulse pounding. She felt light-headed. Nauseated.
She raised a hand to her throbbing left cheek. Her fingers came back sticky with blood.
The headlights of the approaching car licked across the road's surface. Thank goodness, she thought, and was about to step away from the boulder when she realized the car was going too slow. Too slow, even for what the foggy conditions called for.
A warning blip sounded in her brain. The same type of blip that had saved her butt more than once while she'd worn a badge.
Plastering her body against the boulder, she watched. The car---a big one, a Lincoln, maybe?---rolled to a stop near where her rental car had gone into the water. No, not near, she amended. At the exact spot.
What the hell was going on? Was the driver of the truck in contact with whoever was in the car?
Lungs heaving, body shaking, teeth chattering, she watched. Finally, the car rolled away, a puff of fog obscuring its tag as it picked up speed.
The night suddenly seemed darker. Colder. Emptier.
Hunched against the cold, she stepped onto the bank. Shivering uncontrollably, she turned and headed as fast as she could in the opposite direction.
"Sure you won't let us transport you to the E.R.?" a petite EMT with frizzy brown hair asked Paige.
"Positive." Gingerly, she eased back against the cushions of the padded rocking chair belonging to the elderly couple who owned the first house she'd come upon during her dark, freezing walk. Thank goodness they were trusting souls who'd bundled her indoors, lent her sweatpants and a flannel shirt, then settled her beside the fireplace. They'd even made her coffee.
"Might be good to have a doc check you over," the EMT said.
"No hospital." If she went there, her name would be entered into a database. Even if they logged her under an alias there'd be a record of an accident victim who'd nearly drowned. With his computer skills, Isaac could track her. No way was she giving him another shot at her.
Paige wrapped her fingers tighter around the mug her hostess had just refilled, and savored the warmth. From outside the living room's wide window came the incessant red-blue strobe of lights from the ambulance and the patrol car that had answered the couple's 911 call.
The EMT did a final check of the cut on Paige's left cheek, then stripped off her latex gloves. "I need a signed waiver saying you refuse to go to the E.R."
"Fine."
She scrawled her signature on the form the EMT provided, then handed it back. "Thanks."
"All in a day's work." The woman carted her trauma kit toward the entry hall, doing a quick sidestep to keep from getting plowed over by McCall.
Paige tracked him as he advanced on her. His mouth was set, his dark brown eyes burning a hole through her. When he hunkered beside the rocking chair, his gaze focused on her cheek. A muscle clenched in his jaw. "How are you?"
"A little banged up, is all." She'd asked the patrol cop first on the scene to call McCall. Until this instant, she hadn't realized how much she had wanted him there. Needed him.
"You look more than just a little banged up."
"Scary, too, I imagine." She sat her mug on a nearby table. "I've got a pound of lake muck in my hair."
"The uniform said you were at the lake because you got a call. What call? And why the hell did you go there without me?"
The hardness in his voice shot up her defenses. But the gentleness in the hand he wrapped around hers had her ratchet back the comment on the tip of her tongue. He was angry, yes, but she sensed this was no "it's my turf" reaction. Not when his face was so taut with worry.
She focused on the flames leaping in the fireplace. Her training kicking in, she shifted into cop mode and related the facts in a voice void of emotion.
When she finished, he rose from beside her chair and began to pace. "Dammit, I should have followed you. From the bar to your hotel."
"Why? You tagged behind me when we left the PD and drove to the bar. We both checked for a tail. There wasn't one. And whoever it was in that truck didn't have to tail me. Not when he knew the hooker's phone call would get me to the lake."
McCall stopped pacing. "Whoever it was," he repeated, his face stony. "Is there someone other than Isaac who wants you dead?"
"Just his accomplice." She shook her head. "Don't forget the second car with the driver who seemed to know the exact spot where my car went into the lake. If the accomplice drove the truck, it could have been Isaac in the car, checking to make sure the job got done."
"Yeah. And now we know he's got you under twenty-four hour surveillance because he knew you'd been at Low Track yesterday evening. Hiring some hooker to call and say she didn't want to talk to you there because of your taking down Juju gave merit to her story."
"And he knew I had no clue how to get to Ruby's Place, so he set it up that I'd have to stay on the phone with Aphrodite---or whatever her name is---instead of calling you." Paige raised a brow. "Is there a Ruby's Place near Lake Overholser?"
"No."
"Well, she called from some restaurant because I heard that kind of noise in the background."
"I'll have Crawford check with your cell phone service provider. They might be able to tell us where she called from."
"Okay." Paige paused. "There was some other sound in the background."
"What?"
"I'm not sure. Something that was...familiar." She shifted on the cushions and winced. It felt like she'd wrenched every muscle in her body. "Maybe it'll come to me later."
McCall stared down at her. "You sure you don't want a doc to check you out?"
"I'm sure." She was suddenly so tired, so used up, that she couldn't think. "All I want is a shower and a bed, in that order."
He held out a hand. "I've got those at my place. Which is where you're staying until I find that bastard, Isaac."
She would decide that for herself after her brain cleared. Tonight, bunking at McCall's sounded like a good plan.
She slid her hand into his and let him help her stand. Stiffly. "One thing, McCall. Do I have to share sleeping quarters with the other Fiona Shepherd?"
The full impact of what she'd been through hit Paige while she stood beneath the shower's spray. With the hot water sluicing through her hair and down her body, her legs began to shake. Tears stung her eyes.
Her hands were trembling by the time she toweled off. While she used the blow-dryer McCall had dug out of a drawer, she struggled to mentally talk her nerves into calming down. She'd been a cop. She was tough. She'd had near misses while she worked the streets. Always, always she'd been able to take them in stride, bounce back without getting teary-eyed.
Why the hell couldn't she do that now?
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale as death, her eyes shining like glass beads, her left cheek cut and swollen from the impact with the car's window.
If she hadn't been extremely lucky tonight---and a good swimmer---she'd be at the bottom of that lake in a steel coffin.
A tear rolled down her cheek and she dashed it away. Dammit, she was very afraid she was one sob away from a crying fit.
Okay, so she was doing a crappy job of dealing with this latest attempt on her life. Maybe after a good cry and a night's sleep she'd be able to distance herself emotionally. Get back to thinking like a cop instead of a scared, weepy victim.
Good thing the guest bedroom was right across the hall. Because it felt like the ETA on that crying jag was about a half minute away and the clock was ticking. The last thing she needed or wanted was a witness.
She hung up her towel, then pulled on the heavy velour robe McCall had handed her before she bid him good-night. She opened the door and froze.
He was waiting in the hallway, his dark hair rumpled, one shoulder propped against the wall as he talked on his cell phone. He'd changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and a black OCPD T-shirt that didn't do a thing to hide the muscular contours of his chest and arms.
"Thanks, Captain," he said, then folded the phone shut. "How you doing, Carmichael?"
"I thought you went to bed."
"I had some business to take care of. They've recovered your car. A lab guy got your purse out of it, so we can pick it up from him. He'll take paint scrapings and see if he can get an ID on the make and model of the truck. There's an APB out on it." He laid the phone on a narrow, long-legged table that bordered one wall of the hall. "How you doing?"
She formed her hands into fists so he couldn't see how unsteady they were. "I'm fine."
"You always say that when something bad happens. It's usually a lie."
"I don't lie."
"Aren't you the person who said everybody lies?" He pushed off the wall and stepped over to her. "You don't look so good."
"Well, here's a news flash, I've had a rough day. A rough several days. I've always heard Oklahoma City was a friendly place. I'm getting a different impression."
He raised a hand and touched her cheek, stroked his fingertips down her jaw. "You're a strong woman. Probably stronger than you realize. But the adrenaline high you've been on since that truck caught up with you is bound to have burned off by now. It won't make you less tough if you admit you're a little shaky."
She blinked furiously, trying to discourage the tears that threatened to spill over. "I'm scared, okay?" she whispered. "Dammit, I hate being scared. It ticks me off."
He cupped his palm against the side of her throat. "When the patrol cop called and told me what happened to you, it scared the hell out of me, too."
She knew she should turn away from his touch but she couldn't make herself do it. His show of tenderness was too soothing.
"Come here." He tugged her into his arms, stroked a hand over her hair. He kissed her temple, her cheek. "I'm damn glad you're alive, Paige Carmichael."
"Me, too." Giving in, she turned her mouth to his.
He kissed her quietly, slowly, deeply.
She slid her hands up, wrapped her arms around his neck and let the sweet sensation wash over her. As her mouth moved beneath his, she ached and trembled, aware of how close she'd come to death, and how very much this man's touch was bringing her senses to life. Her blood heated. Her pulse picked up speed. Their kiss turned fevered, she could taste the need---his and her own. She wanted to give in to it. Wanted to wipe out everything else from her mind. Except Nate McCall.
His hands slid inside her robe, parted it. His palms brushed down over her hips, his long fingers brushing across her skin until she thought she couldn't stand it any longer.
