Deep Dark

by Laura Griffin

  He released his grip and stepped back. “Sorry.” He raked his hand through his hair. “I’m being . . .”

  “A dick?”

  He looked at her.

  And he knew she was right. Interrogated. It was the word Erika always used.

  Frustration bubbled inside him. He was going about this conversation all wrong. Laney had been attacked in her own home in the middle of the night. He’d read her police report thoroughly. Twice. He’d memorized every detail, including the part about her being assaulted on her living-room floor before she’d managed to escape. Had she been raped, too? People didn’t always give law enforcement the full story, and the investigating officer had been a rookie. He’d basically chalked her case up to a burglary gone wrong.

  Laney was watching him with simmering eyes now. She’d calmed down some, but she was clearly still pissed.

  This was his fault. He’d involved her in the investigation without checking her background. And now she might actually become a witness in the case, which would create all kinds of problems.

  Shit.

  Reed stepped over and reached for the cabinet behind her. She ducked out of the way, and he watched her as he took down a pair of glasses.

  “You want a drink?” He opened the liquor cabinet and got out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  “Sure.”

  “Ice?”

  “No.”

  He poured two generous shots and handed her a glass. She eyed him over the rim as she took a sip. She wrinkled her nose at the taste, and Reed almost laughed.

  This was so fucked up. He was in his kitchen drinking whiskey with a girl who would probably get carded if he took her to a real bar.

  She was beautiful. She was smart and manipulative, and that mouth of hers set him on fire.

  And he wanted her. Still. Even with all the complications.

  “What’s that look?” She stepped closer. “What are you thinking?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “You’re thinking of pulling me off the case, aren’t you? I can tell.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I hate to break it to you, but women get assaulted all the time, Reed. It happens. And what happened to me might not be related to this. I’m extremely careful about my online security, and I’ve never used a dating site. And it’s entirely possible that what happened to me three years ago has nothing to do with what’s going on now.”

  She gazed up at him, and he wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him or herself. He hated the fear he saw in her eyes. God damn it, why hadn’t she told him? He never would have let her get involved.

  “I read the report filed by the responding officer.” Reed watched her face carefully. “Did you tell him everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you sexually assaulted?”

  “No.”

  He watched her eyes, trying to gauge whether she was telling the truth. He wanted to believe she’d tell him, that she trusted him enough. “You said you didn’t see your attacker well. That he was wearing a ski mask.”

  She nodded. “Also, he’d taken out the back light, so it was pitch dark.”

  “But you got a feel for his size. You told the officer—”

  “He was bigger than me. But that’s about all I know. It’s not enough for a forensic sketch or anything.”

  And no evidence had been collected. No blood or saliva or semen. The responding officer had treated it like a burglary, basically dusting the door for prints and that was it. It should have been handled differently because of the assault, but it hadn’t been. And it was too late now. What was done was done.

  Reed sighed heavily and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.” He looked up at her. “It should have been handled better at the time. We let you down.”

  “Forget it, it’s over. And anyway, it’s not your fault.” She lifted her chin. “You still want to pull me?”

  “Laney—”

  “Don’t.” She got up in his face. “Don’t you dare. I’m the one who managed to uncover evidence that these women were targeted online. That’s the best lead you have, and I can help you follow it. You’d be stupid not to use me.”

  “That’s tactful.”

  “It’s true. I know their system inside out. Do you? Does Paul? That guy couldn’t penetrate a Gmail account.”

  Reed stared down at her, his heart still pounding way too hard. He knew what he should do. He should tell her to stay the hell away from the case and from him. And he didn’t want to do either of those things.

  “Well?”

  “I’m sorry, Laney. You’re off.”

  Her breath whooshed out. “But you can’t do that!”

  “I’m the lead detective. It’s my call.”

  “But—”

  “It’s for the best. It’s for your own safety.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “My safety?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is that, some sexist crap, Reed? You can’t work with a female investigator who’s ever been assaulted before?”

  “I’m not sexist. And I don’t believe it was some random assault.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Look at the circumstances! The method of entry, the duct tape, the lightbulb—it all adds up to a connection.” He was yelling again, but he couldn’t help it. “Do you realize you could be the only woman who’s been targeted by this guy and lived to tell about it? You could end up being a witness.”

  “Reed—”

  “I don’t want you involved.”

  “But my work is in the background.”

  “Not even in the background! Off the case means off. Stay away from it.”

  Silence settled over the room. And he saw defiance in her eyes. It didn’t matter what he said, she was going to do what she damn well pleased.

  His phone buzzed across the room. He sidestepped her and grabbed the call.

  “Hey, sorry to call so late,” Jay said.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m down at the station. You need to come see this.”

  • • •

  Reed stood at Veronica’s microscope, and everything about his body language was tense. Maybe he’d had a crappy day. Or maybe he hadn’t appreciated being called away from whatever he’d been doing at nine o’clock this evening.

