“The initials at the bottom, KLR. They’re not yours.” She pointed to the paper. “They either belong to someone or stand for something.”
Picking up his cup, he clutched the warm ceramic. So, she was astute, too.
“Know something else?” Vicki leaned forward, her focus locked on him. “I think you know what those letters mean.”
He gulped his coffee.
“You’re not going to tell.” She tilted her head. “That’s fine. I don’t want to impede your investigation.”
He set his cup on the table.
“Besides, it’s pretty obvious it relates to a person.”
“What makes you think that?” He scrutinized her face. What did she know?
“KLR. Pretty audacious.” She raised an eyebrow and sipped her coffee.
River’s chest squeezed. Had Vicki known Kent Lee Rowton, been his accomplice or…lover? “What do you mean by audacious?”
“Well, if it were on a license plate, I’d read it as killer.”
He scrutinized the paper, the letters at the bottom. KLR. The Valentine Killer. His gut knotted. Icy sweat beaded his brow. The hairs on his arms prickled. KLR. Killer. All those agonizing months, the truth had stared him in the face. He just never realized it.
Shit.
Without warning, a piercing crash emanated from across the room. River jerked his head toward the noise, his hand instinctually moving beneath his jacket. His fingers brushed the grip of his .40 cal.
The waitress had dropped a tray. The girl stared at the broken dishes, the silverware and shattered glass that had skittered over the hardwood flooring. Several employees stood in the kitchen doorway, clapping. She blushed and knelt to clean the mess while patrons flowed around her, exiting the pub.
River’s shoulders sagged, and his heart thudded in slow, heavy knocks against his breastbone. He blew the breath he held through his teeth. Just an accident. Damn, he was on edge. The note. The murder. All too similar to the serial killings of a dead man. Removing his hand from beneath his jacket, he shifted his focus to Vicki.
He froze.
Something was wrong. Her eyelids fluttered. He reached for her, but before his fingers grazed her skin, it was over. She swallowed and stared at him with clear, alert eyes.
He leaned across the table, grasping her arm. “Are you okay? Do I need to call someone?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Concerned she might have another episode, he pulled his cell phone out anyway.
“There,” she said, the single syllable filled with immediacy. She pointed toward a group leaving the pub. “Her. The brunette.”
River glanced at the group of women, two of them brunettes. He turned back.
“No. Look at her.” She jabbed her finger at the women. “The one with the shoulder-length hair.”
River leaned in his seat for a better view. There was nothing remarkable about the woman. Five-foot-two or so, tanned, brown hair, lithe. Probably a runner. She exited the pub with three other women. All wore typical business attire.
“Did you see her?” A growing desperation filled Vicki’s voice. “Did you really see her?”
“Yes. I saw her.” River tilted his head, watched the fear leach into her eyes. “What’s this about?”
“I saw it.” Her gaze drifted down to her trembling hands. She wrapped them around her coffee cup. “She’s next.”
“What?” He twisted to peer out the window for the brunette, but she was nowhere in sight.
“I had a vision. I saw the pointed D.” She lifted her chin, absolute conviction shining in her eyes. “Within the next two weeks, that woman will be dead.”
Chapter Twelve
Jamie Bennett trudged up the stairs to his second-story apartment. A double shift collecting stiffs for the morgue had left him exhausted. Thank goodness he had the next day off. Then it was back to the emergency room, working under Nurse Jennings.
“Hey, Mrs. Gretzner,” he said to his neighbor. She closed her apartment door behind her. “How are you?”
“You’re so sweet to ask.” The older woman gripped a hot-pink leash attached to a white toy poodle. “My hip’s been aching since lunch. Moochie and I are going for a walk. See if we can loosen it up a bit.” She made kissy faces at the dog while she spoke to it as though it were her child. “Aren’t we, Moochie? We’re going on a widdle walk for Mama’s hip. Who’s my good boy?”
The dog yipped and trembled. Jamie couldn’t tell whether it was excited or needed to pee.