Everything inside her turned hot and sensitive. It had been a long time since she'd felt the tension and heat of a man's body---a very long time since she'd wanted to.
She lost the robe somewhere on the short route to his bedroom. He discarded his T-shirt between kisses. She didn't know exactly when he shed his sweatpants, but they were gone by the time they fell together onto the bed.
He began a trail of slow kisses at the base of her throat, working his way down while her body arched beneath his.
She blocked out everything but his touch. His taste. Him. She strained against him, each frantic movement bringing new and devastating sensations.
When he was inside her, filling her, stretching her, she dug her fingernails into his back, wrapped her legs around his hips, and succumbed to a mind-numbing, shattering release. Heart hammering, breaths shallow and shuddering, she willed the intensity, borne of fear and need, to reaffirm her own existence.
With the soft light of dawn seeping in around the edges of the curtains, Paige slipped from the bed. She padded across the room and snagged the velour robe off the floor. As she belted it, she listened to McCall's deep, regular breathing. Against the white sheet, his olive complexion seemed almost swarthy, shadowed by the stubble on his jaw. He was one hell of a good-looking man.
As for his ability to perform magical feats, well, it wasn't just a rumor.
Since he'd mentioned his brother, Josh, had taken off for a ski trip, she didn't hesitate to make her way along the hallway and into the kitchen. She'd watched McCall make coffee when they ate dinner there the other night, so in no time she had a pot brewing.
While the coffeemaker did its thing, she called her grandfather. Avoiding any mention of the events of last night, Paige assured Tate Carmichael, then her mother, that she was being careful. Spending time with a cop---maybe too much time. And keeping her eyes open for Isaac.
After ending the call, she sat at the small pine table in the middle of the kitchen, savoring the heady fix of caffeine. And a great night of sex. Shaking her head, she wondered what she had gotten herself into.
She couldn't bring herself to regret what she and McCall had shared. Last night she had needed him, he had wanted her---it was as simple as that. There was no reason to wonder where things would go from here emotionally. There was simply nowhere to go. She was all too aware of the bitter consequences of emotional involvement with a man whose grin could blind a woman to the truth. Not that she thought McCall had lied to her in the past or would do so in the future. Still, she just wasn't prepared to roll the dice again with that kind of man.
So, the solution was to keep things light. Enjoy each other physically. Her mouth curved. Judging from their past hours together, there would be no shortage of enjoyment. Her smile wavered. And when they nabbed the guy who killed Lauren Gillette, they would both move on. No regrets.
With some effort, Paige forced her thoughts to the investigation and focused on Loverboy. The masked man of Midnight fame.
Who was he? What did he do for a living? If Lauren had gone through with the plan she'd told Brenna Freeman about and confronted Loverboy at home, he'd been smart enough, controlled enough to lure her to the remote area where he'd killed her. He'd then transported her body and hidden her in the freezer at Lang, all without being observed. It took steady nerves to kill and keep one's cool.
"You look deep in thought."
She jerked her head around at the sound of McCall's voice. He stood in the doorway, wearing his gray sweatpants, his chest and feet bare.
God, he was gorgeous. How was she supposed to keep things between them in the safe zone when just looking at him made her throat go dry? "I didn't mean to wake you."
"I woke up on my own and reached for you." He angled his chin. "And you were gone."
Her stomach flipped over. She knew exactly what they'd be doing right now if she'd still been in bed. And she was very tempted to drag him back there. So much for the safe zone.
"How about one of Morgan's cinnamon rolls to go with that coffee?" he asked, letting the subject of sex drop.
"Great." Maybe food would help her system settle. "Isn't Morgan one of the kazillion McCalls presently on a honeymoon?"
"Yeah. She was thoughtful enough to stock our freezer before she left town."
Minutes later, he'd dealt with the microwave and settled a plate of warm rolls on the table. They sat across from each other, sipping coffee and eating what Paige thought was the best cinnamon roll she'd ever tasted.
McCall regarded her over the rim of his mug. "What were you thinking about when I walked in?"
"The Gillette case. Specifically Loverboy."
"I spent a night of passionate sex with a woman and I'm not who's on her mind the next morning? That doesn't do a lot for my ego."
Paige fought a smile. "Would it help to know you were the first person I thought of when I woke up?"
"Yeah, that helps." He sipped his coffee. "So, what about Loverboy?"
"I was wondering what type of man he is. What he does for a living. How he lives."
"Come up with anything?"
"Only speculation. But there is something that hadn't occurred to me until now."
"What?"
"Every time we talk about Lauren Gillette, the subject turns to sex. Rightly so, since she was obsessed with it."
"So it seems. Go on."
"I saw enough in my years working Homicide to recognize the distinctions between the intense malevolence of sexual homicides as compared to homicides of other kinds, like shootings and stabbings."
"Huge difference," McCall agreed.
"The killer didn't strip Lauren, tie her to some bed and rape her before he strangled her. He dumped her into a box fully clothed and stashed her in a freezer. So, even though she was over-the-top when it came to sex, she wasn't the victim of a sexual homicide. Whatever Lauren was in life, her death wasn't about sex."
"I hadn't looked at it that way, either." McCall shook his head. "Good call."
"Too bad it doesn't get us closer to Loverboy."
"Doesn't feel like we'll do that until Brenna Freeman calls and tells us there's a meeting at Midnight." Sliding one hand across the table, McCall linked his fingers with hers. "You sure going in there undercover is a good idea?"
"That's our best bet, McCall. You thought the plan was solid enough to take to Ryan and Quaid. They approved it."
His gaze lifted from their joined hands, settled on her cheek. "You've been through a lot lately. Too much."
"I'm fine."
When he raised a brow, she huffed out a breath. "That's the truth. I'm fine." She tightened her hand on his. "Last night, you helped. So, thanks."
"Thanks?"
"I was pretty unsteady, and you---"
He reached across the table, pressed an index finger to her lips, silencing her. "Let's get a few things straight before you say something to annoy me. What happened between us in my bed wasn't a result of that dip you took in the lake."
"Our being in bed wouldn't have happened---"
"Maybe not last night, but it would have happened. You felt the attraction between us that first day of your workshop. I did, too. That's before any of this other stuff started. It's separate." He tightened his hand on hers. "Agreed?"
"Agreed." She linked her fingers with his. Her head was telling her to keep things simple. Her emotions weren't cooperating. "At the bar you said what was between us was more than physical. That you care."
His thumb stroked the pulse point on her wrist. "I do care, Paige."
"So do I." She closed her eyes, opened them. "There's a sense of connection I feel with you. I don't fully understand it. I'm not even sure I want to feel it, but I do."
He rose, walked around the table and tugged her to her feet. "Why don't we go back to bed and see if we can work on that connection? Give me a chance to convince you it's a good thing."
"I don't think we have time," she murmured as his mouth went to work on her throat. She swayed against him. "We need to get cleaned up. Get some clothes from my hotel. I have to buy a coat and replace my cell phone." She tilted her head to give him better access to her throat. "All before we head to the station."
His hand fisted in her hair and he gently tugged her head back. "When I talked to Ryan last night, he sent orders for you to take the day off."
"What about you?"
"Since you refused to go to the E.R., I'm your designated healthcare professional." He waggled his sexy black eyebrows. "I prescribe bed rest."
"Do you?" she murmured.
"Speaking of bed..." He dipped a finger beneath the robe's lapel, tugged up her silver necklace. The handcuff key and miniature badge glinted beneath the kitchen's light. "Think I ought to call your grandpa and tell him you really do wear your lucky necklace all the time, just like you promised?"
"Do, and he'll repay you with a buttful of buckshot."
"That happens, I'd need a lot of bed rest." He loosened the belt on her robe, ran his hands over her hips. "And a nurse."
"I might be able to help you there...."
Late that afternoon while they were still in bed, McCall's cell phone rang with the news they'd been waiting for.
"That was Brenna Freeman," he said as Paige dug herself out of the tangle they'd made of the covers. "The members of Midnight are meeting tonight."
"So soon?" she asked, shoving her hair away from her face. The prospect of nabbing Loverboy kicked her adrenaline into gear.
"Honey, you've got one hell of a handsome partner," Brenna Freeman commented while steering her car along the dark road in a remote section of the city. Earlier, they'd stopped and locked a metal plate over the vehicle's tag.
"Lots of women agree," Paige said. She and McCall had spent hours the previous day at Brenna's mansion getting in-depth details on Midnight's operation. Paige hadn't missed the under-the-lashes looks the older woman sent McCall.
"The man certainly thinks you're something."
"He admires my mind." And, okay, probably other aspects of her now that they'd spent some quality time in bed.
Paige shifted in her seat. Beneath the coat she'd bought during a rushed trip to a mall, she wore the black leather dress that sported a zipper spanning from cleavage to a little south of her crotch. The damn thing was sausage-casing tight.
