by Cassie Miles
Now what? Continue to wait? She took out the cell phone and looked at the green screen. There were messages. From David? Though he'd told her how to retrieve them, she didn't remember. If he really needed to reach her, he'd call again.
In the meantime, she started up the car. She could whip over to north Denver, talk to Jake quickly and return to David's town house in half an hour. Shouldn't be a problem.
David checked his wristwatch and strode toward the front door of the bungalow house that Justin Hunter shared with a roommate. "Time to go," David said.
"But you haven't seen everything." Hunter pouted like a child, pursing out his lower lip. "I have detailed information on sixteen serial killers, and we only looked at the Fisherman stuff."
And that was plenty. In addition to Hunter's own neatly archived account of the crimes, he had several scrapbooks. One was entirely devoted to Ted Hurtado's columns and the notes he'd received from the Fisherman. The front page of that scrapbook was autographed by Ted himself. Likewise with photographs taken by Jake Zitti, also autographed.
"Before you go," Hunter said. "I don't have all your articles compiled in a special scrapbook because you've written about so many different cases. But I'd like your autograph."
David didn't want to play a part in this gallery of horror. "No autograph."
"Aren't you proud of your work?"
"It's what I do." But there was a difference between researching serial killings and glamorizing them. He no longer wanted to be part of that world. "Crime reporting is what I used to do."
"Please." Hunter held out a plain piece of paper and a heavy silver pen, highly polished.
His ploy was transparent. "As soon as I leave, you're going to lift my fingerprints off the pen. Right?"
Hunter grinned sheepishly. These murders were a game to him, like playing cops and robbers.
"Let's go," David said. "I don't want to keep Blair waiting."
"Fine." Hunter snatched his car keys and walked toward the door. On a small table to the right of the doorway was a black-and-white photograph in a silver heart-shaped frame. He paused to straighten the picture, then to straighten it again. His motion had a compulsive rhythm, like a ritual, and David guessed that Justin always touched that photograph before he went out the door.
"Who's in the picture?" David asked.
"Mama. She was a wonderful woman. Died five years ago."
"At the time of the Fisherman killings?"
"It was about three months before the first victim." He pushed his glasses up on his nose. "This sounds a bit morbid. But I was almost glad when the murders started. It distracted me, you know."
Or was his mother's death a motivation for murder? Though Hunter's obsession with serial murder put him clearly in the category of crackpot, David was careful not to underestimate this skinny, unpresuming guy. He might be the Fisherman. If he'd been distraught at losing his mother, he might have acted out with murder. "We all handle grief differently."
"And you know all about grief, don't you?"
His tone was snotty, childish and angry. Under Hunter's bland exterior, hostility seethed. "What are you implying?"
"Your sister's death really messed you up," Hunter said. "You never got over it. Well, that's okay. I can understand. I still miss Mama. She died suddenly. A heart condition."
"Sorry." If Hunter had said that his mother was murdered, it would have made him the number one suspect on David's list. "Let's go."
"Mustn't be late for Blair." His voice was as singsong as a playground taunt, but his eyes were cold and ageless. "You don't deserve her, you know."
"Probably not." David walked through the door.
Hunter followed. "She's a genius. Truly brilliant at what she does. Her autopsies are like poetry."
"You think she deserves someone who could appreciate her work?" David hurried down the sidewalk to Hunter's car. "Maybe someone like you?"
As he came around to the driver's side, he raised his eyebrows and sneered. "I'd make sure she was satisfied."
That was an odd way to put it. Was he talking about sex? David's jaw clenched. He'd better not be talking about sex. "Satisfied?"
"Whatever she wanted, I would give to her." He opened his car door. "If Dr. Blair Weston was my responsibility, I wouldn't leave her alone at the Coroner's Office. That's for sure."
He had a point. David felt uncomfortable about taking off and leaving her unprotected. He'd thought a conversation with Hunter might break his investigation open. Wrong again.