“Tell Jamie night-night, Moochie.”
The poodle glanced up at him with watery brown eyes and yipped again. Laughing, the woman yanked the leash. She limped away, leading her pup down the hall to the stairs.
“Night, Mrs. Gretzner,” he called.
“Good night, Jamie.” She paused at the stairwell and turned back. “Oh, I heard your new roommate come in this afternoon. Well, Moochie heard him. He was very quiet. I was watching my show and wouldn’t have even known if Moochie hadn’t barked. I think you found a good one. Very respectful of his neighbors.”
Jamie nodded and waved. “Thanks for letting me know, Mrs. Gretzner.”
“Good night, Jamie.” She and Moochie disappeared into the stairwell.
He smiled. Mrs. Gretzner was a good neighbor. A little nosey maybe, but she was nice. She mothered him, kept an eye on his place, and every once in a while brought him fresh-baked goodies. He could easily overlook her curiosity and bits of gossip for a plate of hot-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies.
Mrs. Gretzner was a jewel compared to his neighbors in Austin. When he’d worked with the coroner in Texas, his shifts had changed all the time. Whenever his schedule had gotten screwed up, it seemed the guys across the hall threw an all-nighter. Loud music and laughter had cut through the tissue paper walls, leaving him exhausted the next morning.
He’d talked to them, but it had just made matters worse. They’d partied harder, played their music louder, and stayed up longer. The assholes ensured his complaints did not go ignored.
Jamie unlocked the apartment, the door locking closed behind him. “Brent? You here?”
He passed the space-saver kitchen, dropping his keys on the bar, and sauntered into the living room. A lamp illuminated the sparsely furnished room. Grabbing a well-deserved beer from the mini-fridge that doubled as an end table, he parked his weary ass on the couch. When he pulled the tab, a satisfying snap-pop echoed against bare walls. Three swallows later, the can was half empty.
Jamie leaned back, let his head fall against the soft cushion. Sure, he was exhausted, but it was nothing compared to the bone-weary fatigue, which had plagued him every single day he’d worked for that dick of a coroner out in Texas.
But luck was on his side. Fainting in the cave where the Valentine Killer had been discovered and getting fired had been the best thing that could have happened.
Jamie drained his beer. With the beginnings of a nice buzz tickling his brain, he took a second can from the mini-fridge and popped the top. After several swallows, he sorted through the stack of mail on the coffee table and found an electric bill the only thing worth keeping. Planning to get Brent’s half in advance, he ripped it open to check the amount.
Where was his roommate anyway? He glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock. Dropping the bill on the table, he rose and ambled down the short hall.
“Brent?” Jamie knocked, and the door swung open a few inches. “You in there?”
When his roommate didn’t answer, he reached in, flipped on the light. The guy worked at a pub in town and kept odd hours, so Jamie wasn’t surprised to find the room empty.
He stepped inside. Man, the guy’s a neat freak. The bed was made, the spread without a wrinkle. On the desk, two black ink pens lay parallel to a notepad. Jamie peered into the closet where half a dozen shirts hung evenly spaced on the clothes rod. A pair of shoes rested side by side, centered on the closet floor. Damn, talk about freakishly well organized.
On his way toward the bedroom door, he stumbled over something jutting from under the bed. A black nylon handle peeked from beneath the edge of the bedspread. He knelt to push the dislodged suitcase back in place, but when he lifted the bedspread, he noticed the red piping on the corner of the bag. Instead of putting it back, Jamie hauled the bag out into the floor.
“What the hell?” He stared at the rectangular gym bag. This one even had a broken zipper—just like the one he owned. Turning it around, he discovered the manufacturer’s logo missing from the front pocket.
Similar nothing. It was his bag. The logo had gotten torn off during his move from Austin. Jamie’s concern over poking around Brent’s room vanished. It appeared the neat freak believed other people’s stuff was common property.
He opened it, the top flap smacking against the back of the bag. The guy’s sweaty gym clothes lay in the bottom. Jamie dumped the contents, a bloodied T-shirt falling to the floor.