  Veronica was going with the second option. Reed Novak was known to be a workaholic, but he also struck her as a man who had plenty of female companionship.

  “What am I looking at here?” he asked impatiently.

  Jay edged closer. “You don’t see it?”

  “No.”

  Veronica nudged him aside and checked the viewfinder. She adjusted the focus. The lightbulb she’d collected from Isabella Marshall’s apartment was secured to the stage with a few dabs of putty.

  “Upper right quadrant. You don’t see that?” She moved aside so he could look again.

  “I see dirt. Or maybe rust.”

  “It’s blood,” Veronica said.

  Reed glanced at her. “You sure?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Jeez. What is it with you guys? I’ve been doing this ten years. I think I know blood when I see it.”

  Reed shot a look at Jay. He’d been skeptical, too, when she first showed him, but now he was convinced, not only that she’d found blood but of what it could mean for the case.

  “Walk me through it.” Reed’s gaze settled on her, and she couldn’t help but feel intimidated. “Our UNSUB left no prints behind at her apartment, right?”

  “Right. Not at Isabella’s or April’s.”

  “And no prints on either of the lightbulbs he unscrewed, either.”

  “Right,” she said.

  “But you’re saying he left this smudge of blood here?�
�

  “That’s what I think.” She nodded. “It fits with everything we know. We know from the blood-spatter patterns that he takes his weapon away from the scene with him. The hammer or whatever.”

  “A body hammer,” Reed said.

  “Exactly. And we know he brings a lockpick, duct tape, condoms—everything he needs. He’s obviously got a murder kit. Maybe he’s got a favorite pair of gloves in there, too. Not disposable gloves but maybe work gloves or something. Let’s assume he uses those same gloves when he scopes out the crime scene ahead of time, unscrewing lightbulbs and whatever.”

  Reed looked at her, seeming to consider it. “You’re saying he left this blood on the lightbulb before he committed the murder, in which case it comes from one of his previous victims.”

  “Exactly. Or if we’re really lucky, it could be his blood. Maybe he cut himself in a struggle with someone, got blood on the glove, but didn’t notice it and ended up depositing it on the lightbulb.”

  “We won’t get that lucky,” Jay said.

  “But even if we don’t, it’s someone’s blood. And I think the killer left it there, so it’s bound to tell us something useful.”

  “Now you just have to analyze it,” Reed said. “Run the DNA.”

  “And that’s the tricky part.” Veronica sighed. “I can’t do it here. The sample is much too small, and I don’t want to use it all. I’d rather send it somewhere where they have better equipment.” She glanced at Jay and caught him looking at her cleavage. “Somewhere like Quantico.”

  “You can forget it,” Jay said. “Hall won’t want the FBI anywhere near this thing.”

  “The Delphi Center could do it, and probably fast, too,” she said. “Problem is, they’re expensive.”

  Reed looked at her for a long moment, and she could see his wheels turning. It was a very tiny amount of material, hardly visible to the naked eye. But it could be a critical break in the case. He stepped up to the microscope again and took another look.

  Veronica huffed out a sigh. “It’s blood, all right?”

  “You hope.” He glanced up at her.

  “Don’t be so damn skeptical. I know.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Laney pulled up to the curb and double-checked the address. It wasn’t what she’d expected. She glanced up and down the block, noting the empty parking lots, the gang graffiti, the burglar bars on the windows across the street. She’d heard this part of town was making a comeback, but from the looks of things, it still had a long way to go.

  Laney grabbed a tube of pepper spray from her console and tucked it into her pocket. Then she gathered up her stuff and got out, looking over her shoulder as she locked her car.

  Scream lived in a vintage four-story walkup in the middle of the block. Laney couldn’t afford to pay him, so instead she’d brought food.

  She approached the building, shifting her bags to free her hands. The downstairs was dark, but lights glowed on the second and third levels. She stepped through the unlocked front door and found herself inside a musty hallway with a stairwell. Using her phone as a flashlight, she checked the row of mailboxes. Most of the names had been scratched out or taped over multiple times. Scream’s real name, Edward Gantz, was nowhere to be found.

  The whine of a table saw echoed down the stairwell. Laney followed the noise up and came to a dimly lit landing. Hammering sounded above her head, and dust rained down as she glanced at the ceiling. It seemed late for construction work, but maybe it was an off-the-books job.

  She checked her text message again before knocking on the door labeled 2C. She waited. And waited. She knocked again.

  The door swung open, and Scream stood there, shirtless and scowling.

  “You’re early,” he said. “I’m not done yet.”

  “I brought dinner. I remembered you like Hut’s.”

  He took the bag and retreated into the apartment.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, stepping inside.

  She followed him, gaping at everything. She’d expected a choppy turn-of-the-century floor plan, but it was a large open space with high ceilings. Lumber was stacked at the far end of the room beside a pair of sawhorses. The furniture consisted of an overturned milk crate and a lone metal folding chair near the window.