Ducking into the car, David fastened his seat belt and asked, "Can I borrow your cell phone again?"
Hunter held it toward him. "I hope you can reach her this time."
Was that a threat? Or was David's imagination working overtime? He punched in the numbers for his own cell phone. Come on, Blair. Pick up.
When he heard her voice, he exhaled a sigh of relief. "How are you doing?"
"Great," she said. "Hold on. Let me pull over so I don't crash my car."
She was driving? She'd left the Coroner's Office? Renewed tension tightened his gut. If she'd stayed in the Coroner's Office, she'd be protected by uniformed cops and a metal detector. On the street she was an easy target.
"I'm back," she said.
"Where are you? Why didn't you—"
"Big decision, David. I'm going back to work. Dr. Reinholdt already said I could have my job back."
"Good. Now where—"
"I'm so excited! Tonight we have to celebrate."
"Blair!" He almost shouted. "Where the hell are you?"
"I'll meet you back at the town house. I have one stop to make first. See you in a few."
"No stops," he said. He didn't want her driving all over town, alone and vulnerable. "Listen to me. I want—"
"I'm so grateful to you, David. I never would've gotten my confidence back without you. Bye."
She hung up. Just like that. Had she forgotten that there was a serial killer on her trail? David couldn't believe her indifferent attitude. Independence was one thing. This was insanity.
"Trouble?" Hunter asked.
David shook his head. Now was not the time to start confiding in a suspected serial killer. "I worry too much."
He gave Hunter the directions to his house and settled back in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, counting the seconds, hoping nothing would go wrong. Over and over, he told himself that she'd be fine. She'd meet him at the town house, and everything would be all right. But somewhere in the back of his mind, David sensed that their investigation had gotten out of control. Events were taking on a momentum of their own, and he was powerless to stop them.
"Well," Hunter said. "Aren't you going to ask me the big question?"
"What question?"
"Who did it? Who is the Fisherman?"
If anybody ought to know, it would be Justin Hunter. He'd studied every aspect of these killings. "Okay," David said. "Who?"
"I wrote the name down on a piece of paper and mailed it to you. My return address is in the corner. You can wait until the police make an arrest and then open it."
"This isn't a magic show." David felt his temperature rising. "Women are dying, being killed by this monster. If you have evidence, you need to tell me. This isn't a game."
"That's where you're wrong." His pointed chin jutted out. "The Fisherman is a master gamesman."
"Do you have evidence? A witness?"
He scowled. "No."
"Is it you, Hunter? Are you the Fisherman?"
"No."
"Then I don't give a damn about your theories."
They rode the rest of the way in silence. David's anxiety level was off the chart. He wanted Blair safely in his arms. Nothing else mattered.
When Hunter pulled up to the curb, David didn't see her car. She wasn't yet here.
He leaped out and slammed the door. "Thanks for the ride."
Hunter drove off without another word. He was an enemy now, and David didn't care. He raced up the sidew
alk to his front door, whipped it open and went directly to the keypad to disengage the alarm system.
The house was quiet and dark. Hadn't he turned on the light when he came in? It didn't matter. He reached out and flicked on the small lamp on the side table where his mail was stacked.
On top was a letter from an attorney. David ripped it open and glanced at the thick parchment with letterhead. Kevin MacKay was suing him for assault. Great!
He dug through the pile, looking for the letter from Hunter. Maybe the little creep really did have an insight.
He found it. The address and return address were printed in the same style that the Fisherman used on his notes. Nice touch, Hunter. You psycho.
David ripped open the envelope and read the name. "This is nuts."
From behind his left shoulder he heard a shuffling sound. In his peripheral vision he caught sight of movement. Nothing definite. More a stirring of air than an actual vision.
Then he felt the blow to the back of his skull. His head exploded. Darkness came fast. He was falling. Going unconscious. Blair! He had to warn Blair.
