Superstition

by Karen Robards

  There would be more as soon as word of what had happened got out, Nicky knew. The murder would lead the morning news locally—barring a catastrophe of some sort, of course—and that would alert the pack. Her own report on Marsha Browning’s slaying would be included on that night’s edition of Twenty-four Hours Investigates, which, she calculated, could be confidently expected to scoop the national scene by virtue of its timing if nothing else. However, she could probably count on having other news teams converging on Pawleys Island pretty shortly after it aired. The sensational aspects of the crime were sure to draw the competition like buzzards to roadkill.

  “This, it is becoming increasingly clear, is the second of the three murders threatened by Lazarus508,” Nicky said into the camera. “The newest victim, Marsha Browning, was a reporter for the local Coastal Observer . She was forty-six years old, recently divorced, childless, and lived alone. Like the previous victim, Karen Wise, Marsha was brutally slashed to death. The hair around her face was hacked off. And the killer called this reporter on . . .”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The question exploded behind Nicky without warning. She jumped, almost dropping the mike. The voice was male, loaded with suppressed anger, and familiar. Way familiar.

  “Cut,” Gordon said, disgusted, and lowered the camera as Nicky looked around to meet—no surprise—Joe’s glare. Since he’d left her in her mother’s kitchen, she hadn’t seen him. As far as she was aware, he hadn’t even known she was on the scene. Now, obviously, he did. He was standing behind her, fists on hips, his stance radiating aggression. In the garish glow of the lights that had been set up around the house, his face looked tense and drawn, and there were lines around his eyes and mouth that she hadn’t seen there before. His jacket and tie were gone, the top couple buttons on his shirt were undone, his sleeves were rolled up, and his thick, black hair was wildly unruly, as if he’d been running his fingers through it.

  All in all, he looked tired, grouchy—and still sexy as hell.

  “You scared me.” Nicky blew out a breath of relief. Despite the fact that he obviously didn’t reciprocate the sentiment, she was glad to see him. Of its own accord, a smile quivered around the corners of her lips.

  “I’m glad to know something can scare you.” His tone was grim. His expression matched, as his eyes moved over her face.

  “Oh, Chief Franconi, do you have any idea who did this?” Mrs. Frank quavered, touching the sleeve of Joe’s jacket and distracting him.

  “We’re working on it.” Joe’s tone gentled as he spoke to her. “We’re doing all we can to find out. Why don’t you go on home now? And tell your neighbors, too: Everybody needs to go home.”

  “I’m just so afraid. . . .”

  Behind Joe, Nicky saw that the body was at that moment being brought out of the house on a stretcher. The body: Even as the thought went through her head, the term jarred her. It was impersonal, objectifying what just a few hours before had been the living, breathing woman who had watered her flowers, waved at her neighbor, and then gone inside—the poufy-haired blonde in the miniskirt who had gushed over her mother in the hall of the Old Taylor Place last Sunday night, proclaiming herself a fan and asking for an interview. A reporter like herself. Nicky felt a chill prickle her skin.

  It could have been me. . . .

  But she refused to dwell on that now, refused to entertain thoughts about anything except doing her job the best way she knew how. Signaling to Gordon, she eased away from Joe, who was still reassuring Mrs. Frank, and got into position. As the camera started rolling again, she began describing what was happening behind her: the stretcher being trundled down the yard toward the waiting van, the body wrapped in a white sheet with, horribly, a slowly spreading crimson stain blossoming on it, paramedics opening the van’s rear doors . . .

  “. . . autopsy will be performed first thing Monday morning,” Nicky said as the body was loaded into the van and the doors were slammed shut behind it. “At this time, we are being told that the approximate time of death was between nine and ten p.m. Ms. Browning was apparently surprised in her house—”

  “Can I talk to you?” Joe was beside her again, his hand sliding around her upper arm to grip it firmly, his tone almost too pleasant. Nicky broke off to glance up at him with some annoyance. Backlit by the house now, he loomed menacingly large, and the vibes he was giving off practically screamed extreme aggravation. Which was just too bad. He was interfering with her work, and despite the developing state of their relationship, she didn’t like it. She was tired, she was sad, she was scared. At the moment, what she didn’t need was Joe in his overprotective mode on her case.

