by Karen Rose
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Karen Rose Hafer
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Grand Central Publishing
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
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First eBook Edition: August 2009
Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-446-55730-6
Contents
Copyright
Also by Karen Rose
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
About the Author
ALSO BY KAREN ROSE
Don’t Tell
Have You Seen Her?
I’m Watching You
Nothing to Fear
You Can’t Hide
Count to Ten
Die for Me
Scream for Me
Kill for Me
To Lieutenant Danny Agan, Atlanta PD, retired, and to the
real-life Hat Squad. Thank you all for your careers of service
and your dedication to finding justice for the victims of crime.
Special thanks to Danny for your friendship and help
in bringing my books to life.
To Sonie Lasker, my sempai and my friend.
Your discipline and dedication inspire me. Your workouts
make me stronger, your friendship nurtures me,
and your insight into my characters enriches my work.
And as always, to Martin. You are my reason.
Acknowledgments
Danny Agan, for the Hat Squad. And as always, thank you for answering all my many questions on police procedure, even though I keep promising, “Just one more!”
Marc Conterato, for always answering all my medical questions in a way I can always understand.
Sonie Lasker, for introducing me to the notion of the virtual world. I truly thought you were making it up!
Pamela Bolton-Holifield, for the facts on embalming. Someday, we’ll have our gurney race.
Lynn Gutierrez, Colleen Tripp, and Janet Ware, for all the bartending information and wonderful anecdotes.
TinMan, for the hacking jargon from “exploits” to “white hats.”
Terri Bolyard and Kay Conterato, who always listen.
Karen Kosztolnyik, Robin Rue, and Vicki Mellor, for simply everything.
Martin Hafer, for his help in psychological research protocol. And for bringing my dinner when I was on a roll.
As always, all mistakes are my own.
Dear Readers,
I introduce a new group of law enforcement officers in I CAN SEE YOU—the homicide detectives of Minneapolis and their “Hat Squad.”
In reality, the Hat Squad is a group of homicide detectives in Atlanta, Georgia. I was intrigued by the concept and the tradition started by Lieutenant Danny Agan, Atlanta PD, retired. The homicide detectives of Atlanta are presented with a classic felt fedora soon after solving their first homicide—a gift from the other more experienced detectives. They wear their hats on the job, the fabric and styles changing with the seasons. In the words of Danny Agan, “You dress the part, you dress like a detective, you get better results. It commands respect: Who’s showing up to take charge of this mess?”
When I started this book, I wanted to pay tribute to the Hat Squad. The Minneapolis Hat Squad is a product of my imagination, but based on real detectives who strive to get justice for victims every day.
Hope you enjoy meeting this new group!
All my best,
Karen Rose
Prologue
Minneapolis, Saturday, February 13, 9:10 p.m.
She was shy. Nervous. Mousy. Midforties and dowdy, even though she’d obviously dressed for the occasion in an ugly brown suit. She shouldn’t have bothered.
Martha Brisbane was just as he’d expected. He’d been watching her from across the crowded coffee shop for close to an hour now. Every time the door opened, she’d straighten, her eyes growing bright if a man entered. But the man would always sit elsewhere, ignoring her, and each time, her eyes grew a little less bright. Still she waited, watching the door. After an hour, the anticipation in her eyes had become desperation. He wondered how much longer her bottom-of-the-barrel self-esteem would keep her waiting. Hoping.
He’d found bursting their bubbles simply added to his fun.
Finally she glanced at her watch with a sigh and began to gather her purse and coat. One hour, six minutes, and forty-two seconds. Not bad. Not bad at all.
The barista behind the counter aimed her a sympathetic look from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. “It’s snowing outside. Maybe he got tied up.”
Martha shook her head, defeat in the gesture. “I’m sure that’s it.”
The barista flashed an earnest smile. “You be careful driving home.”
“I will.”
It was his cue to exit, stage left. He slipped out of the side door in time to see Martha Brisbane huddled against the wind as she made her way to her beat-up old Ford Escort, mincing her steps in the two-inch heels that looked as if they pinched her fat feet. She managed to get to her car before the waterworks began, but once started, Martha didn’t stop crying, not when she pulled out of her parking place, not when she got on the highway. It was a wonder she didn’t run off the road and kill herself.
Drive carefully, Martha. I need you to arrive home in one piece.
By the time she parked in front of her apartment, her tears had ceased and she was sniffling, her face red and puffy and chapped from the wind. She stumbled up the stairs to her apartment building, grappling with the heavy bags of cat food and litter she’d purchased at the pet store before arriving at the coffee shop.
