by Mallory Kane
“Who installed your locks?”
“I called a locksmith from the phone book. He said they were the top-of-the-line residential locks.”
“Then I’m sure they are. Look. I know you don’t want me in your apartment. Just accept that I’ve decided this is the best restaurant in Mandeville, and you’re the best chef.”
Nicole pushed her chair back and stood. “Have you always eaten all your meals out?”
“Ninety percent anyway. I’m not much of a cook.”
“So where did you eat before you started coming here?”
Ryker smiled up at her. “The Lakeview Diner,” he said blandly, naming a fly-specked dive down near the lake.
Nicole bit her lip. It looked as if she was trying to keep from laughing. “Well then, thank you for choosing L’Orage, Detective Delancey.”
“Call me Ryker,” he said.
“Good night, Detective.”
RYKER SAT IN HIS PARKED CAR on the side of the road about three-fourths of a block east of the restaurant. He watched the time. As always, by ten minutes after eleven, Nicole appeared. Her golden-brown hair shone in the light from the streetlamps as she walked confidently along the sidewalk with a tote bag slung over her shoulder.
Ryker knew what was inside the bag. Her knives. Every decent chef had their own set. He also knew Nicole’s knife case was missing one knife. Her attacker had fled out the back door with it when her roommate came home early and interrupted him.
The idea of the killer having that super-sharp knife that was engraved with Nicole’s initials really bothered Ryker. The sheriff’s department had managed to keep her name out of the papers after the first mention. But even if by some miracle the killer didn’t already know her name, knowing she was a chef and having her initials on the knife gave him a clear advantage in finding her.
Ryker waited until she was half a block beyond his car before he started his engine. His BMW 3 Series sedan started quietly and purred almost inaudibly. He pulled forward at a snail’s pace, keeping her in his sight.
The short three blocks from the restaurant to her apartment building were well lit and open, an ideal neighborhood to walk to and from work. But Ryker would be much happier if she drove.
After her near miss last October, Nicole had quit her position as executive chef at the finest restaurant in Chef Voleur. She’d moved to Mandeville, several miles away, and taken this job.
Both Mandeville and Chef Voleur were in St. Tammany Parish, so her new job and her new apartment were still in his jurisdiction.
As Ryker watched her walk, and lectured himself about eyeing her shapely backside accentuated by the snug-fitting black jeans she wore, he noticed a movement in the shadows behind her.
A figure in a dark hooded sweatshirt staggered out of the shadows of a side street, less than a hundred feet behind Nicole. His head was down, his hands were in his pockets and he weaved slightly as he walked.
Ryker tensed. Nicole’s attacker had worn a dark hoodie and jeans. It was the only description Ryker had, because Nicole had seen nothing but a silhouette holding a knife. And her roommate, who’d surprised the attacker, had barely glimpsed his back as he’d fled through the kitchen door.
Pulling his Sig Sauer from his underarm holster, Ryker pressed the button to roll down the car window. The man had come from the direction of the restaurant. Had the woman who’d looked at Nicole and made a call been giving instructions to this punk?
Nicole’s shoulders stiffened visibly, she pulled her tote bag tighter against her body and she lifted her chin. She’d noticed the man.
The guy in the hoodie stumbled, and staggered forward a few steps, as if trying to regain his balance. His awkward dance could have been a misstep, or it could have been designed to get him twenty feet closer to Nicole.
Whatever his intent, that was twenty feet too close.
Ryker killed his engine and got out of the car, not closing the driver’s-side door. He moved silently and quickly across the street and crept up behind the hooded guy.
The guy lifted his head. Had he noticed Ryker? He didn’t turn around. But he did take his hands out of his pockets, clench his fists and push himself to a quicker pace.
“Hey, lady,” he rasped, reaching out with one hand. “Lady, stop.”
Nicole’s shoulders tensed under the short-sleeved green top she wore. Her head turned slightly, acknowledging the guy’s voice.
“Lady, I just need to—”
Ryker didn’t wait to find out what he needed to do. He grabbed the back of the hoodie and jerked the lightweight sideways and threw him up against a chain-link fence.
Nicole spun around with a small cry.
