Like No One Else

by Maureen Smith

  Icy foreboding settled over her heart, chilled her blood. “Why are you doing this? What have I ever done to you?”

  He chuckled softly. “Words can’t begin to describe what you’ve done to me, Tommie. And before I kill you tonight, there’s one more thing I must ask of you.”

  She swallowed, quivering with fear and dread. “Wh-what do you want?”

  She felt him smile against her neck.

  “A private performance.”

  Seated in the shadowy interior of his Dodge Durango, Paulo lit a cigarette and drew hard on it, as if he could burn the bitter taste of bile from his mouth. He’d been camped out in his truck for the better part of the day, avoiding his apartment like a fugitive of the law. Not only were reporters crawling all over the place, but his family, frantic with worry, had stopped by several times looking for him. His cell phone had been ringing off the hook, and Rafe and Daniela had sent him several angry text messages, demanding to know his whereabouts.

  He wasn’t ready to deal with them, wasn’t ready to field questions he didn’t have the answers to.

  After the devastating confrontation with Tommie, he’d returned to the police station to face the wrath of his supervisor. As expected, Captain Boulware had read him the riot act about Roland Jackson and demanded an explanation about the evidence found at Ashton Dupree’s crime scene. Unsatisfied with Paulo’s terse responses, the captain had pronounced judgment, placing him on leave effective immediately. Paulo had surrendered his service weapon and badge, then stormed out of the station and called Ted Colston’s secretary, pretending to be one of his clients. After learning that Colston had taken the day off, Paulo had driven straight to the attorney’s sprawling home in Sugarland. But it had been a fool’s errand. When he arrived he was met by two uniformed officers who’d apologetically informed him that Colston had filed a restraining order against him. Paulo wasn’t to go anywhere near the man.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Because even though he’d gone there fully intending to confront Colston, Paulo no longer believed the attorney was behind the killings.

  After speaking to Norah O’Connor that morning, Paulo had tried to convince himself that the trail, the logic, led back to Colston. He’d wanted the lawyer to be guilty because he hadn’t wanted to face another possibility.

  An unthinkable possibility.

  He’d scoured the crime scene reports, studied the grisly photos until the images blurred in his mind. The killer had been painstakingly meticulous, careful to leave no trace behind. That pointed to someone with experience. Someone who was perfectly aware of what the cops would need to apprehend him.

  Because he himself was a cop.

  Any number of people in the police department could have had access to Paulo’s fingerprints. Any of them could have witnessed the reunion between him and Ashton Dupree, and anyone walking by his office could have overheard the final argument they’d had. But only one person knew about Paulo’s connection to both victims. Only one person knew that Paulo was related to the Santiago family, that two years ago he’d attended a dinner function where he’d met Maribel Cruz.

  And if Tommie was in the killer’s crosshairs, as Paulo feared, only one person could have known of his previous association with her.

  Only one person knew the whole picture.

  His partner of the past two years.

  Julius Donovan.

  As soon as Paulo allowed his mind to go there, he’d felt a tingling sense of awareness, a prickle of knowledge. The quick burst of adrenaline that accompanied cracking a troublesome puzzle.

  He’d called Donovan, asked him to meet him somewhere under the guise of pumping him for information about the case. He knew the younger detective wouldn’t refuse to see him. If he really was betraying Paulo, he was cunning enough not to tip his hand.

  So Donovan had shown up, and they’d talked, and Paulo had watched his eyes like a poker player, searching for something intangible that would give him away. But if Donovan was wearing a mask, it had remained firmly in place.

  He’d left Paulo shortly afterward, responding to an emergency call from dispatch. A double shooting on Westheimer, near the Galleria.

  So here Paulo was, parked down the street from his partner’s silent house, about to break the law and risk losing everything he’d built over the past seventeen years.

  Because of a gut instinct.

  Someone had drawn him into a deadly game. Someone with a vendetta against him, someone with a sinister agenda.