Rehearsing what she would say to Jake, Blair pressed the buzzer at the front door of the Hurtado house. Though no one appeared immediately, there was the sound of movement. Crazy Doris was in the house.
Blair counted to ten before buzzing again. She also knocked. The heavy door swung inward, framing little Doris Hurtado with her mountain of platinum curls. Her scarlet lipstick was smeared, and one of her false eyelashes hung by a thread.
Blair introduced herself. "Remember me?"
"The doctor," Doris said delightedly. "Come in, come in."
Blair opened the screen door and stepped inside. The antique-looking parlor was immaculate, and she wondered where Doris spent her time during the day. Surely not in here. There would have been clutter.
Doris straightened her wig. "I haven't been feeling at all well, Doctor."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Blair said.
Her gaze went from the hair to the multicolored, paisley overblouse to the tight red leggings. At her throat, Doris wore a tasteful piece of jewelry. The necklace was so out of character that Blair took a closer look. The pendant was diamonds shaped like the letter D.
"My tummy," Doris complained, "is so upset that I can hardly eat. What do you suggest for that?"
Blair knew she'd seen that pendant before. Quickly she searched her memory. A photograph. She remembered the picture of a young woman, David's sister. She'd worn that necklace.
The realization hit like an earthquake. Before Blair's eyes was the first piece of tangible evidence in the Fisherman case. A diamond pendant worn by a dead woman. D for Danielle.
Keeping the tension from her voice, Blair said, "That's a beautiful piece of jewelry. Did your son give it to you?"
Doris pointed with her painted fingernails. "I'm sure it's not real diamonds, but it is nice."
"Where did you get it?"
"Oh, dear. Let me see." She flounced into the parlor and stood before the huge portrait of her father, lost in thought.
"The necklace?" Blair prompted.
"It was a thank-you gift."
"From Ted?"
"Would you like a drink, dear?" Doris turned to face her again. She was enjoying this cat-and-mouse game. "I was just about to pour myself a jot."
Blair wanted to shake her, to force her to concentrate. "You know, Doris, that necklace might be worth something. If you'd like, I could have it appraised."
"What a wonderful idea!"
When she reached behind her neck and unfastened the chain, Blair was surprised that her ruse had worked so easily. Doris had to be one of the most trusting people on earth.
Holding the pendant, Blair felt her breath quicken. She was certain that this piece of jewelry was a souvenir of the Fisherman. The letter D was significant. D as in Doris. D as in Danielle. "Who did you say gave this to you?"
"It was one of Teddy's friends. I think his name begins with a /. But it's not Jonathan."
"Justin," Blair suggested. "Was it Justin Hunter?"
"No, but Justin's a very nice boy. One afternoon he came over with a scrapbook of Teddy's columns." Her eyes widened. "A real fan."
A crazy fan. And a murderer? Blair knew she had to get away from here as quickly as possible. She could feel the presence of the Fisherman emanating from that necklace. She wasn't safe. Not by a long shot.
"It was Jake," Doris said. "The photographer. Jake Zitti. He's staying here, you know And he gave me this necklace."
It seemed impossible. Jake was the Fisherman.
Chapter Seventeen
Blair's mind whirled faster than a tornado. Could she believe crazy Doris Hurtado? The woman couldn't even keep her wig on straight. How could anything she said be trusted. But what reason would she have to lie?
The traffic light changed, and Blair pulled forward Though she wanted to race back to David's house and tell him what she'd found, all these cars blocked her way, and she was—-above all—a cautious driver.
To think she'd been on her way to apologize to Jake! Maybe she'd been wrong about her memory of what happened five years ago. Or, possibly, the unexpected accident had saved her life. When they went off the road and crashed, Jake's plans might have been interrupted. His original intention might have been to take her to his lair where he would have killed her Fisherman-style.
What lair? Jake was the most footloose person she knew. Occasionally, he had a place of his own, but he was usually in transit, moving from one relationship to another, from one apartment to another.
