by Linda Turner
His gut knotting at the thought, he was just wondering if Kelly had made the connection when the man himself appeared at the entrance to the cordoned-off house and spoke to the uniformed officer standing guard there. A few seconds later, the man ducked under the yellow crime tape that blocked the doorway and slipped into the crowd. When he returned, he had Sabrina with him.
Pale and shaken, Sabrina stood in the dead woman’s kitchen and stared in disbelief at the note found by the evidence team on the kitchen table. It was already stored in an evidence bag, but through the clear plastic, she could see that the handwriting was the same as that on the note she’d found on her desk at the Daily Record earlier in the day. And like that one, it was addressed to her.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she told Sam. “It has to be some kind of sick joke. Who would do this?”
“I was hoping you could tell me that,” Kelly said. “I don’t have to tell you that all kinds of weirdos come out of the woodwork on a case like this—you’ve covered the police beat long enough to know that some people get a real kick out of the thought of being connected to something like this. We could be dealing with that here, but I don’t think so.”
“You don’t? Then who—”
“This particular weirdo knows you, Sabrina.”
“No!” Denial instantly springing to her lips, she took a quick step back. “Don’t start with me, Sam. You sound just like Blake—”
She started to say more, but there was a commotion at the front door, and they both turned to see Blake trying to talk his way past the junior officer stationed there. With a nod to the rookie, Sam allowed him access, then said curtly, “Since you were in on this earlier, you might as well hear the latest. I’m going to have to make a statement to the press later, anyway.” Holding up the bagged note, he showed him Sabrina’s name on the front. “We found this on the kitchen table. I was just telling Sabrina that there’s a good likelihood that the killer is someone she knows. Apparently, you agree.”
Blake nodded, his eyes on Sabrina. “She doesn’t want to believe it. What’s in it?”
“Basically, it’s pretty much a replay of the other one,” Kelly replied. “The perp wanted to make sure that Sabrina got the message this time. ‘Learn your place,’” he quoted. “He doesn’t want to see her end up like Elizabeth and all the others.”
“So why doesn’t he just leave me alone?” she demanded.
“That’ll solve that problem easily enough.”
“Because you’re the one he’s been trying to kill from the very beginning,” Blake said flatly. “Dammit, haven’t you noticed?”
Confused, she frowned. “That’s ridiculous. He hasn’t come anywhere near me. Except to leave the notes, of course, and I wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity when he did that.”
“But every time he kills, he’s striking out at you. Look at the victims. If you put their descriptions and yours in a box and picked one out, they would all be the same. A young, single, professional woman who lives alone and has a slender build and dark, curly hair.”
Kelly, looking more dour than Sabrina had ever seen him, nodded in agreement. “This guy, whoever the hell he is, is too methodical and careful to do anything by chance, Sabrina. He chose his victims for a reason, and considering these damn notes, I’ve got to agree with Blake. The killer seems to be obsessed with you and is working up the courage to come after you.”
Apprehension clawing at her, she shook her head, immediately rejecting the idea even as it struck a chord deep inside her. “None of this makes any sense. Why me?”
Blake shrugged. “Who knows? You’re in the public eye. You’re a fighter. You live off the St. Mary’s strip and look great in red. There’s no telling what’s going on in this guy’s head. But he knows where you work and there’s a good possibility he knows where you live since he’s getting closer to your front door with every killing. The McClintock woman lived ten miles away from you, Tanya Bishop only four. And this one’s practically right around the corner.”
It was, in fact, a little over a mile and a half from her place to Elizabeth Reagan’s, but that was still too close for comfort. “That could just be coincidence,” she began desperately.
Blake swore in frustration, wanting to shake her. “C’mon, Sabrina, you don’t believe that anymore than I do! This crackpot’s after you and he’s going to get you if you don’t do something to protect yourself. Dammit, Kelly, talk to her before she gets herself killed!”
Raising a brow at the sudden tension crackling between the two reporters, the detective watched them glare at each other and forced back a smile. “I hate to sound like a parrot, but he is right, Sabrina,” he told her. “For your own protection, you might consider letting someone else cover the murders until we can catch the jerk. Preferably a man.”
“And let that murdering slimeball dictate to me how I can live my life?” she gasped. “Never in a million years! Would you expect a man to do that?”
“You wouldn’t be in this fix if you were a man,” Blake answered for him. “But that’s okay. You go ahead and risk your pretty little neck just to prove a point to a madman. When we plant you six feet under, we’ll have it carved on your tombstone that you went to your grave a martyr for women’s rights.”
“I’m not proving a point—I’m just doing my job.” Exasperated, she turned to Sam. “Is there anything else we need to discuss? If not, I need to get to the paper and get this written up so it’ll make the morning edition.”
He hesitated, obviously wanting to add his two cents to Blake’s comments, but he only sighed and gave in in defeat. “No, go on. But I want to see you down at the station first thing in the morning with the names of everyone you ever knew who might have a grudge against you. I don’t care if it was some jerk in college who didn’t like working with you on the school paper—I want his name. Got it?”
She nodded. “I’ll come up with a list tonight.” Not sparing Blake a glance, she turned on her heel, stepped outside and headed for her car.