  If he were to have any chance of clearing his name, he had to get evidence.

  He had to find the truth.

  But it wasn’t just about seeking personal justice.

  It was about stopping a cold-blooded killer in his tracks.

  As Paulo climbed out of his truck, crushed out the cigarette, and started up the darkened street, he told himself that he was already in enough hot water. Might as well add breaking and entering to his list of crimes.

  Tommie’s hands trembled violently as she undid the top button of her shirt.

  “Slowly,” Donovan dictated, watching her from a chair tucked into a corner of the bedroom, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. “I want to savor every moment of this.”

  Nausea and revulsion churned in Tommie’s stomach.

  The detective had forced her upstairs to the loft with the lethal blade of the knife pressed to her throat, letting her know that one false move on her part would ensure her swift, violent death. Once inside the bedroom, he’d ordered her to get undressed and put on the costume he’d brought for her. When her gaze landed on the red corset and flowing chiffon skirt, her blood ran cold. Because she’d recognized it as the costume she’d worn in Black Orpheus, during the hauntingly climactic scene in which Eurydice had been lured to her death.

  Seeing the look of stunned recognition on her face, Donovan had smiled, slow and sinister. “That’s right, Tommie. You’re going to perform the death scene for me. Only this time, there’ll be no rescuing you from the abyss.”

  Terror sliced through her. “H-how did you get the costume?”

  He’d chuckled softly. “Oh, it’s not the original, unfortunately. I couldn’t risk raising any suspicions by trying to purchase the actual costume from your dance company. But it’s a good enough replica, don’t you think?”

  Tommie stared at him as comprehension dawned. “You were there…at the performance in February?”

  “Of course. And it wasn’t the first time.” His face hardened. “Get undressed.”

  And now as Tommie unfastened the last button on her shirt, she drew a deep, shuddering breath. Pretend you’re performing onstage, she told herself. Don’t think about the audience. Don’t think about who’s watching you. Just do what you have to do!

  As a stripper, she’d perfected the technique of blanking out, of becoming detached from herself. When her music came up, she’d pushed all thoughts but her routine out of her mind. When she’d deigned to make eye contact with the customers, it was only to identify the men who seemed most likely to part with their money. And even as their hands had eagerly skimmed over her hips as they’d tucked bills into her G-string, she’d always been the one in control.

  It was hard to convince herself she was in control now, with a sadistic monster holding her at knifepoint, calmly dictating her every move.

  As she slowly slid the shirt off her shoulders, he leaned forward intently, his long, lean fingers stroking the edge of the knife, caressing it in hungry anticipation. “Now take off the bra.”

  When Tommie hesitated, he snapped, “Do it, Tommie! Now!”

  Trembling and choking back a sob, she unhooked her bra and let it fall to the floor.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered almost reverently, staring at her naked breasts. “A fucking goddess. No wonder Sanchez can’t keep his damned hands off you.”

  Tommie swallowed the bile that burned the back of her throat.

  “Don’t pretend you’r
e not enjoying this,” Donovan jeered. “I was there four years ago. I saw the way you strutted across that stage with your batting eyelashes and cock-tease smile. I saw the way you had those men salivating, eating out of the palm of your hand. I saw you.”

  Chilled to the bone, Tommie stared at him. And as she did, she realized why he’d struck her as familiar when she met him at Paulo’s apartment on Thursday morning. He’d been a customer at the Sirens and Spurs Gentlemen’s Club. So Paulo had been right about her coming to the killer’s attention through her dancing—just not through her ballet dancing.

  Donovan smiled, enjoying her stunned reaction. “I was in San Antonio four years ago. I was there on business, attending a weeklong conference. One of my colleagues, who was from the area, talked me into going to a strip club with him one night. He said the Sirens and Spurs had the best-looking dancers, so we had to go there. I was skeptical at first, and I’d never been much into the strip club scene, being a preacher’s kid. But you made a believer out of me, Tommie. From the moment you stepped out onto that stage, I was a convert. A goner. I came back alone the next night. And the next. I couldn’t help myself. I had to see you. I was obsessed.” He sneered at her. “Just like poor Roland. But I won’t end up like him. I’m smarter than that. You won’t destroy me.”

