Imagine his surprise, when six months later he'd seen her photograph on a magazine cover, floating toward the gutter. He'd rushed after it, but lost it when it slipped from his reach down the storm drain. His real search for her had begun then, but she'd remained as elusive as she'd always been. Perhaps, if he'd spent more time at home watching TV, he would've seen her on Entertainment Tonight or on E!, but the very nature of his calling demanded he keep a close eye on business. It wasn't until he'd built his nest egg and retired that he'd possessed the time to search in earnest. He'd purchased a computer and started surfing the ‘Net. He'd even started a new enterprise—a porno web site—his own version of a 401K.
If only he'd bought the computer years earlier. Then it might not have taken him so long to find her. And there she was: Nikki, a supermodel and darling of all the photographers. He'd even found multiple web sites devoted to her. Hmm. All he ever wanted to know about his darling. He knew about her glitzy New York apartment and her cottage on Martha's Vineyard.
Yes, indeed, he loved the Internet, but the more he'd read about her glamorous life, the more resentful he'd become. She never once looked back, he told himself. Washed her hands of all her old friends. It didn't matter to him that she volunteered at a homeless shelter. Who gave a shit about those dregs, anyway?
So, society had thought they would honor darling Nikki for her philanthropy. Well, he'd certainly spoiled their little party when he snared their guest of honor.
Again he laughed. If they could only see her now, all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. She didn't look so super. Now she was his ... forever.
Time to torment her again. He couldn't remember when he'd had such fun. He scooted away from the video screen and stood up to get a better look. Dear girl appeared to have settled down for a little nap.
Forty-six
Lorena allowed the girl a moment to settle comfortably on the sofa. “Now tell me about the flowers and e-mails Nikki received—the ones that upset her."
“Where do you want me to start? I already told the detective all I know."
“I know, but you're so close to Nikki, and anything, however small, might be useful."
“Okay.” Alexa nodded, twisting her mouth to one side, “Well—uh, I know about the e-mails ‘cause one day, Nikki showed me her e-mail list and told me to delete anything that wasn't from any of my friends. She said if I didn't know the screen name, to delete'em."
“And did you?"
She watched, making mental notes of Alexa's body language. The girl looked down at her hands, then directed her gaze to Lorena. Wrinkling her nose, the girl admitted, “Uh, one time I opened a couple of them, and they had links to some porno sites. Majorly gross, so I deleted them after that."
“I see.” Lorena looked down at her PDA and hid her smile. “Is Nikki involved with your father?"
“No."
“You might not know, if they were discreet."
“Oh, I'd know."
“How?"
“I'd just know. I mean, Nikki would be happy and not get mad every time I mention Daddy's name."
“Could she be dating someone else?"
Alexa shrugged. “I don't think so. She's been real busy, traveling all over the country promoting her book."
Why someone as lovely as Nikki wasn't dating anyone? Why had Nikki agreed to spend last summer as a teenager's companion? Lorena was pretty certain she knew the reason—Max. She grew uncomfortable. She'd gone beyond what she needed to know for the case and was on the verge of prying for her own curiosity.
“All right, I want you to think back. Whenever the two of you were doing things together, was there anyone who bothered or harassed her in anyway?"
Alexa gave a huge sigh. “It's hard to say. I mean, almost everybody, especially men, wanted to talk to her. I already told the detective about the guard at the shelter. He always acted like he knew her."
“What did Nikki say about him?"
“Just she didn't know him, and people acting like that was the price of being famous."
“Was there anyone else, in the last year or so?"
Alexa twisted about in her chair, appearing to consider the question.
“Anyone, no matter how insignificant?"
“There was this geeky guy who tried to get her phone number in the deli one day."
“Describe him."
“Uh, kind of medium tall, pudgy around the waist.” Alexa chewed her lip, concentrating. “Brown hair, combed over his bald spot.” She shook her head. “That's all I remember."