“Oh, crap.”
With tentative fingers, Jamie picked up the garment, the cloth unfurling between his hands. Damn, the thing looked like it had been tie-dyed in blood. Had someone beaten the hell out of Brent?
Though concerned by the inordinate amount of spattered and smeared blood, Jamie noticed something else. The design on the T-shirt displayed the Texas Rangers baseball emblem.
“Son of a—” Jamie clenched his jaw. The guy had not just borrowed his gym bag, he’d worn the clothes Jamie kept in it for his workouts.
Wait. Maybe the blood wasn’t from an attack. The gym used sparring for an aerobic workout. There was a good chance Brent had bobbed when he should have weaved and took one to the face.
Jamie remembered breaking his own nose in a teenage brawl. It had gushed blood all over his shirt, much like the one in his hand. His roommate had probably hidden the shirt out of embarrassment.
Still, his favored Rangers shirt was ruined. Fuming, he stuffed it back into the bag. He’d give his freakishly neat roommate the opportunity to make amends.
Jamie shoved his gym bag beneath the bed. He’d wait a week for Brent Carver to replace the shirt. After that, they’d discuss the inherent problems of borrowing things without asking.
Chapter Thirteen
“Listen, Jolene. I told you I made it here fine.” Lenny Johnston closed the door on his forest-green Jeep. “All the research I did paid off. Victoria Spiere has a friend who’s an artist here in Savannah. I’m standing outside the gallery right now.”
Two women in cocktail dresses swished past him, their heels rhythmically clacking over the sidewalk. The shorter brunette smiled at him.
“It’s an art show, Jolene. Both men and women are there.” He pushed his wire-framed glasses up his nose, wishing he’d never called her. Since his article came out in UFO and Paranormal magazine, the woman had become super possessive. He ground his teeth while she grilled him, all but calling him a liar and a cheater. “I’m telling you the truth, baby. I’m here following up on the Victoria the Paranormal Parasite story. You can call Freddy at the office, he’ll tell you I am.”
Lenny shoved his keys into his pocket and sighed. “Well, Jolene, if you think he’s going to lie for me, then there’s no sense calling. Listen, I’ve got to get in there so I don’t miss anything. I’ll talk to you later.” He ended the call amid her rants and set his phone to vibrate. How was he supposed to concentrate on his job when she was suspicious about every move he made? He took a breath to calm himself and followed an upscale couple through the gallery door.
Inside, he was out of his element. Waiters canvassed the room with silver trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Patrons clad in glitter and silk glided about the room in an elaborate dance he knew nothing about. Whisper-soft piano music fluttered from strategically placed speakers, creating a tranquil ambiance.
Lenny moved farther into the room and tried to blend. Good luck with that. Most of the stories he tracked led him into fields at midnight, waiting for a UFO to appear, or on extended camping trips in the wilderness, searching for signs of Sasquatch. Wearing a high-end, well-tailored suit wasn’t something he had much occasion for. If Jolene hadn’t made him buy it for her sister’s wedding, he would have been sorely underdressed.
He approached a painting suspended from the ceiling by micro-thin wires. The picture was an abstract, but he could almost hear the waves, smell the salt. Amazing. How anyone could elicit feelings from canvas and paint was beyond him.
“Do you see anything you like?” An Amazon dressed in a black pantsuit and spiked heels towered over him.
He tilted back his head, lifting his nose from her impressive bosom. “It all looks great.”
She smiled, her wide mouth displaying an equally impressive set of pearly whites. “Ms. Carlson works in many styles, colors. Are you interested in a particular piece?” She was either a flirt or a shark ready to eat him in one bite.
“I’m just here to write an article for a national magazine.”
“A national magazine?” Her eyes lit up, almost dancing from her skull. “Which one?”
“UFOP.”
Her eyebrows drew together, and her sparkling eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I’m familiar with that magazine.”
“UFO & Paranormal magazine.”