In the glow from the dash lights, she saw Brenna's mouth curve. "I saw his face tonight after you changed into that dress. Honey, he admires a lot more than your mind." Brenna lifted her chin. "The entrance to Midnight is just ahead."
Paige checked in the mirror, saw the headlights of McCall's car. The plan was for him to park in the wooded area they'd spotted on the aerial photos. After she went into Midnight and got a fix on Loverboy, she'd call McCall. He would pick up their suspect's tail when he drove off the grounds.
Brenna steered onto a paved drive and braked at massive gates set into a twelve-foot-high gray stone wall.
"Mask time," she said before sliding hers over her head.
"Right." Paige zipped on her mask, careful of the cut on her left cheek. Having her entire head encased in leather made her feel claustrophobic.
Brenna lowered her window and punched buttons on a keypad. The code she entered had been posted on Midnight's encrypted Web site. As a precaution, McCall also had the code.
Both halves of the gate swung back. Brenna steered up a winding drive, edged on either side by intermittent lights.
"Nervous, honey?"
Already, Paige felt the adrenaline, the hunting hormone, flowing in her blood. Even though she hadn't been on the beat for three years, she was glad to know she still had it and could handle---even enjoy---the excitement, the anticipation.
"Steady as a rock."
"Remember, no talking once we're out of the car."
"Got it." Paige flexed her fingers against the chill. She had applied concealer on her scar so she didn't wear gloves that would mess up her expert handiwork.
"I wasn't happy when I saw on the Web site that this is ladies' night. That'll make it more difficult to spot Loverboy."
"Let me make sure I'm straight about how 'ladies' night' works. During the opening ritual, each man drops his gold ring into some sort of container."
"Usually a brass bowl."
"Okay. The men then step back. The women come forward en masse. Each selects a ring from the bowl. The owner of the specific ring a woman picks becomes her coupling partner for the evening. Sort of a new take on spin the bottle."
"That's exactly right."
"You're sure each man puts his ring back on after he pairs up with the woman who picked it?"
"Positive. The rings are our sole means of identification."
Paige glanced down at the small rosebud etched into the gold-plated ring she'd purchased at a discount store. "Before we get to the opening ritual, you have to check me in as a new member, right?"
"Yes. When we walk into the foyer there will be a man wearing a cloak. He'll be masked, just like everyone else. I'll give him a signal so he'll know you're a new member I've recruited. He'll escort us into a room and watch while we press the imprints of our rings side by side into wax. That impression will be the only record that I recruited you as a member of Midnight."
"And as a new recruit, I'm allowed to watch instead of participate?"
"Right." Brenna slid her a look. "I feel for you, honey, your first time at Midnight and all you get to do is watch." Her mouth tightened. "I just hope the bastard who killed Lauren shows up tonight."
"If he's here, we'll get him."
Brenna steered around another curve and the house came into view. Cast in an aged yellow tint from lights set into the foundation, it took on an eeriness Paige had not sensed during the day. Baskerville Hall of an English Moor, she thought, gazing at the massive chimneys on either end of the three-story stone structure. Deep-set windows had center panes of clear glass, framed by stained glass cut in a diamond pattern. Behind the glass, flickering lights showed above the drapes. Candlelight, Paige decided.
A discreet records check had revealed the house and land was owned by an elderly woman who resided in a nursing home. A trust in her name paid for the upkeep and the taxes on the property.
"Remember," Brenna said, "no phones or weapons allowed."
"I couldn't even hide a pencil under this dress." Paige kept to herself that she was wearing her black ankle boots Holden Lassiter had commissioned from a contact he'd made during his CIA days. The left heel was hollow and outfitted to hold her asp in a retracted position.
As she and Brenna walked from the car in the cold, biting wind, Paige was aware of several other masked figures moving silently toward the house.
The massive front door led into a foyer, its floor laid in bloodred tiles. Opposite the door was a staircase that split into a horseshoe shape at the first landing. According to Brenna, couples who preferred to observe and/or be seen in action used "gaming" areas on the second and third levels. Those who wanted privacy retired to one of the many rooms on the first floor.
Near the staircase stood a life-size statue of a naked woman. She held a finger to her mouth, which was bound with a gag. Do As Thou Will was chiseled into the base. In other words, Paige thought, anything goes, just keep your trap shut.
After hanging their coats on hooks spanning one wall, Brenna nudged Paige toward the masked man wearing a black cloak. She checked the gold ring on his right hand, saw it displayed a hieroglyphic sign. The press-the-rings-into-wax initiation went without a hitch.
Paige was now a member of Midnight. So far, so good.
Next stop was the huge "ritual room" lit by a fire roaring in an enormous stone fireplace and tall tapers with flickering flames. The wavering light illuminated the masked figures clad in black leather gathered in a wide circle. The room resembled a temple to Bacchus, the Greek god of wine and mystic ecstasy. Against one wall stood a statue of the god. On the ceiling was a painting of two naked men in chariots drawn by leopards.
Paige and Brenna joined the circle of approximately fifty people who stood together in eerie silence. On a pedestal in the circle's center sat a large brass bowl. Straining to see through her mask's gauzy eye holes, Paige scoped out the rings worn by the men standing nearby. She spotted an assortment of designs and several animal heads, but not a wolf's.
A chime broke the silence. Each man stepped to the bowl, slid off his ring and laid it in the bowl, then moved back.
When a second chime sounded, the women stepped forward. Paige peered into the bowl. Her pulse spiked when she spotted the wolf's-head ring. Brenna reached into the bowl, selected a different ring. Paige watched and waited. Her plan wasn't to take a ring, but instead spot Loverboy and begin surveilling him.
A tall, willowy woman in a black leather catsuit plucked up the wolf's-head ring. Holding it in her palm, she walked slowly around the circle of men, pausing when a hand settled on her shoulder. Catsuit slid the ring onto the man's right hand.
Hello, Loverboy.
Paige eased toward the door, keeping him in sight. Loverboy was tall, with a muscular build that snugged against his black leather vest and pants.
When he and Catsuit passed by, Paige tried to see his eyes. Just as hers were, a gauzy veil concealed them. There was no hint of what he looked like behind the damn mask. She noted that his mask looked like the one worn by the man who mugged her. But so did almost every other mask there.
Hanging back, Paige waited while several other couples passed by her. Keeping Loverboy in sight, she stayed at a distance as she followed him across the foyer, then down the hallway. Apparently he and Catsuit were headed for one of the ground-floor privacy rooms.
Brenna had explained that, as a matter of safety, none of the interior doors at Midnight had locks. Each door had a sliding panel depicting the silhouette of a man and a woman. Before entering a room, a person slid the silhouettes together into a coupling position, signaling the area was occupied. The action was reversed upon leaving.
Paige drifted past the door that Loverboy and Catsuit had closed behind them. The silhouetted man and woman on the door's sliding panel were going at it.
She reached a vacant room, paused at the door to slide the silhouettes together, then stepped inside. According to Brenna, the identical ground-floor privacy suites consisted of two rooms. The dimly lit anteroom just off the hall where Paige now stood was used for undressing and stowing clothing in an armoire. Still masked, the couple then adjourned to the connecting bedroom, which also had a door. Paige moved to the bedroom, peered in. On the wall beyond the round bed was an "armaments rack," loaded with different kinds of whips, along with chains and ropes, leather straps, rubber hoses, cuffs and clamps of various sizes.
Freaky.
Paige returned to the anteroom, impatience beginning to simmer inside her. Loverboy and Catsuit might be together for hours. So, why not make the most of her time?
The lab had yet to ID the short fibers found inside the box that held Lauren's body. With Loverboy's attention diverted, Paige had the perfect opportunity to collect possible evidence. Errant hairs clung to collars and seams. Fibers lodged in pockets. If she found some on Loverboy's clothing the lab might get a match to the trace evidence from Lauren's makeshift coffin.
Paige had conducted covert searches before. She knew how to get in and out. She was only yards away from a possible killer. No way could she let the opportunity go to waste.
Seconds later, she slipped unobserved into Loverboy's anteroom. Her nerves started to jangle. The bedroom door was closed; no sound came from behind it. Must not be into whips.
Soundlessly, she moved to the walnut armoire. She dug into the pockets of Loverboy's leather vest. Nothing. His leather slacks lay folded on a shelf. She dipped a hand into a pocket. Felt something.
She withdrew the contents.
The condom packets now in her palm weren't what stopped Paige's heart. It was the plastic toothpicks with floss on one end.
A picture of Steve Kidd flashed in her brain, an ever-present toothpick wedged in one corner of his mouth. Were the short fibers found in the box with Lauren's body the same length as the floss on the toothpicks in her hand?
Paige was pretty sure they were.
Her mind racing, she fed the facts through her shocked brain. Lauren died last Sunday. The day Kidd wrote about in his workshop assignment. He'd unconsciously revealed that when he left home that morning he'd been under stress. Pressed for time. Lauren had told Brenna she planned to confront Loverboy at home.