There was a security camera in the building’s lobby, but it was broken. He’d made sure of that days ago. He swept up the stairs and opened the door for her.
“Your hands are full. Can I help you?”
She shook her head, but managed a teary smile. “No, I’m fine. But thank you.”
He smiled back. “The pleasure is mine.” Which would soon be very true.
Wearily she trudged up three flights of stairs to her apartment, teetering on the two-inch heels as she balanced the heavy bags. She wasn’t paying attention. She didn’t know he stood behind her, waiting for her to put the key in her lock.
She set the
bags down, fumbled for her key. For God’s sake, woman. I don’t have all night. Hurry up. Finally she opened her door, picked up the bags, and pushed the door open with her shoulder.
Now. He leapt forward, clamping his hand over her mouth and twisting her around into the apartment with a fluid motion. She struggled, swinging her heavy bags as he closed her door and leaned back against it, dragging her against him. A pistol against her temple had her struggles magically ceasing.
“Hold still, Martha,” he murmured, “and I just might let you live.” As if that was going to happen. Not. “Now put down the bags.”
Her bags dropped to the floor.
“Better,” he murmured. She was shaking in terror, just the way he liked it.
Her words, muffled against his hand, sounded like a terrified “Please, please.” That’s what his victims always said. He liked a polite victim.
He looked around with a sneer. Her apartment was a disgusting mess, books and magazines stacked everywhere. The surface of her desk was obscured by the cups of coagulated coffee, Post-it notes, and newspapers that she’d packed around her state-of-the-art computer.
Her clothes were pure nineties, but her computer was brand new. It figured. Nothing but the best for her forays into fantasyland.
He pressed the gun to her temple harder and felt her flinch against him. “I’m going to move my hand. If you scream, I will kill you.”
Sometimes they screamed. Always he killed them.
He slid his hand from her mouth to her throat. “Don’t hurt me,” she whimpered. “Please. I’ll give you my valuables. Take what you want.”
“Oh, I will,” he said quietly. “Desiree.”
She stiffened. “How did you know that?”
“Because I know everything about you, Martha. What you really do for a living. What you love. And what you fear the very most.” Still pressing the gun to her temple, he reached into his coat pocket for the syringe. “I see all. I know all. Up to and including the moment you will die. Which would be tonight.”
Chapter One
Minneapolis, Sunday, February 21, 6:35 p.m.
Homicide detective Noah Webster stared up into the wide, lifeless eyes of Martha Brisbane with a sigh that hung in the freezing air, just as she did. Within him was deep sadness, cold rage, and an awful dread that had his heart plodding hard in his chest.
It should have been an unremarkable crime scene. Martha Brisbane had hung herself in the conventional way. She’d looped a rope over a hook in her bedroom ceiling and tied a very traditional noose. She’d climbed up on an upholstered stool, which she’d then kicked aside. The only thing remotely untraditional was the bedroom window she’d left open and the thermostats she’d turned off. The Minnesota winter had served to preserve her body well. Establishing time of death would be a bitch.
Like many hangers, she was dressed for the occasion, makeup applied with a heavy hand. Her red dress plunged daringly, the skirt frozen around her dangling legs. She’d worn her sexiest five-inch red stilettos, which now lay on the carpet at her feet. One red shoe had fallen on its side while the other stood upright, the heel stuck into the carpet.
It should have been an unremarkable crime scene.
But it wasn’t. And as he stared up into the victim’s empty eyes, a chill that had nothing to do with the near-zero temps in Martha Brisbane’s bedroom went sliding down his spine. They were supposed to believe she’d hung herself. They were supposed to chalk it up to one more depressed, middle-aged single woman. They were supposed to close the case and walk away, without a second thought.
At least that’s what the one who’d hung her here had intended. And why not? That’s exactly what had happened before.
“The neighbor found her,” the first responding officer said. “CSU is on the way. So are the ME techs. Do you need anything else?”
Anything else to close it quickly, was the implication. Noah forced his eyes from the body to look at the officer. “The window, Officer Pratt. Was it open when you got here?”
Pratt frowned slightly. “Yes. Nobody touched anything.”
“The neighbor who called it in,” Noah pressed. “She didn’t open the window?”
“She didn’t enter the apartment. She tried knocking on the door but the victim didn’t answer, so she went around back, planning to bang on the window. She thought the victim would be asleep since she works nights. Instead, she saw this. Why?”
Because I’ve seen this scene before, he thought, déjà vu squeezing his chest so hard he could barely breathe. The body, the stool, the open window. Her dress and shoes, one standing up, one lying on its side. And her eyes.