  “I’m a little busy right now.” She gestured toward Gordon and the camera.

  “It’ll just take a minute.” His eyes glinted down at her, their expression belying the politeness of his tone. His jaw was hard, his mouth unsmiling. He looked, in short, like a man in a snit. His gaze moved to Gordon. “You might want to turn off that camera.”

  Nicky took advantage of the fact that Joe wasn’t looking at her to shake her head at Gordon. Instead, she pointed at herself, and the camera obligingly zoomed in.

  “We have with us Pawleys Island Chief of Police Joe Franconi,” Nicky said into the camera, and watched as the lens widened for a broader shot that included Joe standing beside her. Then she looked up at Joe. His eyes widened fractionally as she thrust the microphone toward him. “Chief, do you think we’re dealing with a serial killer here?”

  He smiled at her. It wasn’t a nice smile.

  “No comment,” he said.

  “We’ve been told that there was no sign of forced entry into the house. Would you say that indicates the victim knew her killer?”

  The smile died. “No comment.”

  “We’ve also learned that the victim was stabbed to death multiple times, and that some of her hair was taken as, apparently, a trophy. Would you say that these details are enough to confirm a link, not only with the Karen Wise murder but with the slaying of Tara Mitchell fifteen years ago?”

  His lips thinned. “No comment.”

  “At this point, do you have any suspects?”

  “Damn it, Nicky—”

  “Careful, Chief, you’re on camera,” she said, and smiled at him. Granted, her smile had a slightly taunting quality to it, and a man in a snit could not be expected to respond well to teasing. But the bright blaze of anger that suddenly flared in his eyes could absolutely be characterized as an overreaction.

  “Okay, I’ve had enough of this.” His eyes cut to Gordon. “If you don’t turn that thing off, I’m going to shove it up your fucking ass.”

  Make that extreme overreaction.

  “Shit. You can’t say that on TV. We can’t use that,” Gordon complained, then broke off when he got a good look at Joe’s face.

  “Right,” he muttered, and the light indicating that the camera was on went off.

  “Thank you.” Joe’s tone was, if anything, even more controlled than before. His gaze shifted to Nicky, and his fingers tightened on her arm. “Now then—”

  “You can’t keep interfering with my work, you know,” she said. “I’m a professional, and this is my job, and I intend to do it.”

  “Like I said before, I just need a minute of your time.” His voice was still perfectly even, but it was clear that he was nearing the limits of his patience. The idea of Joe losing his temper was intriguing, but she was tired and she knew he was tired, and under the circumstances, this just didn’t seem like the time or place to continue to provoke him.

  “Oh, fine. I’ll be right back,” she said to Gordon, and allowed Joe to pull her away toward the far edge of the yard, where the fewest people had congregated. By the time he stopped, they’d been enveloped by shadows. Nicky was fairly confident that they were out of earshot, even if they weren’t completely hidden from sight of the rest of the people milling around outside.

  “What?” she said. She pulled her arm from his hol
d and, operating on the theory that a good offense was the best defense, made her tone belligerent. Of course, the truth was, she’d known what he was bent out of shape about from the start.

  “What part of ‘stay inside and keep the doors locked’ did you not understand?”

  Yep, she was right. She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “The part where you get to give me orders.”

  “Oh, so is that what this is about? What are you, one of those people who has to do the opposite of whatever you’re told just to prove you can?”

  “I’ve got a newsflash for you, Mr. Police Chief: This isn’t about you. This is about me doing my job.”

  “To hell with your job.”

  “You know, there are other reporters here. Go harass them.”

  “ ‘Harass—’ ” He broke off, seemed to struggle with himself, and started again in the tone of a determinedly reasonable man talking to a lunatic or a child. “I’m trying to keep you alive, for God’s sake. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about whether or not there are reporters on the scene. They’re welcome to report all they want. You’re welcome to report all you want. That’s not the point, and if you had the sense of a gnat, you’d realize it.”