“What did he say to her?"
“I wasn't close enough to hear, but he gave Nikki a business card."
Lorena slowed her breathing. Keep calm. “What did she do with it?"
“Stuck it in her purse."
“Do you remember which one?"
“Uh, let's see. It was toward the end of summer. Hot weather. Hmm,” Alexa chewed on her lip again, then smiled. “Yes, it was a big shoulder bag-linen or something like that."
“Do you know where she keeps it?"
“I do if she left it here when she moved to Marti's.” She jumped up. “I'll be right back."
Alexa ran from the room. In less that two minutes, the girl returned, triumphantly carrying the bag in question. Lorena took it from Alexa's outstretched hands.
“I'm afraid to look,” Alexa said.
“Well, it's a very long shot, but maybe it's still there.” Lorena reached into the depths of the purse and felt around the bottom. She pulled out three pennies, an emery board, an unused tissue ... and a crumpled business card. Lorena offered a quick, silent prayer before unfolding it. “MEGALOMANIA COMPUTERS, Stuart Hall President.” The card included his address, phone and fax numbers, and an e-mail address. “How convenient."
Lorena jumped up and walked into the hall. “Agent Eastwood,” she called, tapping her foot.
The unfortunately-named agent sauntered into the hall. “Yes, ma'am."
“Send a team around to roust this guy.” She handed Agent Eastwood the card. “He tried to pick up Nikki in a deli."
“Sure thing, ma'am.” Eastwood turned on his heel, pulling the cellular phone from his pocket, and set the wheels in motion.
Not for the first time, Lorena watched the agent's confident strut, while he walked back to the kitchen. What had Eastwood's mother been thinking? Naming her son Clint. She must've been quite a fan. Poor guy. He obviously felt he had something to prove, and she fully intended to enjoy the spectacle.
Forty-seven
At the townhouse, Marti Alden paced up and down the hall; she paced. She'd abandoned her white pilgrim's cap, but still wore the rest of the costume. With her husband Tom she'd hurried to the townhouse, mainly for moral support and because she couldn't think of anywhere else she'd rather be. Going home was out of the question. No way could she sit idly by while her best friend was missing. She shivered at the thoughts whirling through her mind. “Just let her be alive, that's all I ask,” she prayed.
The FBI wanted to talk to her. If it were anyone but Nikki, Marti acknowledged she might've been excited about the prospect of being interrogated by one of the hunky agents in the kitchen. But no, it was the female agent who wanted to talk to her. Not that she minded being interrogated by Agent Judson, it was just that Nikki...
Oh, God, what if...
The study door opened; Alexa came out. “Hi, Mrs. Alden.” Alexa gave Marti a wan smile.
“Hey sweetie, are you okay?” She hugged the teenager, surprised that Alexa had grown at least three inches in last year.
“I guess so,” she sniffed. “But I'm so worried about her."
“Me too, hon. Me too."
A low well-modulated voice spoke, “Mrs. Alden?"
Marti looked up. Agent Judson was of medium height, a trim figure, with shiny dark hair cut short in a style that was attractive and no-nonsense at the same time. Intelligent dark brown eyes, worried eyes, gazed back at her. “Yes, I'm Marti Alden."
“Agen
t Judson.” The woman stood back, motioning for Marti to enter the study ahead of her. “I'm sorry we have to meet under such circumstances."
“Any leads?” Marti couldn't keep from asking. She walked into the study and sank down on the sofa.
“It's early yet, I'm afraid."
Judson's tone of voice was meant to be soothing, but Marti wasn't soothed. She watched as the agent took the chair opposite and turned on her recorder.
“I'll be recording our interview."
Marti nodded. “I understand."
“How long have you known Nikki?"
Marti grinned, remembering how she'd met Nikki. “Ten years."
“You've been close to her since then?"
“Yes."
“Then you would know if she were involved with someone?"
“Yes."
“Do you have any idea who her stalker might be?"