The guy whooped and hollered in a squeaky voice. Ryker stuck his gun barrel just behind the guy’s ear. “Shut up and freeze!” he ordered him.
The guy’s legs collapsed underneath him and suddenly Ryker’s hand on the back of his shirt was the only thing holding him up.
“Stand up! Get your hands up.” Ryker jerked the hood down and pushed the side of his face against the fence. In the lights from the streetlamps, Ryker saw that he was a kid—eighteen or nineteen at the most.
“I didn’t do nothing,” the kid whined. “You’re hurting me.”
“Not yet I’m not. Shut up or I will. Spread your feet.”
The kid obeyed, nearly falling down in his haste to do what Ryker told him to. Without looking at her, Ryker spoke to Nicole. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
He quickly patted the kid down and found a wadded-up dollar bill and a few coins, a pack of cigarettes with a book of matches stuck inside the cellophane and—no surprise—a pipe. Probably a crack pipe. He fished it out. “Turn around.”
The kid obliged, his gaze darting around, as if assessing the likelihood of an escape.
“Don’t even think about it. Look at me,” Ryker yelled. “And get your hands up.”
The kid raised his arms, but he had trouble keeping them up. He was fidgety, his face was pale and clammy and his nose was running. He lowered one arm and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
Ryker assessed the likelihood that he and the woman in the restaurant were in cahoots. By the contrast in their looks and dress, he doubted it, but he couldn’t afford to take a chance. The kid didn’t have a phone, but he could have ditched it.
“Who are you? Who sent you to follow her?”
“Who—? Nobody, man. Nobody sent me nowhere and I ain’t following nobody. I—” The kid giggled. “I don’t even know what street I’m on. I lost my car. I’m just trying to get home.”
The kid’s words were slurred and slow. Ryker peered at his face. His eyes never stopped moving. They were red-rimmed and teary. Sure enough, he’d been doing crack. He probably wasn’t lying when he said he had no idea where he was, much less where his car was. If he even had a car.
“Car? Where are your keys?”
“Oh, man.” The kid giggled again. “I musta lost ’em.”
Ryker’s irritation ratcheted up a few notches. He got in the kid’s face. “Listen to me. If you don’t quit lying—” he doubled a fist “—I’ll fix it so you can’t talk at all. Got it?”
“Y-yes sir,” the kid stammered.
“What’s your name?”
“Duane.”
“What were you going to do, Duane? Rob her?”
“No, no man. I just wanted a couple bucks. You know, to catch the bus home.”
“Okay, Duane. Where’s your ID?”
Duane lowered his arms and pulled up his pants. “I left it at home,” he whined.
Ryker decided to believe him. For an instant he considered letting the scared kid go with a warning. But he decided he’d better do what he was supposed to do. He used his cell phone to call Central Dispatch and request a couple of Mandeville patrolmen to run the kid in and check for priors.
“Wait right here under this streetlight,” he told Nicole, then grabbed the kid by an arm and marched him over to his car. He pushed him ag
ainst the car’s frame.
“Spread your feet,” he commanded.
“Aw, man. I ain’t never been arrested. Gimme a break.”
“Spread ’em. You lost your chance at a break when you accosted the woman.” He pushed the kid’s head down against the back window. “Stay there.”
Reaching through the open driver’s-side door, he retrieved a flexible strap cuff and quickly secured the kid’s hands behind him. By the time he finished, a car marked St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office pulled up and two uniformed deputies got out.
“Detective Ryker Delancey,” he said. “Got one for you.”
“Sweet,” the younger deputy said, while the older one groaned.
“Another hour and we’d be off duty. Now we got paperwork.”
“Sorry,” Ryker said, grinning. “He’s all yours.”
They marched the kid to the cruiser, settled him in the backseat and then drove away.
Ryker holstered his gun, locked his car and returned to Nicole’s side, ready to console and reassure her.
She glared at him. “You were following me?”
Ryker stared at her. “That’s what you got out of all this? Did you even notice that little jerk behind you?”
“Of course I did. But I’m less than fifty feet from my building.”
“Fifty feet?” Ryker laughed. “Might as well be fifty miles, if your throat is cut.”
Nicole’s head jerked slightly, probably at the image his words conjured.