  “So what is the point, then?”

  “The point is that for whatever reason, the killer is communicating with you. After both murders we know he committed, he’s called you. Tonight he knew you were on the beach, which means he’s watching you. I’m willing to bet that you’ll be getting an e-mail or some other form of communication from him within the next few hours, if you haven’t already. And in case it’s missed your notice, both victims are media types, like you. If you need some help dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s here, then let me spell it out for you: It’s very possible that you’re right up there on the top of his hit list.”

  Nicky sucked in air. She’d reached the same conclusion herself, of course. But having Joe put it into words made it seem concrete and terrifying and possible in a way it hadn’t quite been before.

  “I realize that. I plan to be careful.”

  The look Joe gave her was so charged that it practically crackled.

  “It doesn’t look to me like you do careful very well,” he said grimly. “If you did, you would have stayed the hell in Chicago.”

  “I’m being careful. Notice I’m not alone? Gordon picked me up, and when we’re finished here, he’ll take me home.”

  Joe’s eyes left hers for a moment to find Gordon. He was approximately where they’d left him, and he seemed to be filming the coroner’s van as it drove away.

  “Oh, well, I didn’t realize you had Gordon with you. That makes all the difference.”

  There he went with the sarcasm again. Nicky started to call him on it, but before she could say anything, his eyes widened.

  “Is that your mother over there?”

  Nicky didn’t have to follow his gaze to know the answer: yes. Leonora and Livvy and Uncle Ham and Uncle John had insisted on following her and Gordon to the murder scene. She hadn’t objected—not that it would have done any good if she had—and anyway, their assistance had proved invaluable. Nicky had been gone a long time, but most of these people were her family’s longtime friends and neighbors, cops—except for newcomer Joe—included. Much of the information she planned to use on the air had come from sources they’d found for her.

  “And your sister. That’s your sister, isn’t it? What did you do, turn this into a family outing?”

  Okay, so having her family follow her out on a story was not exactly professional. In this case, it was one of those things, like death and taxes, that there was no doing anything about. They’d made up their minds to come, and they’d come. End of story. That, in a nutshell, was life with her family.

  Nicky lifted her chin. “I told you I was being careful. They followed Gordon and me over here, and they’ll follow us home. Then I’ll go inside with them, and we’ll all be together in the same house all night. How safe is that?”

  “Christ.” Joe took a breath, and when he spoke again, every last trace of sarcasm had left his voice. “Look, I’m not sure you’re getting the drift here. This woman was butchered. As far as we can tell at this point, and it’s preliminary but I’m pretty sure it’s going to stick, there was no sexual assault, no robbery, no purpose in what he did except just to kill. Whoever this guy is, he’s sick, and he’s dangerous, and he’s apparently formed some kind of attachment to you. When he comes for you, if he comes for you, he’s going to come at you out of nowhere, Gordon and your family notwithstanding. By the time you realize what’s happening, it might very well be too damned late.”

  At Joe’s words, Nicky experienced a fresh clutch of fear. By this time, it was starting to feel almost normal.

  “So what do you suggest I do? Run back to Chicago and hide in my apartment?”

  “That’s pretty much what I had in mind, yeah.”

  “So you can guarantee that if I go back to Chicago, he won’t come after me?”

  She had him there, she knew. For a moment, he simply looked at her without answering.

  “You can’t, can you?” she demanded triumphantly.

  “You’ll be safer,” he said. “If for no other reason than he’ll have to expend more effort in getting to you. If this is a serial killer, then he’s not likely to want to travel outside his comfort zone.”

  “What if it’s not a serial killer? Or what if he hasn’t Googled serial killers lately and doesn’t know that he’s supposed to operate in a comfort zone?”

  His eyes narrowed at her. “Funny.” A beat passed. “So don’t go back to Chicago. Go somewhere else. Take a vacation in the Bahamas or something, and don’t let anybody know where you are until we catch this guy.”

