by Cassie Miles
"When we get back to the motel," he said, "I'll run some of the key law-enforcement personnel through my database to see if they fit the profile."
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and scooted back to her seat. "Some of those cops built their careers on the successful arrest and conviction of Eddy Adderly."
David started up the car and headed toward town.
She continued, "Special Agent O'Hara was promoted. Weathers is now a lead detective, talking to the media."
"Eddy also mentioned that he'd talked to Ted Hurtado. Eddy and Teddy."
"And we should check him," she said. "And Jake, too."
"Jake Zitti?" His pal might be a jackass, but he didn't strike David as the type who'd be a serial killer. "Definitely not a loner. And he's got a different girlfriend every week. He loves women."
"Trust me," she said. "He's more misogynist than you think."
They were already approaching the little town, passing fast-food restaurants on the main drag. "Hungry?" David asked.
"No way. The prison made me nauseous. As did Eddy."
He knew exactly what she meant. Revulsion had turned his own stomach inside out.
"I think maybe you need a nice, long soak in the Jacuzzi bath," he suggested hopefully.
"You know how much I love water." She tossed her head, and the sunlight played in her hair. "But shouldn't we be getting back to Denver?"
"There's no rush." He intended to keep her out of Denver until the Fisherman's murderous deadline had passed. One more day.
Back in the motel room Blair watched as David took a seat at the computer and worked his magic. His gaze was riveted to the screen of the laptop as his fingers raced across the keyboard. Frowning, he concentrated hard, and he looked as adorable as a kid figuring out a puzzle.
A basic instinct rose within her. Being close to him was too much enticement. She wanted to tease him, to ruffle the forelock of black hair that fell across his forehead.
More than that, she wanted to push aside the computer and make love to him on the desktop. Or in the tub. Or the bedroom. Wherever. Whenever. She wanted to feel his skillful hands caressing her body, to revel in the sensual pleasure of his kisses.
Pacing across the room and back again, she wished that she'd been smart enough to bring along a stash of Godiva. A chunk of milk chocolate would go a long way toward calming her down.
She peeked over his shoulder. "Tell me about this program of yours."
"After years of doing my investigative reporter thing, I developed these spreadsheets to keep the suspects straight."
He pulled up a screen. A vertical column listed the initials of possible suspects. A horizontal column across the top showed numbers.
"What are the numbers?" she asked.
"They stand for physical evidence."
"Like what?"
"Lack of alibi for the time of the crimes. Physical size of the suspect. Access to sedative drugs. Acquaintance with victims. Did they leave Denver in the past five years? Criminal record."
There were probably twenty names on his list. Only two were marked in across the board: Kevin MacKay and Justin Hunter.
Blair stared at the screen. "I can see why you zeroed in on those two."
"Don't get too excited," he warned. "This isn't verified proof. And a lot of it is circumstantial. Like the issue of alibis. Because both Hunter and MacKay are unmarried and live solitary lives, they're less likely than married men to have alibis."
"I didn't know Hunter had been out of town during the past five years."
"Occasionally," he said. "He goes to conferences for his job as a medical supply salesman."
David typed his way through a couple of documents that featured his own special code, then went back to the spreadsheet. He pointed to a new set of initials at the top of the sheet. "This stands for Special Agent Gary O'Hara."
Across the board, there were a couple of xs and several zeros.
"What does that mean?" Blair asked.
"Zero stands for insufficient data. Basically, our only physical evidence on O'Hara is that he's physically capable of murder and carrying a corpse, has access to sedatives and was out of Denver for a significant portion of the past five years."
"It doesn't seem like much," she said.
"To learn more, I need to ask more questions."
Entering a new code, he changed the screens. The configuration was similar. "This is the psychological profile. I compiled information from FBI profilers and cops."
She nodded. "What's the profile for the Fisherman?"
"Male. An introvert. Probably unmarried. A control freak. Obsessive-compulsive disorder. He feels powerless or unappreciated in his job. He was an only child or youngest son. Had a lack of male role models while growing up and an unhealthy relationship with his mother." He pointed to a horizontal row of pluses and minuses. "A healthy relationship is a plus."
"How did you find out all this stuff about your suspects?" she asked.
"Some info came from police reports or interviews with friends. Mostly it was talking directly to the suspects. It's amazing what people will tell you if you care to listen."
"Like Eddy telling us about the Red Rover," she said. "But how do you know if they're telling the truth?"
"I don't." He shrugged. "None of this information is scientific, Blair. I haven't given these people tests or technical profiles. Mostly, it's guesswork on my part."
She pointed to the row of minuses and a few pluses that stood for Kevin MacKay's profile. "Tell me how you came up with this interpretation for MacKay."
He turned around in the chair to face her. "He's an unmarried introvert who doesn't have a high opinion of women. On the plus side, he's a former priest who spent the past five years doing noble work in Third World countries."
"You might not be a real profiler, but that sounds accurate to me. How about Justin Hunter?"
"Unmarried introvert in dead-end job. Likely abused as a child. He has a morbid fascination with serial killers." He paused. "Actually, that obsession might be a plus because he uses his Web site as an outlet for his craziness."