“Some nut case?” she answered, glancing around the room. Cigarettes? Damn she could really use one right now.
“True, but is there anyone you know in her life who might fit that description?"
“No. Nikki always made it a point not to hang around with nut cases,” she replied unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
Agent Judson shot Marti a sour expression.
“What about her editor? Have you ever met him?"
Marti shook her head. “No."
“Has she ever said anything about him?"
“Just that he was here one afternoon and Max acted like a junk yard dog when the two of them met."
“Junk yard dog?” Agent Judson raised an eyebrow.
“You know, territorial."
“And McHugh's response?"
“From the way Nikki described it to me, her editor made a strategic retreat. Discretion being the better part of valor, I guess."
“He wasn't angry?"
“Didn't sound like it."
The agent sighed. “Anyone else? For example, was there anyone who annoyed her or seemed to hang around on the periphery?"
“I can't think of anyone.” Marti racked her brain. Her friend's life might depend on anything she could remember. “For the last year, she'd kept a very low profile, you know. She'd kept pretty much out of the public eye until her book was published. But then the hype took off. She did some talk shows—Leno and Letterman. Then E! did a one-hour special on her career and the book."
“Weren't there some episodes of stalking before she did publicity for the book?"
“Sure. First one happened when she still had the beach house at Martha's Vineyard."
“That was when?"
“May last year."
“So it hasn't been a full year?"
“No."
“Tell me about it."
“Well, she'd just come back from a walk on the beach and found a note on the table. Outside on the deck, I mean."
“What did it say?"
“Oh, uh—something like, ‘you don't need him.'
“And the ‘him’ it referred to was?"
Marti delayed answering. “Uh, probably Max."
“Mr. Devereaux, I see.” Agent Judson paused and made an entry on her PDA. “Why do you think it referred to Mr. Devereaux?"
“Well, he'd just left in a huff. He and Nikki—uh, had a disagreement on the beach."
“About?"
“See here. I don't think whatever they argued about has anything to do with her disappearance, unless you think he has her stashed away in the cellar or something."
“But the stalker incidents date from that initial note?"
“Yes, and there was a rose attached to the note too—and there weren't any rose bushes at the beach house.” Marti's indignation grew. The smart and well-dressed FBI agent was ready to pin this on Max.
“Tell me more about Nikki's relationship with Max."
“You're barking up the wrong tree, Agent.” Marti couldn't resist a calculating dig. “Or maybe you're prying into their relationship for reasons of your own."
The usually self-possessed agent had the grace to blush. Marti was glad she'd managed to disturb the agent's equanimity.
“My involvement in Nikki's disappearance is purely professional. It's my job to find her, and in order to do that, I sometimes ask difficult questions. So, you and I have the same objective. Let's try to remember that. Truce?"
It was Marti's turn to blush. “Sorry, guess I'm a little protective of Nikki."
“A little?"
Marti shrugged. “Okay, a lot."
“What other episodes can you tell me about?"
“I know that the stalker sent her flowers, always roses, several times. I can't remember when, but just often enough to get on her nerves."
“Why didn't she report it?"
“She preferred to ignore him. Didn't take him seriously. Honestly, I tried—but she wouldn't listen."
“When did the e-mails start?"
“Within a couple of weeks after she bought the computer. I mean, if I didn't know better, I'd think he was watching her. Maybe he saw it delivered."
Lorena nodded. “It's possible."
Forty-eight
It doesn't make sense. Lorena scanned the list she'd made while recording the interviews with Max, his daughter and Martha Alden. There weren't many men in Nikki's life needing investigation: her editor, a fashion photographer who might not even be in the country, the computer guy in the deli, a security guard at the shelter, and a pimp—not much to go on.
Somehow the situation didn't feel like a traditional stalking. As far as she could determine, there had been no physical contact, no disappointed suitors. As a rule, a stalker didn't kidnap his victim. He-harassed his victim, showing up everywhere, and eventually escalating to physical harm ... or worse. Surely she'd missed something important, some detail that would fit it neatly into one category or another.