Kidd claimed he went for a drive alone in the country. But his words had betrayed him---Paige knew he hadn't been alone the entire time. Lauren's Jag had been found in the country. She'd died inside her car. On Sunday.
For Paige it was easy to see the threat Lauren presented to Kidd. If word got out that a cop belonged to a sex club, he could be fired on grounds of moral turpitude. He would lose his job, his health insurance, his ability to earn money working off-duty security---things Kidd had to have to support his depressed, suicidal wife.
"Steve Kidd," Paige whispered, staring at the toothpicks while realization buzzed inside her head like a swarm of wasps. "Holy crap."
A second later, something heavy smashed against the back of her skull.
Paige woke up with a headache, a ball gag in her mouth and her wrists handcuffed behind her. She was in the dark, lying on her side on a cement floor. A cold floor.
It took her a moment to realize her mask was off.
Head pounding, she lay still, forcing her mind to click into gear. Loverboy. Steve Kidd. Hell.
She rolled her head and felt a lump the size of a plum.
Kidd must have come out of the bedroom for some reason, she theorized. Spotted her going through his pants. She'd had the toothpicks with the floss in her hand, said his name. He'd have recognized her voice. Her accent.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
He was a cop, he would have instantly known there was only one reason she was at Midnight, digging through his pockets. He'd have guessed she and McCall had somehow linked him to Lauren Gillette's murder.
The irony was, they hadn't. She and McCall had been on the trail of a masked guy wearing a wolf's-head ring whom Lauren had nicknamed Loverboy.
It had never occurred to them the guy might be a cop.
Paige closed her eyes. Kidd wasn't just any cop, he was McCall's coworker, his pal. The close friend who'd seen McCall through the rough times after his fiancée dumped him. The man who McCall had defended to her just twenty-four hours ago at the cop bar. God, McCall was going to hurt big-time over this.
If she lived to tell him about it.
The possibility she might not had fear bubbling in her stomach. She lay still, pulling in deep breaths through her nose, waiting for her heartbeat to level. She had to stay calm. She was on her own, and she meant to get herself out of here.
So, where was here? Still at Midnight? The room's cool air held a faint scent of pine. Cleaning solvent? If so, and she was still at Midnight, she could be in some storage room where none of the members would venture.
She had no clue how long she'd been unconscious. Or when Kidd would return. She had a good idea, though, why she was still alive.
Kidd would have surmised that if she was here, her partner was nearby. McCall could have even donned a mask and be inside the manor house. Kidd would not only be desperate to peg McCall's whereabouts, but to find out if the estate was surrounded by cops. If so, a live hostage was worth a lot more than a dead one.
Paige had no intention of letting Kidd use her as a hostage, alive or dead.
She jerked her wrists. He'd locked the cuffs tight---had to expect that from a cop. There was something else...
She groped behind her. A thick chain had been looped through the cuffs. The chain was bolted to a wall that felt like it was made of stone. Great.
Using her elbow, Paige shifted into a sitting position. The pounding in her head intensified.
From her new perspective, she saw a wedge of light. She slid her legs under her, levered up on her knees, then stood.
The room tilted. She leaned against the wall, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Whatever Kidd hit her with had done a number on her head.
When the room righted itself, she inched sideways as far as the chain allowed. She spotted a window, moonlight seeping in through its frosted panes. So, she had an escape hatch.
Step one: get the cuffs off.
The good news was she had a handcuff key on her. The bad news was getting to it would be tricky. Her leather dress had a plunging neckline, and she hadn't wanted to chance the cuff key and small badge getting spotted. So she'd taken off the necklace and tucked it into her bra.
Wishing fervently she was double-jointed, Paige slid her left arm up her spine until biting pain forced her to stop. Teeth clenched against the damn ball gag, she locked her right forearm against her ribs, then slid her fingers beneath the dress's armhole. Her index finger snaked under her bra. While she struggled to loop the chain around her finger, pain tightened her shoulder muscles into a spasm.
By the time she had a grip on the chain, her breathing was ragged and sweat beaded her forehead.
Inching the silver chain from beneath her bra, she drew it out through the dress's armhole. She winced when the tooth of the handcuff key nicked her flesh.
With the chain dangling from her fingers, she lowered her arms behind her. Her muscles unclenched in relief.
Step two: insert the key into a hole on one of the cuffs using a grope-in-the-dark technique.
She lost count of how many attempts it took her, but finally---finally!---the key dipped into the hole. She twisted it, felt the cuff on her right wrist loosen.
Angling toward the moonlight, she unlocked the other cuff. By the time she reached the window, she had the ball gag unbuckled and out of her mouth. She slid the silver chain over her head, sending thanks to her grandfather for making her promise to wear it always.
Step three: if she was still at Midnight, get to Brenna's car where she'd left her cell phone and call McCall. If she wasn't at Midnight...well, she'd figure out something.
The window was old with a lock at the top of a wooden frame on which age had taken its toll. Paige dealt with the lock and tugged on the sash. Her first attempt forced it up an inch. Leaning into the effort, she shoved it fully open.
Moonlight and freezing air poured into the room that was lined with storage shelves. She peered out the window, saw she was still at Baskerville Hall, in a ground-floor room. The only thing between her and Brenna's car was an expanse of winter-dry grass.
Paige slid out the window, landed in a defensive crouch. Watching, listening, she retrieved the asp from the hollow heel of her left boot. Staying low, she sprinted toward the car.
Halfway across the lawn, she heard footsteps pounding behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a shadow coalesce into a man. Masked. Loverboy. Kidd.
Flicking her wrist, she pivoted, swinging her arm in a powerful arc. The silver baton slashed against his throat. He grunted, jerked back, evading. Stepping sideways, he moved in a slow circle around her, keeping his weight forward on the balls of his feet. A predator looking for an opening.
"What's your hurry?" he asked.
If she'd had any lingering doubt Steve Kidd was behind the mask, his voice erased it.
"It's over, Kidd." She turned with him, keeping him in front of her while she held the baton ready to strike. "Give it up."
"What? I saw you running across the lawn, thought I'd see what you were doing at Midnight." He angled his chin as he continued to circle her, closing in. "Small world, isn't it? How about we go inside and see what interests we have in common?"
"You killed Lauren Gillette. She showed up at your house on Sunday morning and you killed her. I know it. McCall knows it."
"I called Nate five minutes ago. Shot the breeze with him. That sound like he suspects me of killing some woman?" Kidd circled, edged nearer. "You've got an active imagination, Paige. There's no way you can prove a person was alone, or with someone just because his verb tense changed."
He was closer than he'd been a second ago, braced and ready to attack.
One chance, she thought. She had one chance to disable him before he made his move. Knowing a cop's gaze instinctively followed a weapon, she whipped the baton upward. With his focus diverted, she landed a full-footed kick to his crotch.
Cursing, he doubled over, made a wild grab. His hand locked on her left wrist, jerked her forward. Using her body's momentum, she turned into him, smashed her elbow up into his nose. Cartilage crunched, blood spewed from behind the mask. He went down hard the same instant light fanned across the lawn.
She whirled. McCall bailed out of his cruiser, leaving its door open, the engine running.
He had his automatic drawn, aimed downward as he ran toward her. His hand gripped her arm even as his gaze stayed on the masked man, lying unmoving on the ground.
"It's Kidd," she said, her breath ragged. "He killed Lauren Gillette."
"I know."
"How? He said he called you. He could tell by your voice you had no clue."
"I didn't, not then." Jaw set, he holstered his automatic, then crouched. Pulling Kidd's arms behind his back, McCall slapped on a pair of cuffs. Seconds later, he had the mask off.
McCall rose, came back to her. "After Kidd and I hung up, I got a call from the lab." He did a quick head-to-toe scan of her, then shrugged off his topcoat and settled it onto her bare shoulders. She hadn't even felt the cold until that instant.
Drawing in a couple of cleansing breaths, she retracted the asp. And felt her stomach muscles begin to unknot.
"The lab tech got a report back on the fiber found in the box with Lauren Gillette's body," McCall said. "It was a piece of plastic monofilament, consistent with dental floss. And it was soaked with saliva. The first image in my head was of Kidd, chewing on those damn floss toothpicks."
McCall stared down at the man, his friend. "Then I thought about your analysis of the assignment he wrote. About how suspicious you were about his actions on the same day Lauren Gillette was murdered." His grim gaze rose to meet hers. "I didn't want you to be right. I called Kidd's house. His wife said he was at his lodge meeting. That he wouldn't be home until after midnight. Midnight. My gut told me you were in here with him." He shoved a hand through his hair. "Christ."
"I'm sorry." Paige settled her hand on his arm. "So sorry."
He lifted her hand, then the other, and stared at the abrasions on her wrists. "Kidd did this to you?"
"Yes." She would hold off mentioning the knot on her head.
"I'm sorry, too, Paige. Damn sorry."