  Tommie could barely breathe. Her heart thundered in her ears as she forced herself to continue undressing, trying to tamp down the fear, the panic clawing at her insides. She knew it was only a matter of time before this psychopath would kill her. Unless she did something, took action.

  Covertly she glanced around her bedroom. She had no weapon, and even if she somehow managed to get her hands on a blunt object, he would be on her in an instant. And she couldn’t forget that he was armed with more than a knife. The gun he’d used to kill Roland was holstered at his waist, a deadly reminder of just what he was capable of.

  “I was in town when the Spider Tattoo Killer struck,” Donovan explained, still caressing the knife in a way that made her skin crawl. “I was there the night the homicide detective came to speak to you about the other dancer’s murder. I went to the bathroom, and while no one was looking, I crept down the hallway and hid around a corner so that I could eavesdrop on the conversation between you, your sister, and the detective.” He shook his head at her, clucking his tongue in disapproval. “It was obvious that your sister had a thing for him, but that didn’t stop you from flirting with him, trying to seduce him. You wanted him, badly. And for some reason, that stayed in my mind.”

  Tommie stared at him, speechless. Her shame over the way she’d behaved with Sebastien was eclipsed by Donovan’s implausible revelation. How could he have been there that night, hiding in the corridor, and no one saw him?

  The same way he snuck into his victims’ houses and brutally murdered them, then left without a trace.

  “I read all about the Spider Tattoo case,” he continued. “I was fascinated, awed by the killer’s cunning and ingenuity. Even after I returned home to Houston, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Or you. You were hot for that detective, so much so that you were willing to hurt your sister over him. I began to fantasize about what it would be like to be Sebastien Durand, to be on the receiving end of your desire. And that’s when I decided to become a detective.

  “Oh, I know it sounds far-fetched,” he drawled at the incredulous look Tommie gave him, “but the truth of the matter was, I wasn’t all that happy working as a securities analyst. Sure, the pay was good, but the work was unrewarding. Of course, my parents weren’t too pleased when I told them about my decision to become a cop. But then,” he added, his lips twisting bitterly, “my self-righteous father has never been pleased with anything I’ve done. He wanted me to become a pro basketball player, even named me after Julius Erving. But I proved to be a total disappointment to him. Once he realized that I had no athletic skills whatsoever, he pretty much wrote me off.”

  Tommie swallowed, and told herself she was crazy for feeling a twinge of sympathy for him, a sense of kinship. How many times had she felt like a failure for not living up to her brilliant father’s expectations? How many times had she yearned to see his eyes glow with pride the way they did over her sister’s accomplishments?

  Did Julius Donovan’s father unwittingly create the monster he had become? Had his father’s rejection battered at his psyche enough to drive him over the edge?

  Don’t give him a pass! You’re not exactly the apple of your father’s eye, either, and you didn’t turn into a homicidal maniac!

  Donovan wasn’t finished with his story. “I seriously considered moving to San Antonio and joining the police force, just to be near you. But when I returned to the Sirens and Spurs two months later, I was told that you no longer worked there. One of the other strippers told me she’d heard that you’d moved to New York to pursue a professional dancing career. I was crushed. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I went back home, and still decided to go through with joining the police force. But I never forgot you, Tommie. So you can imagine how thrilled I was when, several months later, I found out that you’d joined a dance company that was making a tour stop in Houston. That was the first time I attended one of your performances, but it definitely wasn’t the last.

  “I scheduled my vacation around your debut appearance in Black Orpheus. I flew to New York, and was blown away by your rendition of Eurydice. I wanted to meet you afterward, get your autograph, and tell you how much I’d enjoyed your performance.” His expression hardened. “But you weren’t available. The other dancers were, but you couldn’t be bothered to meet your fans.”