She closed her eyes. Flowers and harassing e-mails fit, but the kidnapping didn't. And from all she could ascertain, Nikki hadn't had any idea who her stalker was, either. As a rule, stalkers made their presence known long before escalating to a kidnap scenario. As yet there'd been no demand for ransom. No communication at all. The case didn't fall into a typical kidnap profile, either.
“Excuse me, Agent Judson."
Lorena opened her eyes. Agent Samuels stood at her side. “Yes, what is it?"
“We have a lead on the e-mails. We've managed to trace his ISP. We should have his name quite soon."
“Assuming, and there's no reason not to, that the kidnapper sent the e-mails. Keep me informed, Mike."
Mike nodded. “Yes, ma'am.” He turned to leave.
Lorena stifled a yawn. “Any coffee out there?"
“A fresh pot. Want some?” he offered.
“Yeah, but I'll get it myself. I need to move around. It's going to be a long night."
~ * ~
From the sunroom off the kitchen, Max watched the sky lighten and turn the palest pink at the horizon, heralding dawn. Nikki had been missing for over eight hours. He watched her friends, glad for their company. Three hours earlier, he'd had banished Alexa upstairs to bed. She had been drooping with fatigue after her interview with Lorena. Tom Alden had not slept. Marti's third husband was thin and wiry, thirty-something and a successful banker. Tom sat drinking coffee, the fingers of his left hand beating a tattoo on the arm of the sofa. Marti had finally given up and lay in a fitful sleep, her head in Tom's lap. From Tom's doting expression, whenever he gazed down at his wife, Max could tell the man adored her.
“Max, I'm so sorry this happened,” Lorena said, walking toward the coffee maker.
He looked up, surprised by her soft tone. For the first time, he voiced his worst fear, “What are the chances she's still alive?"
Lorena grimaced. “It's difficult to say. The quicker we discover who he is, the better."
Impatient, he glanced around the room. Two of the three FBI agents were huddled over Nikki's computer, while the third argued with an AOL representative.
“You are impeding an official FBI investigation. A young woman has been kidnapped and you're jerking me around about confidentiality.” He paused, listening. “You'll have your subpoena any minute. They should be knocking on your door right now.” Another pause. “Right. Then call me back with the name and address."
Agent Samuels turned to Max. “God, I detest computer geeks."
“Do you think it'll take long?” Max asked, looking from Agent Samuels to Lorena.
“Not once we have his address, presuming it's his real address,” she replied, taking a sip of coffee. “It'll be a start, if it's not a false lead."
“I hope so.” Max said, collapsing into his chair. Waiting made him feel powerless. “Nikki's ... I..."
“Did you ever tell her?” she asked, her tone gentle.
Max shoved his hands in his pockets. “No."
“Well, the next time you have a chance, tell her."
“If there is a next time."
Forty-nine
It had taken him two months of back-breaking labor to prepare Nikki's special accommodations. The concrete block basement of his new house was perfect. The metal door had almost been more than he could install by himself, but driven by the desire to have everything just right for his guest, he'd managed.
It had taken almost as long to research the drug he planned using on his lovely visitor. Once he'd decided, it had been a simple matter to obtain it. He'd simply called in a few favors ... carefully, because he didn't want to be connected with the purchase. In fact, he'd dispatched the only contact who could trace it to him. The dosage was tricky. Too much and Nikki would quit breathing—that wouldn't suit him at all. Just enough and she would be powerless before him, unable to resist his attentions. He could do whatever he wanted ... for as long as he wanted.
He picked up the syringe, checked that the needle cover was in place, then smiled. He did love it when a plan came together. Placing a ski mask over his head, he eased down the steep basement steps and opened the heavy steel door.
See You In My Dreams Page 37