  “Nobody’s caught him in fifteen years. What makes you think you’re going to do any better?”

  “We don’t know that this is the same perp.”

  “What makes you think it’s not?”

  He frowned thoughtfully, seemed to be about to say something, and then his gaze sharpened on her face. “Oh, no. Think I’m going to tell you? So I can see it all over TV? Not likely.”

  “Fine,” Nicky said. “Don’t tell me. I’ll find out for myself. The show’s called Twenty-four Hours Investigates, you know, and there’s a reason: We investigate things. Like these murders. Which is what I’m here to do.”

  “Great,” Joe said, with an unmistakable edge to his voice. “But maybe while you’re doing that, your show ought to think about changing its name. Instead of Twenty-four Hours Investigates, how about calling it The Amateur Hour?”

  Nicky’s brows twitched together. She’d had it up to about here with the sarcasm, and she meant to let him know it.

  “You—”

  “Joe.” Deputy Dave appeared out of the darkness before Nicky could give vent to her displeasure. Joe glanced around at him. “The mayor gave me a message for you: He wants you to”—his gaze touched on Nicky—“uh . . . umm . . .”

  “What?” Joe snapped.

  “Run all the reporters out of here,” Dave concluded miserably. “Now.”

  “Now there,” Joe said, his eyes returning to meet Nicky’s, “is a man with a plan.”

  “He can’t run us out,” Nicky said instantly. “If he tries, he’ll be looking at a lawsuit big enough to bankrupt the city, to say nothing of the public-relations fiasco it’ll create when we start slamming the investigation on the air.”

  For a moment, the threat hung in the air between them.

  “Great. Just great.” Sounding thoroughly fed up, Joe glanced at the brightly lit house as he ran a hand through his hair. Nicky saw instantly how it had gotten so disheveled. His eyes cut back to her. “You would, too, wouldn’t you?”

  “In a heartbeat,” she said, and smiled at him.

  For a moment, their eyes remained locked as they silently took each other’s measure. Then, as she had known he had no choice but to do, he caved.

  “So-o.”
He drew the syllable out. “I guess I’ll go try to explain the concept of a free press to Vince.” His gaze shifted to Dave. “In the meantime, I want you to take Lois Lane here home, and I want you to stay there with her until I get there.” He looked back at Nicky, who was already winding up for a protest. “And if she gives you any trouble, or tries to elude you in any way, I want you to place her under arrest, take her downtown, lock her in a cell, and sit in front of it until I get there. Got it?”

  Dave’s eyes had grown wide. The glance he gave Nicky, who was swelling with ire, was full of alarm. “Uh . . . sure thing, Joe.”

  “Wait a minute,” Nicky said. “You can’t—”

  “The hell I can’t.” Joe’s voice was soft, perfectly pleasant, and deadly. A glance at his eyes told Nicky that this time he wasn’t bluffing. “Honey, believe me, I not only can, I will. So deal with it. Or go to jail. Your call.”

  With that, he turned and started walking away toward the house.

  Seething, Nicky started to yell something along the order of “screw you” after him, and never mind that he had a cute butt. But she remembered her dignity in the nick of time—and remembered, too, the saying about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar. With that in mind, she managed a rueful shrug and a smile for Dave, whose expression said as loudly as any words that he wished he was elsewhere.

  “Looks like we’re stuck with each other.” Her tone was deliberately disarming. “Which is fine. I’m actually all finished here anyway. I just wish you’d tell me something first. . . .”

  HE HAD SENT DAVE with Nicky because he couldn’t go himself just then, and, Joe realized, Dave was the only one of his men he knew well enough to actually trust with her life. It was a sobering realization, but there it was. He was a stranger in a strange land here, and it was putting him at a grave disadvantage. As he’d warned Nicky earlier, being a cop didn’t necessarily make a man honest, or trustworthy, or anything except a cop. Two women had been slaughtered on his watch in less than a week. He meant to make damn sure that Nicky wasn’t the third.