Her expression fogged for a moment then cleared. “I see.”
He grinned. “Yes, I’m writing an article concerning alien influences on human art.”
“Very interesting.” Tilting her head, she inspected the area behind him. “Excuse me. I see a serious investor I need to speak with.” She skirted around him and joined a couple near an abstract with bold blocks of color.
Free from the Amazon, Lenny snagged a flute of bubbly from a passing waiter and scanned the room, his gaze homing in on his story’s leading lady. Victoria Spiere stood next to the artist of the hour, Rebecca Carlson. What a striking pair. Victoria was tall, blonde, and lithe, while her friend came up a good four inches shorter, had an olive complexion, and a mass of wavy black hair.
Desiring a closer look at the two women, he ambled to a surrealistic painting hanging on the wall near them. Holding up his pen, he pretended to take notes and pressed the end of it with his thumb. Click. A nice picture of the Paranormal Parasite and her next victim.
Lenny had found the camera pen online at a site called Advanced Surveillance Depot. Paid good money for it, too, considering it wasn’t the high-end grade the CIA and FBI used. But after a little practice, it turned out to be worth every penny. Easy to conceal and no one suspected. Click.
Rebecca pointed toward the entrance, a dozen gold bangles dancing along her arm. Victoria’s eyes widened with surprise. Curious who had caught the women’s attention, he stepped to the side for a better view. A tall guy with dark hair and a serious expression strode across the room. He seemed familiar, but Lenny couldn’t put a name with the face.
“Good evening, ladies.” The man stopped before the two women, his gaze lingering on Victoria. Did he find the blonde vixen intriguing?
Lenny shifted his attention to the girl who had a knack for blending in. Jeez Louise! Dressing down was the Paranormal Parasite’s modus operandi. Not this time. With those long legs and that tight teal dress, how could the guy not be interested? Lenny would be captivated as well if he didn’t already know she was a soul-stealing psychic vampire.
Vampire. Oh, that’s good. He scribbled a note to talk to Freddy about changing Victoria’s image from parasite to vampire. Parasites might fall under the alien category, but vampires were sexier. A story with pictures of her in that dress and no one would think of Victoria Spiere as a parasite. Probably sell more copies, too.
“D
etective Chastain.” The artist held out her hand, and the guy took it. “So nice of you to come to my show. Though I suspect art has little to do with your presence here.”
“Ms. Carlson.” Chastain nodded in Victoria’s direction. “Ms. Spiere.”
Lenny rubbed his chin and pretended to study the painting in front of him. Chastain hadn’t just given Victoria the once-over, he knew her.
“Detective.” Victoria shifted her weight, moving closer to Rebecca. “Have you solved the case, or am I still on your list of suspects for the murder of that young woman?”
A murder? Well, well, well. The vampire has a cop on her tail. Lenny made a note to consider an alternate story angle. Murder sells. It might even make the UFOP cover. He angled his pen just so and—click—took a picture of the artist, the detective, and the vampire.
“The case remains open,” Chastain said and inclined his head toward her. “Which is why I’m here. I wanted to speak with you.”
“I’ve told you all I know.” She folded her arms over her chest. “And I’m at the opening night of my friend’s art show.”
Rebecca’s sultry full lips curved, and her tilted brown eyes sparkled. “Vicki, you’ve been here two hours. You must be bored out of your mind.”
“No, I’m not. It’s your night—”
“I’m bored to tears, and it’s my show.” She laughed, the sound music to Lenny’s ears.
The Amazon approached the group, and Lenny angled his body to conceal his identity. The chick towered over Rebecca.
“Ms. Carlson, I have someone who is very interested in your work.” She gestured toward an older man in front of a surrealistic painting of water flowing into the depths of a manhole with a great white shark poised at the bottom. Lenny almost rolled his eyes at the irony.
“Just a moment, Giselle.” Rebecca followed the Amazon but paused next to the detective, a conniving twinkle in her eyes. “You might try asking her to dinner. I know for a fact she hasn’t eaten.”
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