Paige had always thought of an interrogation as a con game of give-and-take, of tricks, the challenge of making someone say something he or she had no intention of saying. Any cop worth his salt knew that everyone held secrets. The skill was finding a way to pry them out.
After two hours in an interrogation room with Steve Kidd, Paige conceded this was one killer who was smart enough to keep his secrets to himself.
Kidd's sole comment had been, "You got a case, file it." Up to now, he hadn't asked for a lawyer, no doubt thinking they had no evidence to connect him with Lauren Gillette's murder.
Now, Paige stood outside the small room, gazing at Kidd through a pane of one-way glass. Her elbow jab had broken his nose and settled purple bruises under his eyes. Sitting at the small table pocked with cigarette burns, he looked pale, somewhat ill, yet defiant.
Like Paige, he was still dressed in black leather.
"He'll eventually talk," she said, turning to McCall. He looked as pale as Kidd, and just as haggard. "We know now that he was one of the myriad cops who've worked off-duty security at Lang. That ties him to the freezer where Gillette's body was found. And you and I are almost positive the DNA on the piece of floss from the box will match Kidd's. Once we get the lab report to verify that, he'll know he has to cooperate. Work a deal."
"To avoid the death penalty. Yeah, he'll know." McCall's voice was as hard as quartz.
Paige could almost feel his misery. He had to be sick to death about his friend. After her ordeal at the lake, he had given her the comfort she'd so badly needed. She wanted to do the same for him. At least, as much as she could.
"Nate, tonight, when I came to in that room Kidd put me in, I thought about you. And how much finding out what he'd done would hurt you."
"He murdered Lauren Gillette." McCall shifted his gaze, stared at Kidd through the one-way glass. "I have to figure he would have killed you tonight if he'd gotten the chance."
She stepped closer. "You're thinking you worked side by side with a killer and never saw it. He was your close friend and you never saw. You're standing here, beating yourself up, wondering what kind of cop does that make you."
"You pegged Kidd." His gaze came back to her. "Just by reading the assignment he wrote, you pegged him."
"Not as a killer. I knew he was hiding something. I had no idea why. Nate, you couldn't have known."
The sound of footsteps coming from the opposite direction had them both turning.
Captain Ryan strode toward them, his expression even more grim than it had been when he'd first arrived. He wore a gray sweater and jeans, and carried a manila envelope in one hand.
"Both of you follow me," he said without slowing down.
Paige and McCall exchanged a look before tailing the captain into the vacant interview room next to Kidd's.
"What's up?" McCall asked, shutting the door.
At the worn table in the room's center, Ryan opened the envelope, withdrew two file folders and flipped their covers open. "A lab tech processing Kidd's car found these under the carpet in the trunk."
Paige stepped closer. And felt herself go still. "Those files are mine." She looked up, her gaze flicking from Ryan to McCall. "They were in my briefcase when I got mugged."
She pictured the mugger, clad in black, with his leather full-head mask. "Kidd? Kidd mugged me?"
Ryan angled his chin. "Is there any other explanation for him having these files?"
"No." She glanced again at McCall. He looked as disbelieving as she felt. "No."
"What else was in your briefcase?" Ryan asked.
"Copies of the workshop assignments. Premeasured syringes of epinephrine, the drug used to treat my peanut allergy. A banana." She shoved a hand through her hair, working things out in her mind. "Kidd must have been after the assignment he'd written," she said after a moment.
"That has to be it." McCall settled a hip on the table. "That first morning of your workshop, you showed us just how good you are at statement analysis. Kidd and Henderson gave you a statement from a homicide case that took them a week to close. You pegged the suspect in less than five minutes. Then you read what I wrote, and scored a direct hit on what I'd done the day before. So, Kidd's sitting there, knowing he murdered a woman on Sunday. He had to be thinking he'd covered his tracks, had nothing to worry about. In about ten minutes you showed him the opposite was true. He damn well couldn't chance your picking up on some unconscious clues in the assignment he'd written."
Paige thought back to that day. "He left the workshop early. Said he had to drive his wife to a doctor's appointment."
"You'd told all of us about Isaac," McCall said. "That he was on the lam. When you broke for lunch, you put the assignments in your briefcase. Kidd just needed time to work out a plan. So, he went somewhere, changed his clothes and got one of his leather masks. He would have parked away from the training center and walked there. Waited for you to come out."
"I couldn't figure out why a mugger would ignore my purse and go for my briefcase. That's why I thought Isaac was behind the mugging, to play with my mind." She shook her head. "Kidd thought the original assignments were still in my briefcase. He didn't know I'd made copies."
McCall gestured toward the files. "When he opened it, he'd have instantly realized you still had the originals. So he probably went through the files, saw the memo from your doctor about your allergy. Do any of us think it's a coincidence that a few hours later, the bowl with bananas and apples injected with peanut oil got delivered to your hotel suite?"
Paige felt a numbing unreality, but they were taking the pieces and making a puzzle fit. That's what police work was all about.
"I went to the E.R. with the original assignments in my purse."
"Kidd would know the fruit would get tested," McCall said. "So, he reviewed the reports you had on Isaac, found out his 'Gentleman Jim' moniker. He typed you a personal note from Isaac, stuck it on the back of the mug shot he found in the file and left it in your suite. Bingo, the suspect in the tampered fruit is the escaped shrink who's vowed revenge against you."
Paige nodded. "I moved out of that hotel and checked into the Ambassador Arms under an alias. So Kidd's next shot at getting the original assignments was the next morning at the training center." She paused, thinking back. "I left them in the guest instructor's office while I went to get coffee. Kidd and Henderson were in the break room. Tia Alvarado and I stopped to talk, so I was away from the office for about five minutes."
"Long enough for Kidd to get in and steal the assignments," McCall said. "You have to figure he jimmied the drawer on the desk, took your billfold and left the drawer open where your purse was, betting you'd focus on that. Not notice for a while that the assignments were gone."
"Which is exactly what happened." There was something more, Paige thought. A vague thought, lurking in the outskirts of her mind. Too far away to pull it in.
Ryan scrubbed a hand over his jaw. "Do we have a way to prove any of this?"
"The mugging," Paige said. "I cut the bastard's neck with my car key." She looked at both men, a sense of cold anger settling inside her. "I want the lead when we go back and talk to Kidd."
While Nate gave a statement to Internal Affairs, Paige settled into the chair across from Kidd and dropped the files onto the table in front of him. "We found these in your car."
He glanced sideways, saw Ryan leaning against the wall. Paige saw an uneasy flicker in Kidd's blue eyes before he looked back at her. The fluorescent lighting gave his skin a pasty hue, a stark contrast with the bruises beneath his eyes.
"So?"
"So, you got them from my briefcase after you mugged me."
"The only thing I know about you getting mugged is what McCall told me. As for those files, Isaac's an escaped killer. Since when is it a bad thing for a cop to collect rap sheets and arrest reports and other information on a wanted criminal?"
"You collected the information in this file?"
"How else would I have it?"
"And you compiled a file with personal information about me, because?"
"You're Isaac's target. A victim. How many times did Henderson and I follow you to make sure Isaac didn't tail you?" He shrugged. "I just covered all the bases to protect you, Paige."
"Well, Steve, I'm touched. Under the circumstances, I need more than just your word on this."
"That's all you're going to get."
"You say you didn't mug me. I want to believe that. So, tug down the collar on your leather vest and show me your neck. That way I can eliminate you as a suspect."
His expression remained emotionless, but that didn't stop him from going pale.
"You're in custody," she reminded him. "You've been Mirandized. These files give us probable cause to suspect you assaulted and robbed me. You can either show us your neck, or we'll look for ourselves. What's it going to be, Steve?"
He leaned in, a flicker of pure hatred in his eyes. He was sweating, his forehead glistening in the lights. "Damn bitch," he said, keeping his voice so low it was impossible for Ryan or the audio equipment to pick up. "I hope to hell Isaac shows up here. Grabs you, tortures you. Kills you the same way he did those Dallas whores."
Five minutes later, Paige and Captain Ryan walked out of the interrogation room. Ryan closed the door, shook his head. "I'll have a lab tech photograph the scratch on Kidd's neck."
Paige glanced at Kidd, sitting slumped at the table beyond the one-way glass. "This is a nightmare."
"Yeah." Ryan set his jaw. "What did Kidd say to you?"
"That he hopes Isaac gets me."
"Christ." Ryan shoved a hand through his dark hair. "You think you know someone."
"Actually, it triggered a thought that's been floating in my head. Something I couldn't put my finger on. If I'm right, it ties into what Kidd said to me earlier at Midnight."
"I'm listening."
"I might be off base." She rubbed her fingers between her brows. It was after one o'clock in the morning, she could feel her energy flagging. But this was the best time to pin down the person she suspected might have the answers to her questions. "I want to check on something before I lay this out."
"Anything I can help with?"
"Two things. When McCall gets out of the IA interview, tell him I had to leave for a while. Second, can you get me Tia Alvarado's phone number?"