Unable to resist him any longer, she took David's hands and pulled him away from the computer. "How about Detective Weathers?"
"I think he's married."
"Divorced," she said. "With two kids."
"He likes to boss people around. That fits the profile. But he's uncomfortable in the spotlight. That's not like the Fisherman, who craves attention and recognition."
"What do we think about O'Hara?"
When she tugged on his hands again, he planted his feet firmly. "Where are we going?"
"I'm thinking a Jacuzzi might be nice." She flashed a flirty little grin that really wasn't her style. At least, it hadn't been her style before she and David made love. Boldly she added an eyelash flutter. "We should wash off the stink of the prison."
His response was immediate and predictable. "You convinced me."
Within moments they were in the Jacuzzi. The familiar waters churned. The jets massaged her body. And David came to her, as she'd known he would. Her lips had grown accustomed to his kisses. Her body fit against his as if they were meant to be together. She couldn't imagine any reason they would ever be apart.
After wonderful lovemaking and a room-service dinner, they went back to the Jacuzzi. Languidly she murmured, "We didn't make much progress toward solving the case."
"Might be best to leave investigating to the police."
She eyed him curiously. Solving his sister's murder had been an obsession for five years. "Are you comfortable with giving up?"
"There's something more important, Blair. Your safety."
"Are you suggesting that we stay here until the police take someone into custody?"
"I wouldn't mind," he said. "We could drive down to New Mexico. Santa Fe is fantastic this time of year. We could check out the art galleries, go for long walks at sunset when the sky turns a hundred lingering shades of red and gold."
What a
lovely picture he painted! She was tempted to throw this investigation out the window and glide along with him, following a purely sensual bliss. Yet she knew they couldn't quit their investigation. "We can't do it."
"Why not?"
"The cops pulled a cover-up when they indicted Eddy Adderly. It could happen again."
"And you'd still be in danger." His blue eyes darkened. There was a peculiar sadness in his expression. "I don't want you to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. But I'm not sure that we can figure this out."
"We can't give up. You've invested too much of your life looking for the truth. Can you really turn your back and walk away?"
"I want to."
"Come on, David. We were making progress. Let's think about the potential suspects. What about O'Hara?"
"Not again." He rolled his eyes. "He really doesn't fit the profile."
"But he was out of town for five years. Then he returns to Denver, and the killing starts again. Coincidence?"
"I don't believe in coincidence," he said. "But I think O'Hara's return falls under the category of motivation. Remember? We talked about this with Hunter."
"Refresh my memory." She was too easily distracted by the vision of his broad shoulders and the pattern of hair on his chest.
"After Eddy Adderly was arrested, the team of investigators fell apart. Several people dispersed. Some left town. You were injured and out of action. Pamela Comforti retired. Even Ted Hurtado took off to work on his book."
David spread his hands wide, rippling the surface of the water. "Now you're all back on the case. That's why he killed again."
"You're probably right, but I don't like to think about this theory." A shiver flickered across the surface of her skin. In spite of the heated Jacuzzi, she felt cold inside. For five years the Fisherman had been watching her. "I don't like to think of him monitoring my progress."
His attention scared her, but hiding out was not an option. She needed to be right smack in the middle of the ongoing investigation. She needed for the Fisherman to be caught, gutted and filleted.
"Let me take this theory one step further," David said. "Though I'd like to think he's not targeting you as a victim, he killed Pamela Comforti. She was part of the earlier investigative team."
Her tension heightened. She slipped down in the tub so the water was all the way up to her chin. "Do you think, this time, he means to attack the investigators?"
"In his twisted mind that might be the ultimate challenge."
"Killing the people who are pursuing him." In a horrible way his theory made sense. "I feel like I have a bull's-eye painted on my forehead."
"That's why we have to be careful." He half rose from the water and grabbed the remote from the floor beside the tub. He pointed at the television and clicked. "It's almost ten o'clock. Let's check the news."
The Fisherman was the lead story. An anchorwoman with a serious face looked directly into the camera. "This just in. The Fisherman has struck again. The body of a woman was found- approximately one hour ago at the Congress Park swimming pool..."
Blair felt relieved. It wasn't her name that the anchorwoman was about to report. She wasn't his latest victim. At the same time she experienced a pang of guilt. If David's theory was correct, someone else had died in her place.
Chapter Fifteen
In spite of his wonderful night with Blair—a night that had been filled with world-class sexual activity—David woke with a start. Eyes wide open and alert, he shot quick glances into the corners of the motel room. He looked toward the window where sunlight spilled around the edges of the curtain. Then to the open bedroom door.
His fingers clenched into fists, but there was nothing to fight. No visible threat.
Leaning back on the pillows, he gazed down at Blair, still asleep on her back. She looked so pretty, so peaceful and innocent. Her rose-petal lips were slightly parted as she breathed steadily. Her left arm was thrown artlessly above her head with her slender fingers slightly curved. He marveled at the delicate, pale skin of her inner arm.
Careful not to wake her, he crept from the bed, slipped into his boxers and went into the other room to order room-service breakfast and a newspaper.