  “You have the whole floor?” she asked.

  “The whole building.”

  She looked at him. “You own it?”

  “My latest project,” he said, stepping into a half-­finished kitchen. There was a row of cabinets without doors. Hookups for appliances but no appliances yet. He set the food down beside a stainless-steel sink and peeked into the bag.

  “Bacon cheeseburger?” he asked.

  “And onion rings.” She glanced around. “How many square feet is this?”

  “All four floors, about twelve thousand. The bottom two levels are for business. I plan to live upstairs.”

  “Then why the kitchen?”

  “Break room.” He chomped into an onion ring. “You want to see the rest?”

  “Sure.”

  “My office is down here.” He led her down a corridor with freshly installed drywall. “We’ll have a couple of conference rooms, server storage, the whole deal.”

  They entered a spacious room where he’d set up a desk with three workstations. On the wall behind the computers hung a large black pirate flag, an allusion to his black-hat roots. The two windows in the room had been sealed off with butcher paper and masking tape. Laney noticed the cot in the corner with a sleeping bag bunched at the end.

  “You’re living here?”

  “Haven’t moved in yet, but I’ve been putting in some late nights getting our systems set up.” He sank into a rolling leather chair. “I’m just finishing your download.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Not a lot—”

  The whine of a saw directly above them drowned out his words. Laney glanced at the ceiling. “How do you work with that?” she asked when it was quiet again.

  “You get used to it.” He popped a thumb drive into the middle computer. “I couldn’t find any zeros in the marketplace that work against Mix’s system. And they have surprisingly tight security. Whoever designed it knew what they were doing.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s yours?”

  “I overhauled everything after they had some security breaches. So you didn’t find anything off the shelf?”

  “No.”

  “What did you find on ViCAP?” she asked.

  “Give me a sec.”

  “You got something?” Hope welled in her chest. He had to have found a back door, or he wouldn’t have bothered calling her.

  He glanced up at her with a sly grin. “You’re going to like it.” He ejected the thumb drive and handed it to her, then popped in a new one.

  “What’s on this?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  There was a knock at the front door, and he pushed back his chair. “That’s my workmen. Don’t touch anything.” He went to the doorway, and she took the vacated chair. “I mean it, Laney. Paws off.”

  “All right, all right.” She held up her hands.

  When he disappeared, she returned her attention to his computer. Whatever file he was downloading was twenty percent finished. She shifted her attention to the neighboring computer and tapped the mouse. The screen came to life, showing a Facebook page for Bella Marshall.

  A chill crept down Laney’s spine as she studied the picture. Why had Scream been looking at this? Did he know Bella? She glanced at the door, then scooted her chair closer. Maybe he’d heard about her murder and made the connection to Laney’s investigation.

  Thud.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The noise had come from the front room, and it sounded like someone falling to the floor. She strained to listen and heard
a low-pitched sucking sound.

  Laney’s blood turned icy. Was that . . . a gunshot?

  She jumped to her feet. A gun with a silencer. She’d only heard the sound in movies, but it was unmistakable. She rushed for the door, then halted beside it, heart pounding as she tried to decide what to do. Had Scream been shot?

  Voices. Low, monotone. She didn’t know them. Did they know she was here? She glanced around frantically, but there was no place to hide.

  The shrill noise of the saw was back, and she darted a look at the ceiling. She couldn’t go into the hallway—they might see her. Her gaze landed on the window, and she dashed across the room to peel back the paper. It was two floors up, but there was a fire escape where she could hide. She ripped the paper away, praying the construction noise would cover the sound. She flipped the latch and pushed on the window frame.

  Stuck.

  The whine of the saw abruptly stopped. She heard a voice, closer now. She grabbed a pen from the desk and managed to wedge it under the window frame. It started to move, just barely, but she kept working the lever, darting glances at the door. Her heart was racing. Her hands shook.

  Footsteps in the hallway. A distant door creaking open.

  She managed to get her fingers under the window frame. She cast a look at the door and gave a mighty pull just as the wail of the saw started up again.

  Laney stuck her head out the window. It was an old-fashioned fire escape, brown and rusty, and she wasn’t sure it was attached securely to the building. But she scrambled onto it anyway, keeping an eye on the door to Scream’s office as she rolled onto her side on the metal slats. She could see the alley below, dark and empty. There wasn’t a ladder, not even one of those drop-down ones. Maybe there had been one at some point, but now it was gone.

  The saw noise ceased. The butcher paper flapped in the wind, and she worried the sound would attract attention, but then the breeze died down. Panting from fear and exertion, she glanced up at the glowing windows of the third floor, where the workmen were. Hadn’t they heard anything?

  A gun. It had definitely been a gun.

  Her heart thudded wildly as she crouched on the metal slats and tried to get her bearings. She had to stay hidden. Or get out of here before the person in the hallway noticed the open window. The construction noise had covered her escape, but—