Two hours later, Paige walked into the small office off Homicide's squad room. McCall was at the desk, reading a report. He looked up as she closed the door, an emotion she couldn't read in his eyes.
"Where've you been, Carmichael?"
"I had to check on something." She pulled off her coat, hung it on the hook behind the door. "Didn't Ryan tell you?"
"Yeah." McCall leaned back in his chair. He'd been up all night, yet his pale blue dress shirt looked crisp, his gray slacks perfectly pressed. "And I told you that until Isaac's found, you don't go anywhere without me."
Paige sat in one of the chairs facing the desk, the black leather dress riding up on her thighs. She could do without the caveman attitude, but she let it pass. She'd come here to let McCall know what she'd found out. Then tell him goodbye.
"I wasn't alone," she said evenly. "Tia Alvarado went with me. Besides, you were in an interview with IA."
McCall leaned forward. "Kidd's no longer a threat to you, but there's still a sick psycho shrink who wants to kill you. You could have waited for me."
"I didn't want you with me."
He blinked. Expelled a slow breath. "Why?"
"Because I had a hunch I'd find out more about Kidd. Bad stuff. I wasn't sure, and if I was wrong..." She shook her head. "No use telling you until I knew."
"You don't need to protect me, Carmichael," he said, a muscle tightening in his jaw. "We got the DNA results back on the floss found with Lauren Gillette's body. The saliva's Kidd's. He killed her. He has to face that." McCall closed his eyes. "I'm going to see his wife in a couple of hours. Find out what I can do for Ashley."
"You've got a good heart, McCall."
He rose, came around the desk and settled into the chair beside her. "So, did your hunch play out?"
"Yes."
"Tell me."
"The night we came by here and it was so hot, I saw Kidd's handwriting. You and I talked about the fact he'd written the assignment that had raised so many red flags in my mind. Right when we were leaving, I spotted movement out by the door. But when I stepped into the squad room, no one was there. We'd both gotten spooked earlier outside the Gillette mansion, so I wrote it off as delayed reaction. Now, I'm almost sure Kidd was here, that he overheard me telling you I was so curious about his assignment that I'd recreated it on my laptop. That I'd spotted areas of deception. And that I could tell he'd been with someone on Sunday morning, just by his change in verb tense."
"What makes you think Kidd overheard us?"
"Tonight at Midnight when he and I faced off on the lawn, he told me there's no way I can prove a person was alone, or with someone just because his verb tense changed."
"Okay." McCall's brow furrowed. "Keep going."
"During my second interview with Kidd, he said, 'I hope to hell Isaac shows up here.' Shows up---future tense. You and I have been operating under the assumption Isaac has been here all along. Kidd knew that. He helped follow me to make sure Isaac wasn't tailing me. Kidd's language tells me he never believed Isaac was here. He still doesn't believe that."
McCall nodded, his face grim. "Go on."
"So, if Kidd did overhear us talking about the assignment he wrote, he would have realized the threat of exposure didn't end when he stole the original assignments. And that threat---namely me---had to be eliminated. The following night I almost was."
Awareness snapped into McCall's eyes. "The lake? You think Kidd drove that truck?"
"Yes. Which is why I went to Low Track tonight. Remember I said when Aphrodite called and lured me out to the lake road that in the background I heard dishes rattling?"
"Which was on target, since we got the number from your cell service provider and traced it to a diner on the south side."
"I also heard several pops in the background. Tonight when I started suspecting Kidd drove that monster truck, it dawned on me that the blond hooker who I talked to about Isaac was chewing gum. Blowing bubbles, popping them. Tia Alvarado works Vice. That's why I asked her to go to Low Track with me. I figured if the blonde wasn't on a corner somewhere, Tia would know where to find her. She did."
"Did the hooker admit making the call for Kidd?"
"She denied it. Which convinces me she's who called me."
McCall raised a brow. "Statement analysis, right?"
"Yes. The word 'deny' can mean to refuse to accept the truth." She raised a palm. "Like when an alcoholic won't admit to being one. We say he's in denial. He refuses to accept the fact he's an alcoholic. The hooker could be saying she refuses to accept the fact she called me."
"That doesn't prove she did. Or that Kidd drove the truck."
"I know. Tia touched base with some other Vice cops. A couple of them remembered that when Kidd rode patrol, he used the blonde as a snitch. All that's enough of a tie for me."
"Yeah." McCall reached, took her hand, stroked a fingertip across the abrasion the handcuff had left on her wrist. "If Kidd is who's made every run at you up to this point, where's Isaac?"
"Good question. Maybe in Egypt or Turkey where his e-mails originated from? I've been totally off base when it comes to analyzing his language. That would be a huge ego builder for Isaac if he knew."
"You weren't wrong about his threatening your family."
"No. I called Holden Lassiter about an hour ago. He's keeping the security in place around my family until Isaac's in custody."
She turned her hand under McCall's, linked her fingers with his. "So, partner, we're done with the Gillette case until it goes to trial. Now, I have to focus on finding Isaac."
"You going to do that focusing from here?"
"No."
"You told me you won't go to Dallas as long as Isaac's on the lam. That you want him zeroed in on you, not your family."
"I'm not going to Dallas. My ex-partner is meeting me halfway between here and there. He's bringing all the reports, interviews, every piece of paper we accumulated on Isaac. We tracked him down once. Maybe by poring over all the information, we'll find some reference to something that might help us get a lead on his location."
"Doing that makes sense." McCall's hand tightened on hers. "When do you leave?"
"After I pick up my things from the Ambassador Arms."
"You need a ride there?"
"No. Tia dropped me off at the airport and I rented a car. I called the hotel and asked them to get my bill ready." She stared down at their joined hands. "I wanted to tell you what I found out about the hooker. And say goodbye."
She'd had no idea doing so would put knots in her stomach. Feeling suddenly unsteady, she tugged her hand free, rose, then moved across the office and plucked her coat off the hook.
"That's it? Just goodbye?"
She turned. McCall had come up behind her. She shrugged on her coat. "C'mon, McCall, you weren't exactly thrilled when the chief dumped me on you."
"True." He angled his chin. "Where's the phone you bought to replace the one that went into the lake?"
"In my coat pocket." She gave him a wary look. "Why?"
"Mind if I take a look at it?"
She pulled the phone out, handed it to him. It beeped while he stabbed a series of buttons. "McCall, what are you doing?"
"Inputting my home, office and cell numbers into memory."
"I take it you're expecting me to call?"
He leveled her with his earnest expression. "I'm hoping you'll do more than that."
"Like what?"
He handed her the phone, then moved in, shifting her back into the corner between the wall and the door. "You have business to take care of. Your family to see to, I understand that." He curled a finger under her chin, nudged it up. "But when all that's done, I want you to come back. Or I'll come to you. Just call and let me know which it'll be."
"One phone call," she said. "You make things sound so simple."
"I don't mean to," he murmured, lowering his head. "Because then what's between us would be only sex."
She swallowed hard, surprised at his allusion to something more. His ability to make a clean escape was one reason he'd earned the Houdini nickname. "What is it, then, if it's not just sex?"
"I don't know exactly, but it's something. I do know I want you in a way I've never wanted anyone else. I know I don't want you to leave."
She stared at him, feeling panic unfurl inside her. Her heart had been broken once by a man with a charmer's grin and seductive touch. She wasn't sure if she could risk so much again. "This is serious talk for so early in the morning."
"It's serious talk for me, any time of day." He slid an arm around her waist, pulled her against him. "Don't back off from me because you're afraid."
"I'm not afraid of you, McCall."
"Carmichael, I'm not calling you a coward. If you were any tougher, bullets would bounce off you. But you are afraid of taking a chance on me." His fingertips brushed her cheek, her throat. "I'm not like the jerk who betrayed you. I won't lie to you. Ever. Deep down I think you know that."
She stared up into his dark eyes. Every step of the way he had let her know exactly what he thought, exactly where she stood with him. Nate McCall was not a man who hid behind lies. She pressed her palm against his cheek. "I know."
He opened her mouth with his, touched his tongue to hers.
"I want a chance to see where this goes," he murmured against her lips. "So, you think about this, Carmichael. Call me, if you decide you want that chance, too."
"Okay, I'll think," she agreed. Then stepped around him and reached for the door before she talked herself into staying.
When Paige parked in the underground garage at the Ambassador Arms Hotel, her mind was still on that kiss---and the man who'd delivered it.
The air was freezing cold as she walked toward the elevator beneath bright overhead lights. The heels of her black ankle boots echoed hollowly against the concrete.
A few feet ahead, she saw a gray-haired woman step out from between a van and a Mercedes. She was tall and thin, wearing an ankle-length mink and black lizard pumps. As Paige came abreast of her, the woman paused to rummage in her leather handbag, its long strap hanging down.
"Oh, dear," the woman murmured as the purse slipped from her hands. A gold compact, a billfold, a hairbrush and a tube of lipstick tumbled out, the lipstick rolling.