Was he clever enough to be the Fisherman? The answer, Blair knew, was yes. Though Jake seemed like a dim bulb, he had innate smarts and talent. And charm. He had a way of looking at a woman that made her think she was the only one in the world. It was easy for her to imagine how he'd convinced his victims to come along with him. He seemed funny and willing to please.
Was it all an act? It had to be! Blair had tucked Danielle's necklace into her fanny pack, and that necklace was proof. The letter D. She remembered the markings on Pamela Comforti's abdomen. A lopsided circle? It was a D. He had branded her with that letter.
But why? Was it a reference to Doris Hurtado? Pamela was the oldest victim, closest in age to Doris. But that didn't make sense. Jake had no special reason to hate Doris, to kill over and over again in her name.
After navigating an eternity of traffic, she finally reached David's town house. Through the settling dusk, she peered at the entryway. The lights were still off. He wasn't home yet.
Dusk had fallen. Streetlights were lit. The path to David's front door was obscured in dangerous shadow. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Someone could be watching her. Jake could be watching.
If only David were with her. He wasn't a trained bodyguard, no expert in kung lu. But he made her feel protected—sometimes overprotected. She'd never before had that sense—the feeling that he would sacrifice himself to take care of her.
Chased by invisible phantoms, Blair raced up the sidewalk, turned her key in the lock and darted inside to plug the code into the keypad.
The stillness of his town house settled around her. Something was wrong here. She could feel it.
The overhead light flashed on. She whirled around. It wasn't David who awaited her. "You!"
"I thought you'd never get here."
"How did you get inside?"
"Don't you remember, Blair? I was here when David was punching numbers into the keypad. I memorized the code to deactivate the alarm."
"But the door key?"
"I made a wax copy of your keys. All of your keys."
"When?"
"That lovely night when I turned out the lights and you were swimming in the dark. Your keys were in the pocket of your terry cloth robe."
Ted Hurtado preened. He wasn't dressed in his usual tailored suit. His clothing was slick black leather from head to toe, unlikely to leave fibers for a forensics team to investigate. His hair was co
vered by a cap. Thin black gloves encased his hands. He held a gun with the barrel aimed at her belly.
"You're the Fisherman," she said.
"Welcome to my world." His smile was predatory and cruel. "Before you do anything trite, like scream for help, you might want to turn around."
Slowly she looked down the hallway. David! He lay motionless on the floor. Blood matted the hair on the back of his head. Instinctively Blair went toward him.
Ted grasped her arm. "Don't touch him. He's still alive."
"What did you do to him?"
"A little tap on the head. And a mild sedative. He'll wake up in an hour or so."
She felt for David's pulse. It was strong. Thank God!
Ted yanked her away from him. "Right now I have no reason to harm David. I knocked him unconscious before he saw me. But I might change my mind if you don't cooperate."
"Damn you!" She clawed toward Ted's face, the only exposed skin. If Blair was to die, she wanted his skin under her fingernails. She wanted the autopsy to show his DNA.
He slapped her hand away with the barrel of the gun. "If you don't do exactly as I say, I'll kill David. A bullet to the brain. Not my style, but I'm capable of improvising."
The fight went out of her. The inside of her head clenched in a tight spasm, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't pass out. Not now.
When she opened her eyes, the room was distorted. Ted seemed twelve feet tall. The angles tilted, threatening to collapse upon her.
"Breathe," he ordered.
She gasped. If there was any time in her life that Blair needed her wits about her, it was now. Careful not to hyperventilate, she concentrated on regulating her intake of oxygen. She fought the desperate aching inside her skull.
"How..." she asked. "How did you get Jake to give your mother the necklace?"
"What? You were at my house?" His grasp on her arm tightened. "I wish I'd known. You could have saved me a lot of trouble."
"The necklace," she said. "The diamond D. Your mother said—"