  “That’s not true,” Tommie said quickly, alarmed by the lethal fury in his eyes. “I was having dinner afterward with an old employer and his wife. They were flying back home that night, so we had to leave right after the performance to make our dinner reservation.”

  He looked at her as if he didn’t believe her. “I wrote you a letter, and you never responded.”

  She stared at him, struck by a horrifying realization. “You…you sent me the letter about the dream you had? About being Orpheus?”

  “So you remember.” His tone was bitterly accusing. “And you didn’t see fit to respond.”

  “I—I was busy. We were on the road and—”

  “Like I said before,” he cut her off, “your fans obviously weren’t important to you. I mailed the letter before I left New York, and even though I was too embarrassed to use my real name and address, I provided an e-mail address that I’d set up just for you, hoping you’d respond. But you never did.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tommie said lamely.

  “So am I.” He raked his dark eyes over her furiously, suddenly realizing that she’d stopped undressing and was standing there in her panties with her arms locked across her chest, covering her breasts. “Keep going!”

  His voice lashed her like the crack of a whip, and she jumped.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she tried to appeal to him, hoping to get through to him. He was a police officer, sworn to serve and protect. Surely there had to be an ounce of humanity left in him. “It’s not too late, Julius. You can let me go.”

  His face contorted with rage. “Take off the underwear!” he bellowed.

  Tommie complied at once, heart thudding.

  A slow, satisfied smile crawled across his face as he took in her nudity. Leaning back in the chair, he reached down and began stroking his erection.

  Tommie swallowed her disgust, anger tightening in her chest. Disgusting pervert, she thought, fighting the urge to attack, to fly across the room and pummel him with her fists and claw at his face with her long nails. But her fists and nails were no match for a long-bladed knife, much less a gun.

  “After you ignored my letter,” he said, watching as she reached for the red corset and skirt, “I was tempted to write to you again, to give you the benefit of the doubt. But I was a cop. I couldn’t risk coming off as a stalker. But I couldn’t get you out of my system, no
matter how hard I tried. When I was off duty, I started going to some local strip clubs, half hoping to find another you. But of course that was a lost cause. The more I searched, the more desperate and angry I became, until one night I snapped. The stripper I’d taken home wasn’t cooperating. She wasn’t satisfying me the way she was supposed to.”

  He paused, a sinister gleam filling his eyes. “One minute I was wrestling with her. The next minute I had my hands around her throat, choking her. After she was dead, I buried her body in the woods. She was reported missing, but after a while the cops stopped looking for her. She was just a stripper, some junkie whore no one would ever miss.”

  Tommie stared at him, her face twisted with horrified revulsion. “You’re demented,” she whispered, feeling sick inside. “You need help.”

  He smiled slightly, shaking his head as if they were merely disagreeing about the weather. “I’m not a serial killer, Tommie. I’m not controlled by homicidal impulses. If that were true, I would have continued killing after that. But I didn’t.”

  “You just killed two innocent women last week!”

  “Only because of you.”

  “No,” she said sharply, angrily. “Don’t blame me for the heinous crimes you committed!”

  “Oh, but I do. You shouldn’t have come here, Tommie. You should have stayed in New York. It was too much for me to believe that fate hadn’t intervened, bringing you to Houston, of all places. It was too much of an irresistible coincidence.”

  “So you killed Maribel Cruz and Ashton Dupree to get my attention? To somehow get back at me?”

  His face hardened with loathing. “They were both lying whores. One was fucking two married men. The other was fucking every man who would pay her, including her own foster brother. It was so easy for me to get to both of them. Maribel simply forgot to lock her front door after seeing her lover off that morning, and all I had to do was flash a wad of dough in Ashton’s face in order to set up an appointment. A liar and a whore. Just like you.”