Noah hadn’t been able to forget the last victim’s eyes, lids glued open, cruelly forced to remain wide and empty. This was going to be very bad. Very bad indeed.
“See if you can find the building manager,” he said. “I’ll wait for CSU and the ME.”
Officer Pratt gave him a sharp look. “And Detective GQ?”
Noah winced. That Jack Phelps wasn’t here yet was not, unfortunately, unusual. His partner had been distracted recently. Which was the polite way of saying he’d dropped the ball more than a few times.
“Detective Phelps is on his way,” he said, with more confidence than he felt.
Pratt grunted as he left in search of the manager and Noah felt a twinge of sympathy for Jack. Officers who’d never met Jack disrespected him. Thanks to that magazine. A recent article on the homicide squad had portrayed them as supermen. But Jack had borne the brunt, his face adorning the damn cover.
But Jack’s rep as a party-loving lightweight started long before the magazine hit the stands three weeks before and it was a shame. Focused, Jack Phelps was a good cop. Noah knew his partner had a quick mind, seeing connections others passed over.
Noah looked up into Martha Brisbane’s empty eyes. They were going to need all the quick minds they could get.
His cell buzzed. Jack. But it was his cousin Brock, from whose dinner table Noah had been called. Brock and his wife, Trina, were cops, they’d taken it in stride. In a family of cops, it was a rare Sunday dinner when one of them wasn’t called away.
“I’m tied up,” Noah answered, bypassing greeting.
“So is your partner,” Brock responded. Brock had been headed to Sal’s Bar to watch the game. Which meant that Jack was at Sal’s, too. Damn him.
“I’ve called him twice,” Noah gritted. Both calls had gone to Jack’s voicemail.
“He’s having drinks with his newest blonde. You want me to talk to him?”
Noah looked up at Martha Brisbane’s lifeless eyes and his anger bubbled tightly. It wasn’t the first time Jack had blown off his duty, but by God, it would be his last. “No. I’m going to get the first responder back in here and come down there myself.”
Sunday, February 21, 6:55 p.m.
“Come on, Eve, it’s just a little magazine quiz.”
Eve Wilson glanced across the bar at her friend with an exasperated shake of her head before returning her eyes to the beer tap. “I get enough quizzes at school.”
“But this one is fun,” Callie insisted, “unlike that psycho research project that has you tied up in knots. Don’t worry. You always get the best grade in class. Just one question.”
If only it was the grade. A few months ago, getting A’s was at the top of Eve’s mind. A few months ago the participants in her thesis research had been nameless, faceless numbers on a page. The mug filled, she replaced it with the next. The bar was busy tonight. She’d hoped to numb her mind with work, but the worry was always there.
Because a few months ago Eve never would have entertained the possibility of breaking university rules, of compromising her own ethics. But she’d done both of those things. Because now the test subjects were more than numbers on a page. Desiree and Gwenivere and the others were real people, in serious trouble.
Desiree had been missing for more than a week. I should do something. But what? She wasn’t supposed to know tha
t Desiree existed, much less that she was Martha Brisbane in real life. Test subjects were assured their privacy.
But Eve did know, because she’d broken the rules. And I’ll have to pay for that.
Across the bar, Callie cleared her throat dramatically, taking Eve’s silence for assent. “Question one. Have you ever gone on a romantic dinner to—”
“I’m busy,” Eve interrupted. For the next few hours there was nothing she could do about Martha and her other test subjects, but Callie’s quiz was not welcome respite. Do you believe in love at first sight, my ass. I hate those quizzes. Which, of course, was the reason Callie insisted on reading them. “Look, Cal, I took your shift so you could party.”
Callie shrugged the shoulders her cocktail dress left bare. “Nice try. I had somebody to cover for me. You should be studying, but you’re here, procrastinating.”
It was fair. Grasping three mug handles in each fist, Eve clenched her teeth against the pain that speared through her right hand. But until last year that hand couldn’t hold a coffee cup, so a little pain seemed a small price to pay for mobility. And independence.
She lifted the mugs into the waiting hands of one of her most regular regulars, quirking the responsive side of her mouth in the three-cornered smile that, after years of practice, appeared normal. “Normal” was right up there with mobility and independence.
“You’ve been buying all night, Jeff,” she said, surreptitiously flexing her fingers, “and haven’t had a drop yourself.” Which was so not normal. “You lose a bet?”
Officer Jeff Betz was a big guy with a sweet grin. “Don’t tell my wife. She’ll kill me.”
Eve nodded sagely. “Bartenders never tell. It’s part of the oath.”
He met her eyes, gratitude in his. “I know,” he said, then turned to Callie. “Hot date?”