Blake almost let her get away with it. Then he remembered a kiss that just over an hour ago had rocked him back on his heels. The lady might think she could take care of herself, but he’d held her in his arms and knew just how delicate and vulnerable she was. He didn’t even want to think about what a bullet shot at point-blank range from the gun of a crazy could do to her. His jaw hard with resolve, he started after her.
He caught up with her just past the outer fringes of the grim-faced, silent crowd that still stood on the perimeter of the front yard. “Wait just a damn minute, Jones,” he growled as the shadows of the night swallowed them whole. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
She didn’t even slow her pace. “I’ve already said all I have to say to you, Nickels. Don’t even think about getting in my way.”
With two quick strides, he was not only in her way, he was blocking it. “You’re either crazy as a loon or you’ve got a death wish—I haven’t decided which,” he muttered. “Stand still, will you?”
“I’m in a hurry, Blake. Unlike you, I seem to be the only one around here concerned with a deadline.”
“Oh, I’m aware of it, all right. It’s just that some things are a little bit more important than making the morning edition.”
“Like what?”
“Your life.”
“We’ve been all over this, Nickels,” she said, letting her breath out in a huff. “There’s nothing left to say.”
“Maybe not,” he agreed, surprising her, “but I’m going to say it anyway. For what it’s worth, Jones, I used to be like you, obsessed with a story—”
“I’m not obsessed!”
“Then a snitch got killed because of something he told me,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “It was my fault.”
Stunned, she gasped, her eyes wide with instant sympathy. “Blake, no! You shouldn’t blame yourself. You’re not responsible.”
“I lost my objectivity,” he said simply, making no
excuses for himself. “I was so determined to get the story that I didn’t even realize I was putting that kid in danger. I don’t want you to do the same thing.”
“But this is different.”
“Is it?” he asked sardonically. “Think about it.”
“It isn’t just the story,” she said earnestly. “It’s the principle of the thing. You wouldn’t let a murdering piece of trash scare you off a story and I can’t either. Because if I do, the word’ll be all over the street that all you have to do is threaten Sabrina Jones when she gets too close to a story and she’ll fold like a deck of cards. I might as well go back to obits because they’re the only stories I’ll be able to dig up.”
He winced at the play on words, but he didn’t smile. Not about this. “You won’t dig up any stories with a bullet in your heart, either. Have you thought about that?”
“That’s a chance I’ll have to take.”
“Dammit, Sabrina, you take chances at the horse races, not with your life. I don’t like the idea of you traipsing all over the city with a killer on your tail.”
“I don’t like it, either,” she said. “But it’s not going to stop me from doing what I have to do.” Suddenly suspicious, she studied him through narrowed eyes. “You’re not getting all bent out of shape over this because of that kiss, are you? It was just a kiss, Blake. Nothing else. It didn’t give you any rights where I’m concerned, so don’t start getting any ideas.”
Normally, Blake would have agreed with her and thanked God that she was being so levelheaded over what he’d intended as nothing more than an impulsive kiss. But somewhere between his intentions and the execution of the kiss itself, things had gotten out of hand. Her response had nearly blown the top of his head off, and her casual dismissal of that irritated him to no end. If she hadn’t wanted him to get any ideas, she damn sure shouldn’t have kissed him the way she had! “That wasn’t just a kiss and you damn well know it,” he said huskily, his green eyes dark with temper. “You forgot what planet you were on, and so did I.”
“I did not!”
“Little liar,” he retorted softly, taking a step toward her. “Shall I prove it to you?”
He would have done it, right then and there, but she never gave him the chance. Lightning-quick, she shied out of reach. “Oh, no, you don’t! You stay away from me, Blake Nickels!” she warned, throwing up a hand to hold him at bay as she walked backwards away from him. “Do you hear me? You just keep your distance, and we’ll both get along fine. I’ve got a job to do, and so do you, and we’re not going to complicate the situation by getting involved. So just stay away from me.”
She reached her car then, and darted around it like the devil himself was after her. Letting her go, Blake watched her climb inside and drive away and didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. Didn’t she know that he’d tried staying away from her from the very beginning? He wasn’t looking for the entanglement of a relationship any more than she apparently was. Fate, however, seemed to have other ideas.
The note left at Sabrina’s desk was splashed across the front page of the Daily Record the next day, and the phones at the police station were swamped with calls from people who were sure they knew who the murderer was. Two days after that, the report on the note found at the scene of Elizabeth Reagan’s murder came back from the lab and confirmed what everyone had already suspected—it was exactly like the one found at the Record. Written on paper that could have been bought at any one of a hundred or more office-supply stores in the city, it was wiped clean of fingerprints and any clues that might have led to the identity of its author.
With no murder weapon, no witnesses, and none of the phone calls to the police panning out, Blake did what he did best—he went looking for leads. And he started with the victims. Figuring there had to be some kind of connection between the three women, he checked out their hobbies, any clubs or associations they belonged to, even their churches. And everywhere he turned, he reached a dead end. Frustrated, he was left with no choice but to hit the streets and start making friends with snitches and other lowlifes that were in a position to know what was going down in the city.