The instant Paige stooped to pick it up, a warning blipped in her brain.
Even as she reached for the asp secreted in the heel of her left boot, a current seared through her neck, stormed along her nerve pathways. In a fraction of a second all control of her arms and legs was gone.
She fell, landing on her side, her breathing labored, her eyes open.
The woman bent down close. "Got you."
The polite voice belonged to Edwin Isaac.
Paige had a vague memory of Isaac lifting her, dumping her into a car's trunk, then stabbing a needle into her arm.
She'd come to still wearing the black leather dress, lying on a red heart-shaped rug in the center of a cement-walled windowless room. A single bare lightbulb hung above her. Across the room, a set of wooden stairs shot straight up to a gray metal door. The cement walls, the scent of earth and dank stone told her she was in a basement.
Now, the effects of the stun gun and the drug had dissipated. She was fully alert, her mind racing on the heady fuel of fear.
Footsteps creaked overhead, pulling her gaze upward. Wherever she was had wooden floors. During his Dallas killing spree, Isaac had imprisoned his hooker victims in an old farmhouse he'd purchased under an alias on the outskirts of the city. He had stapled thick insulation against every wall, window and door, soundproofing the place so anyone happening by couldn't hear the screams.
It had been his lair, the ultimate torture chamber.
Now, he had another. Paige's stomach muscles began to tremble.
Don't panic. Think. Think.
He'd taken her boots, her watch, her silver necklace. A wide metal cuff was locked around her left ankle. A short chain connected the cuff to a thick bolt in the cement floor. Like a dog chained to a stake, she could move only so far.
She hadn't seen Isaac since she'd woken in the basement. She had no doubt he would show up soon.
Paige closed her eyes. Terror was a living thing, wrapping its fingers around her throat.
She had no idea how much time had passed since he'd grabbed her. No clue how far he'd driven her away from the city. Did anyone know she was missing? She'd agreed to meet her ex-partner before noon so they could start poring over their case files on Isaac. Was it past noon? If so, was he worried yet? Or still waiting, unconcerned by her absence, thinking she'd been delayed tying up loose ends with McCall? Oh, God, Nate. She'd told him goodbye, walked away. There was no reason for him to think she hadn't left as planned.
She thought of the five women Isaac had killed, whose autopsies she had attended. The vicious cuts and charring that had marked their flesh. The gaudy makeup Isaac applied to their faces after death. And how, during interrogation, his blue eyes had gleamed like icy diamonds while he recounted watching every scalpel slash each victim made to her own flesh.
The shimmer of a small stainless steel tray sitting just beyond the edge of the rug drew Paige's gaze. A scalpel lay in the tray's center. Isaac had left the tray, the scalpel within her reach.
A trickle of sweat rolled down her spine. There had to be a way out. Some way to fight back.
The floor above her creaked again, footsteps growing louder. Coming for her.
Okay, she thought, her breathing shallow. Her survival was in her own hands. She knew Isaac's MO---he used fear to control his victims, turn them weak. Malleable. Which were the last traits he would expect her to exhibit. Still, making him believe she was cowering, terrified, was the only chance she had of getting him to let his guard down.
The door opened. The stairs groaned beneath his weight.
Outwardly trembling, her head bowed, she watched him through her lashes. She saw his legs first, clad in black slacks. And then he was in full view, standing at the base of the stairs, watching her.
The killer, eyeing his new prize.
Three years in prison had not outwardly changed him. He was as tall as she remembered, his hair still thick and blond, combed back from the temples. She sensed there were well-toned muscles beneath his gray silk shirt.
"Hello, Paige."
Cold fear sliced straight to the marrow of her bones. She wasn't going to have to use her acting skills in that area.
"I..." She lifted a trembling hand to her face. "What drug did...you...give me?"
Through her fingers, she saw the vivid blue flash of his eyes. "One that will have worn off by now. Don't toy with me, Paige."
"Dizzy..."
He had a long metal box in his hands. She tracked him to a table against the far wall. Watched him unwind a cord attached to the box, plug it in. His wrist flicked as he turned a knob on the front of the box. A hot plate, she realized.
He retrieved a green plastic lawn chair, carried it toward her. Beneath the bright light his skin looked like parchment, stretched taut over the bones of his face. Like a skull, she thought.
He placed the chair out of her reach. Settled into it. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Paige."
Polite. Always so polite.
She shook her head as if trying to clear her drugged mind. Her hair curtained over one cheek. She left it there, proof she was too muddled to notice.
He angled his chin, regarded her. "The drug's manufacturer did list possible side effects." When he pursed his lips, he looked like a leech. "Apparently your chemical makeup is more susceptible than I anticipated. So, we'll wait to get started. In the meantime, would you like to know how I found you?"
"You...had some voyeur...watching me." She slurred her words, let her body sway. "Take my...picture. You've been in a cell. Have...to figure...the information got to you through your...lawyer."
"Whose briefcase was subject to being x-rayed for weapons, but not to a hands-on search of lawyer-client documents when he came to consult with me. Very good, Paige. And, yes, I've made it my business over the past three years to learn everything about you."
His gaze dropped to her scarred right hand, lying limply against her thigh. "I know about your husband's betrayal, the physical therapy that failed, your resignation from the police force. Then there's your new profession, working for a boss who's a former CIA operative. After what your husband did, I imagine you have quite an aversion to lies."
"Don't...you?"
"Of course. And through statement analysis you've ensured you can't be lied to. Tell me, Paige, did you find any lies in the e-mails I sent you?"
"No. 'Cause you...never said you were...in those places. Egypt. Turkey."
"You're right, I wasn't there. I've been here, watching you."
"You and...your accomplice. Who's...he?"
Isaac picked lint off one of his shirt cuffs. "The gentleman was a private investigator in Dallas. Rather questionable in character, but immensely controllable. He outlived his usefulness soon after he helped me escape. I do so prefer observing you myself."
"How have...?" She shook her head.
"...I observed you?" Isaac finished. "Various ways. One being I have access to all your bank and credit card accounts. The instant you rented a car here I knew its description. Also, the name of the hotel you checked into. That first night, I placed a GPS chip on your car. I've tracked you via satellite from that moment. Doing so enabled me to keep tabs on you while I located this lovely house, then did the necessary renovations to prepare for your arrival."
He leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath his weight. "Paige, the night your car went into the lake was one of the worst moments of my life. I thought I'd lost you forever."
She was glad her hair still hung in her face so he couldn't see her surprise. "That was...you...in the...car? Stopped...where...mine went into...lake?"
"Ah, so you were watching me." He flashed a smile, a thin rim of white teeth. "Yes, I drove to where the GPS signal ended. I had planned for us to begin our time together that night. When I theorized what must have happened to your car, to you, I experienced a deep grief."
"How did...you know...I wasn't dead?"
"A greedy bellman at the Ambassador Arms. I had previously given him your description and he supplied me the name you registered under. Fiona Shepherd. The bellman called this morning to tell me you'd phoned and left word you were checking out. You can't imagine the joy I experienced, knowing you were still alive."
This morning, Paige thought. A full day had not passed since Isaac grabbed her.
"And now, here we are." He made a brushing motion with his hand, as though batting away gnats. "You put me in a cell, Paige. I've put you in one. I'm going to keep you alive for a long time. There's your silver lining behind this dark cloud."
She lifted her head, stared at him with wide, frightened eyes, giving him what he wanted. "Don't...hurt me," she whimpered, and could almost feel him feeding off the fear he perceived in her.
"I won't hurt you. You'll do that to yourself." He raised a hand, jabbed a finger in her direction. "Question---what is more just than punishing someone for their sins? Answer---making them punish themselves."
"No. I won't."
"Oh, but you will. Willingly."
"No."
"It's simple enough, Paige. You do what I say, or my next visit will be to your family." His eyes narrowed. "How do you think your robust grandfather will adapt to being a quadriplegic? And won't your mother still be a picture of loveliness after she gets a face full of acid?"
You bastard. Paige turned her head to prevent him from seeing the fury she could no longer keep from her expression. Give me time. I'll find an opening. Then we'll see who suffers.
"Your choice, Paige."
"What...do you...want me to do?"
"Suffer." His mouth curved as he rose.
She put her hands to her face, whimpering softly while she watched him walk to the table. From a drawer he retrieved a fillet knife.
Placed its blade on the heated coil.
Setting her jaw, Paige pulled in several deep breaths. Her life was not going to end like this, not here, not in this basement with this sick psycho piece of crap.
Her one hope was to get him close. Disable him. The way to do that was to convince him she was losing what little self-control she had.
"Pick up the scalpel, Paige."
For the first time she felt a lurch of terror, of despair. Like all predators, Isaac was drawn by the sight and scent of blood. In order to get him close, she was going to have to bleed.
She drew her legs beneath her, shifted sideways. Her left hand trembled as she reached for the scalpel. Her fingers closed around its ice-cold shaft.