Last night they'd decided to drive back to Denver today. Blair wanted to participate in the autopsy of the latest victim. And David had an agenda of his own. He wanted to talk to O'Hara about his theory on why the Fisherman had started killing again. And especially on the possibility that he might be targeting previous investigators.
Was it worth the risk to go back? He sat on the sofa and stared at the blank screen on his laptop computer. During the past five years he'd stayed in hundreds of motel rooms, digging through thousands of documents, crime-scene photos, court transcripts and transcribed notes from his interviews. He'd seen carnage. He'd looked into the fathomless eyes of stone-cold killers. None of it had really scared him. Until now.
After room service arrived and he'd poured himself a cup of black coffee, Blair emerged from the bedroom. Wearing only a thin pink nightshirt and no shoes, she walked with an off-kilter gait that he found adorable. "Good morning," she murmured as she leaned down to kiss his cheek. "What's up?"
The front-page story in The Denver Post was the Fisherman murder. David summarized, "The victim was the producer of a local TV news broadcast. She left the station at ten in the morning yesterday. Her body was found last night."
Blair squeezed her eyes closed. For a second he thought she was going to cry. Then her eyelids popped wide. Her lips thinned. "Never talk to me about murder before I've had my coffee."
He snapped the newspaper and folded it closed. What the hell was he supposed to say? "How was your night? Did you sleep well?"
She poured herself a cup of coffee. "I could do without the sarcasm."
"It's a mistake to go back to Denver." He pushed himself out of the chair and paced across the room. "I'm putting you in danger."
"What makes you think my safety is your responsibility?"
"Because I care about you."
She sat at the table and neatly crossed her right leg over the left. Her scars reminded him of her vulnerability, but her voice was firm and unshaken. "I can take care of myself, David."
He wasn't being overprotective. The danger was real. "Here's an interesting detail from the latest murder," he said. "This victim was thirty-eight. Pamela Comforti was forty-seven."
"Five years ago," she said, "his oldest victim was twenty-seven."
"He's going after older women," David said. "How old are you, Blair?"
"Thirty-four."
"You fit in either group. And, if he's following the same pattern as last time, he's killed one woman from law enforcement and one from the media. The next one will have a medical profession. Do you understand what I'm saying, Dr. Weston?"
"I get the point." She sipped her coffee. "But I won't give in to fear. I've been hiding for years. It's time for me to come out of my shell."
Of course, he was glad that she was giving up the life of a lap-swimming hermit. But did she have to take on the Fisherman? "I'll be watching you like a hawk, Blair. You go nowhere by yourself."
"Goody." She grinned. "Does that mean you'll be coming with me to another autopsy?"
His stomach plummeted. "I can handle it."
By ten O'clock they were on the road, headed back to Denver. Blair fidgeted in the passenger seat. Though David was an excellent driver, she couldn't help the twinges of nervousness that came from having someone else behind the wheel.
She pressed her lips together to keep from nagging at him. They'd come close enough to conflict this morning. Wasn't that always the way? A couple of nights of great sex and then the relationship crumbled like a cookie.
It was small solace that she'd been right. When they first kissed and she said they shouldn't go any further, she knew they were both too damaged to have any kind of decent relationship. He was too protective, still carrying a load of survivor guilt about his sister's
murder.
Still, when she peeked over at his strong profile, the sight of him made her smile. He'd been good for her. With David's unflagging encouragement and acceptance, she finally had the courage to. think about a future that included working again in a profession she loved.
When he took a curve at eight miles per hour over the posted limit, she blurted out, "Slow down."
He eased off the gas pedal. "I think we're safe. The weather is perfect. This little two-lane road is relatively flat. And there's no traffic to speak of."
She gazed through the windshield at the rolling hills of buffalo grass, sprigged with the occasional stand of conifers. At roadside, there were springtime wildflowers. The landscape provided small comfort for the turmoil in her mind. "Oh, sure. What could possibly go wrong on a day like this?"
"Now who's being sarcastic?"
She rolled down her window to feel the breeze flowing down from the foot hills. "David, it's really okay if you don't come to the autopsy with me. You probably have some interviews you'll want to do."
"Not today," he said. "I talked to Adam this morning and told him I needed some basic data for our new list of suspicious people."
"Good idea." She remembered how thorough Molly had been in putting together their first crate of information. "Who's on that list?"
"The Fisherman strikes in three areas—law, media and medicine. Even though Eddy only mentioned hanging out at a cop bar, I targeted former investigators in all three."
"Medical?"
"It's impossible to consider all of the docs and nurses in Denver, but I suggested a couple of people from the Coroner's Office."
She rolled her eyes. As if Dr. Reinholdt was a serial killer? "What about media? Did you include Jake?"
"Both him and Ted Hurtado," he said. "Actually, Ted might fit the profile of a serial killer."
"The poor guy definitely has issues with his crazy mother." Doris Hurtado—with her platinum hair and leopard pants and the kitchen from hell—was the most clingy woman she'd seen in a long time.
"After being raised by Dons, I'm surprised Ted can even talk to women."
"He's unmarried," David said. "Loves attention and being in control. His classy wardrobe hints at compulsive behavior."