He didn’t like it. Even though he knew that the chances that the past would repeat itself were slim to none, he wanted nothing to do with informants. That, unfortunately, was a luxury he didn’t have—not if he wanted to keep up with Sabrina.
The lady really was incredible. And as much as he hated to admit it, she kept him on his toes and pushed him to do his best work. She covered the city like a blanket, digging up stories on everything from a drug ring and money-laundering scheme on the west side to embezzlement at city hall. He couldn’t go anywhere without running into her or hearing that she’d already been there and gone. He found himself looking for her everywhere he went and reading his own work with a critical eye, comparing it to hers. Their styles were different—who could say whose was better? His was grittier, yet hers was just as compelling. With a simplicity that he couldn’t help but admire, she pulled the reader into a story and didn’t let him go until he reached the end.
If she hadn’t worked for the competition, Blake would have subscribed to the Daily Record just to read her stuff. As it was, he couldn’t do that without helping her win their bet, and that was something he was determined not to do. So he had to be content with picking up the Record in coffee shops whenever he could and sneaking a peak at her work so he could tease her about it when he saw her.
And he did see her, in spite of her best efforts to avoid him. In the week after Elizabeth Reagan died, they ran into each other often, but Sabrina was as wary as a kitten with a thorn in its paw. If she saw him first, she cut a wide swath around him and left just as soon as she could. If he surprised her and approached her before she knew he was anywhere within a ten-mile area, she kept the conversation strictly professional and just dared him to bring up the subject of a certain kiss. He didn’t. But the knowledge was there between them every time their eyes met.
Grinning at the memory, Blake dragged his attention back to the grumblings of the snitch who’d insisted on meeting him at an out-of-the-way bar on the east side. The place was a dive and smelled like it. Blake wouldn’t have touched a drink there if his life had depended on it, but the bar’s other occupants weren’t nearly as particular.
Watching Jimmy, his snitch, pour rotgut down his throat, Blake wondered how the man had any lining left in his stomach. “Okay, spill your guts, man. What’s the word on the street?”
“Nothing,” Jimmy claimed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Honest. Whoever’s knocking off those broads is doing it with a clean piece. I’ve talked to everybody I know and no one sold a hot shooter to the nut case. He already had it or he bought it legit.”
Blake swore. He’d figured as much, but with a serial killer on the loose, you couldn’t take anything for granted. Jimmy had connections in most of the hellholes in the city. If someone out there had sold a stolen gun to the killer, he would have heard about it. “That’s what I was afraid of, but thanks for asking around. If you hear anything—I mean anything—let me know. And get yourself something to eat. You’re skinnier than a fence post.”
Taking the bill Blake slid him, he grinned, exposing crooked yellow teeth, and snatched at the money as if he was afraid it was going to disappear any second. “Sure thing, man. Later.”
He was gone, slipping away and into the shadows of the bar between one instant and the next. Shaking his head over the man’s ability to fade into the woodwork, Blake did a disappearing act of his own and headed outside to his car.
His thoughts still on the gun, he was heading back to the paper when the crackling report on his police scanner finally penetrated his concentration. Someone had called in a mugging at an ATM machine. Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered to cover such a minor crime, but it wasn’t the crime itself that interested him—it was the location. It was just a couple of miles from where Sabrina lived.
Later, he would have sworn he
never made a conscious decision to check it out, but he turned right instead of left at the next intersection and found himself heading for the near northside. It only took him minutes to get there, but the police were already there, blocking the parking lot where the ATM was located, leaving him no choice but to find a spot around the corner to park. Not surprisingly, Sabrina’s red Honda was already there.
The minute his gaze landed on the sporty little car, he knew he was in trouble. Because it wasn’t, as it should have been, the story that had brought him to that part of town. It was the possibility of seeing Sabrina Jones.
In the process of interviewing the victim, Thelma Walters, an elderly neighbor who was surprised by the mugger when she stopped at the ATM to get money for groceries, Sabrina glanced up and felt her heart constrict at the sight of Blake slowly walking toward her. The smile that usually flirted with his mouth was noticeably absent, and in his eyes was something—a heat, a dark intensity—that was aimed right at her. Her mouth suddenly dry, she couldn’t remember what she was going to ask next.
“Is something wrong, sweetie?” Mrs. Walters asked suddenly, reaching out to feel her forehead. “You’re awfully flushed all of a sudden. Are you feeling all right? Maybe you’ve been out in the sun too long.”
Her blush deepening, Sabrina blinked her friend back into focus. “Sorry,” she said, forcing a laugh. “I guess I just drifted off. It must be this heat. It is awfully hot today.” Fanning herself, she struggled to concentrate. “Now, about the mugger. I understand you caught him all by yourself after he took off running with your purse. The police said you threw a rock and hit him in the head?”
Pleased with herself, Thelma Walters laughed gaily. “It was more like a pebble than a rock, but yes, I beaned him one in the noggin. He glanced over his shoulder to see what had hit him and ran right into a security officer from the apartments across the street who heard my cries for help.” Grinning, she confided, “I used to be a softball pitcher in high school, but it’s been fifty years since I threw a ball. I guess I’ve still got it, huh?”