"Paige, we both know you're right-handed."
"Was," she spat, infusing a bitterness into her voice she hoped would have him underestimating her abilities even more. She held out her scarred hand. "You crippled me."
"Yes," he murmured and took a step closer. "Your hand is just the beginning. Now, I want you to use the scalpel on one of the areas with the highest concentration of nerve endings. The fingertips, the upper lip, tip of the tongue, the genitalia. Again, Paige, it's your choice."
Struggling for detachment, she shifted sideways so her body blocked his view. Fisting her scarred hand, she supported it against her thigh.
She took a deep breath. Bit her lip. Then jabbed the scalpel's tip into the large vein on the back of her hand.
The damaged nerves minimized the pain, yet it was breathtaking. Her stomach tilted; black, boiling nausea surged up her throat. The scalpel rolled from her hand onto the red rug.
"Let me see!"
Isaac's command snapped back her concentration. She worked around the pain. Blocked it.
Bent over at the waist, she held her hands clenched against her stomach. "My wrist," she choked out.
He moved into her line of sight, careful to stay out of the chain's radius. Moaning, she used her thumb to compress the punctured vein, then released the pressure every few seconds to make it appear like arterial blood spurting out of her wrist.
"Show me!"
"No," she moaned. "Not going...to let you...keep me alive."
Her legs still folded under her, she rocked back and forth, gulping air. Blood flowed over her hand, dripped off her fingertips onto the heart-shaped rug.
"You'll live as long as I want," he spat and turned. "I won't allow you to ruin this for me."
Out of the corner of her eye she watched him stalk to the table, jerk the knife off the hot plate's coil. When he turned, she had a second to imagine its blade glowed red.
Knife at the ready, he strode toward her, halted. He was furious, his blue eyes glittering, his lips curled back. "The scalpel. Roll it away. Toward the far side of the room."
She did so, keeping her right hand pressed against her stomach. From this point on, her every move must come as a complete surprise to him. She had one chance. Just one.
He rushed in, grabbed her arm. "Show me your wrist!"
She bolted upward. In one move she locked her fingers on his knife hand while slamming her right elbow into the underside of his jaw. His head snapped back. She thrust a leg behind his, threw her weight into the move and shoved.
Lurching backward like a drunken dancer, he went down.
She wrenched his wrist, heard ligaments pop. He howled; the knife slid from his useless fingers, clattered against the cement floor.
Isaac jerked the chain, yanked her foot out from under her.
She landed on her back.
And he was on her.
His thighs straddling her hips, he clamped his good hand on her throat. Lowering his head, his teeth snapped as his mouth sought her flesh.
Kicking, thrashing, she jabbed her fingers at his eyes, kept jabbing to keep those teeth away. Her other hand flailed against the floor, scrabbling for the knife.
His fingers tightened on her neck. White spots burst before her eyes.
I'm dead, Paige thought frantically even as her fingers wrapped around the knife's hilt.
Her arm swept up in a merciless arc. Isaac shrieked as steel penetrated his throat.
He fell forward, his full weight crashing down on her.
Sobbing, near shock, Paige shoved Isaac's dead weight off of her. She forced herself to touch his wrist, check for a pulse. There wasn't one.
She was trembling, nauseated and deathly afraid a search of his pockets wouldn't produce the key to the metal ankle cuff.
But she did find it, tucked into the corner of his soft leather billfold.
Legs unsteady, she climbed the wooden staircase, stepped into a kitchen, its counters and floor yellowed from age. She stayed there only long enough to wrap a rag around her bleeding, throbbing hand.
She walked through a hallway to a small empty living room with stained, ragged carpet. The only sounds the creaking floors, the rasp of her breathing.
Her coat was among the clothing hanging in the bedroom closet. Her shoes sat on the floor next to Isaac's. He'd turned off her cell phone, placed it on the nightstand beside the twin bed. Her silver necklace was there, too. Her watch.
Settling on the sagging mattress, she switched on her phone. Saw she had fifty messages.
Someone was looking for her.
It seemed a lifetime had passed since she stood in the office off Homicide's squad room and watched McCall input his phone numbers into her cell.
She held back a sob when he picked up on the first ring.
McCall arrived a half hour later, having used the signal from her phone to track her location. She stepped into the living room just as he shoved through the front door, uniformed county deputies and a handful of out-of-jurisdiction OCPD cops spilling in behind him.
She had stayed on the phone with him while he tracked her, shifting into cop-speak to report what had happened in the basement. That didn't stop a smoldering violence from settling in his eyes when he spotted her.
"Christ!"
The blood, she thought. She'd forgotten to tell him she was covered in blood. Hers. Isaac's.
"I'm fine," she said, watching him holster his automatic while striding across the room. "Isaac's dead and I'm fine."
His trembling hands framed her face. "Fine, hell," he said, then swept her up and carried her outside.
She sat on the edge of a gurney inside an idling ambulance while an EMT treated her hand.
McCall sat directly across from her, his grim eyes locked on her face while he spoke. "I didn't know anything was wrong until around noon. That's when my manager pal at the Ambassador Arms called. Burke said you never showed up to check out. I phoned your ex-partner. He hadn't heard from you. Neither had Holden Lassiter. I got the description of your rental car, went to the hotel, found the car. Burke and I viewed security tapes from the parking garage. I saw you get nabbed." He shoved a hand through his dark hair. "If you hadn't told me how good Isaac was at disguise, I'd have listed the suspect in my APB as a gray-haired woman."
Paige nodded. "I didn't know if anyone even knew he had me."
"We knew." McCall reached across the short distance that separated them, snagged her good hand. "Your ex-partner told me Isaac used a farmhouse in Dallas. I put your description out to every county in the state, had deputies checking isolated properties, houses, storage sheds, barns. Everywhere."
Paige glanced out the window on the ambulance's rear door, saw a ramshackle house. "Where is this place?"
"An abandoned farmhouse about fifty miles from Oklahoma City," McCall replied.
The EMT applied a final piece of tape to the gauze pad on the back of Paige's hand. "That ought to hold you."
"Thanks." She watched the man pull off his latex gloves, drop them into a small haz-mat bin. "Could you give us a minute alone?"
The EMT raised an eyebrow. "Sure." He stepped out of the ambulance.
Before he closed the door behind him, she caught another glimpse of the ramshackle farmhouse. Isaac had intended for her to die there, but it was his life that had ended instead. Paige felt something loosen inside her. It was as if Isaac's death had brought the pain and devastation of the past three years full circle. Her life had changed drastically during that time, personally and professionally. Yet, it contained empty, hollow space that only another person could fill. Tonight's brush with death made her realize that even though one of the paths now open to her might contain more risk than others, it might just be the one that would lead to greatest happiness. Fulfillment.
She looked at McCall, sitting so still and quiet. Waiting. "This morning in the office, you told me when I finished my business with Isaac that you wanted me to come back. Or you'd come to me. You said all I had to do was call and let you know."
"One call," he said, watching her.
"After I got out of that basement---" Her voice hitched on the fear that still raced through her veins. She didn't want to think about the horror she'd faced. Wouldn't think about it. "When I found my phone, it didn't occur to me to dial 911. You're who I wanted. Who I reached out to." She tightened her fingers on his. "I didn't have to wonder if you would do whatever it took to find me, to get to me. I just knew."
He brushed his fingertips down her cheek. "Nothing could have stopped me."
"You remind me of my grandpa."
His dark brows raised a fraction. "I'm not sure that's a good thing, considering all the ungrandfatherly thoughts I have about you."
"It's good." A smile touched her lips. "My grandfather doesn't believe in sugarcoating things. He would cut off his arm before telling a lie. He says what he thinks, tells you how he feels. You never have to wonder where you stand with him. That's you, McCall. From the minute I walked into that classroom and tripped over your feet, I knew your opinion of me."
"I liked your legs. Your screw-you attitude pissed me off."
"And you made no secret of either point." She studied their linked fingers. "I've spent the past three years trying to rebuild myself, my life. I gave everything I had to the job. Even a week ago, I would have said I didn't have anything of myself to give to a relationship. But then there you were, offering me something I didn't want, yet couldn't fully turn my back on. Can't turn my back on."
She gazed into his eyes, still hesitant to lose herself in their depths. Still, she had the distinct feeling he was what she had been waiting for.
"Nate, I don't know any more than you do where things between us might go."
"Are you willing to find out?"
She tilted her face and smiled up at him. "Do you remember me telling you about my plan to vacation in Mexico?"
"At Lassiter's villa overlooking the Sea of Cortez. You said your idea of a great vacation was a couple of weeks there doing nothing but soaking up the sun, reading and drinking margaritas. Alone."
She shifted off the gurney and slid onto his lap. "About the alone part..."
One of his arms circled her waist, the other cupped her cheek. "What about it?"
She pressed her mouth to his. "I lied," she added softly.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-6200-7
TRIGGER EFFECT
Copyright © 2005 by Margaret Price
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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