“No.” She recovered and cut a hand through the air. “You’re just trying to distract me. You were following me. Have you done this for the whole past year?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I have been keeping an eye on you, but no. I haven’t been following you home until recently.”
Her eyes widened. “Because it’s the last week in October.” Her throat moved as she swallowed. “You do think that man is going to come back, don’t you?”
“Let’s say I’m afraid he will. I wasn’t supposed to talk about the previous cases, because I can’t convince my chief that they’re all related.”
“Your chief doesn’t think they’re related?” Nicole’s voice rose in hope. “Why do you?”
He pushed his fingers through his short hair, leaving it spiked. “Because of the dates of the attacks. Because of a connection among the victims that hasn’t been released to the public.”
“A connection? What connection?”
Ryker studied her. Would it hurt for her to know the reason he was so sure the same man had committed all the murders and tried to kill her? Hopefully it would convince her of the danger she could be in. He believed that forewarned is forearmed.
“Birthdays,” he said. “All of your birthdays are within about a week of each other. The dates range from the twenty-first of October to the first of November. Mike isn’t convinced the birthdays are important. He’s relying on the MOs, which are all different.”
“MOs. That’s—”
“Modus operandi. Or method of operation. Basically, things that are unique to the killer. What weapon or weapons he uses, similarities in how he gains entrance, who he targets. That kind of thing.” Ryker sighed. “He’s got a point. Normally serial killers don’t change their methods.”
A dark car sped by close to them. Nicole jumped and stepped closer to Ryker. He put his hand on the small of her back. “Are you okay?”
She nodded. “Just a little jumpy.” She looked up at him, and her demeanor changed. “I apologize. I know you’re trying to protect me.”
Ryker stared at her. Suddenly, the hostility that had honed every word she’d said was gone. In its place was a husky softness that slid through him straight to his groin. Surely she wasn’t doing that on purpose.
As if to prove that she wasn’t, she stepped back, putting space between them. “I could make you that cup of coffee,” she said hesitantly.
Ryker swallowed. He’d be a fool to accept her invitation, the way he was feeling right now. His pulse had sped up, and in just a few seconds, if he didn’t get himself under control, he might embarrass himself and her. The best thing to do would be to decline again, and head for his car and get the hell out of there.
“I’d better get going,” he said. “I just wanted to be sure you got home safely.”
“Oh, of course. I need to go, too.” She gestured vaguely behind her, in the direction of her apartment.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
Glancing back at him, she shook her head. “Please don’t. I walk to and from work every day. I don’t want to be one of those women who’s afraid of going anywhere.”
“Yeah? Well, for what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure you’ll never be one of those women. But do me a favor and take your car to work for the next couple of weeks.”
“Good night,” she called as she walked away.
Ryker stood and watched her until she got to her building and walked up the stairs to the second-floor landing. She looked down at him as she unlocked her door, then she stepped inside and closed it behind her. He waited until he saw lights go on behind her curtains.
“Damn it, Nicole,” he whispered as he got into his car and cranked it. She was no more going to drive to the restaurant than there was a man in the moon. Another light came on in her apartment. Her bedroom, probably.
The thought of her getting undressed, bathing, slipping between the sheets, stirred him again. He gritted his teeth and pulled away from the curb. “Down, boy,” he muttered. “No getting the hots for the pretty victim. That’s stepping over the line.”
Chapter Two
Albert Moser entered his house through the garage and headed straight for the photo album. He knew the man who’d come to Nicole Beckham’s rescue tonight. He’d seen him somewhere, he was sure.
The encroaching date on the calendar had sent him out looking for Nicole Beckham. He was ninety-nine percent sure she hadn’t seen his face a year ago. Still, she was unfinished business.
He knew where she worked, so he’d waited outside the restaurant until it closed and she emerged. He was delighted when he saw that she was walking home. He’d figured it would be easy to follow her and force his way into her apartment as she unlocked the door.
But then a small drama had unfolded, and Albert realized Nicole Beckham had a protector. And not just any protector—a cop. He’d grabbed the kid who’d been walking behind Nicole, cuffed him and called a couple of his buddies to take the kid in. Meanwhile, Albert was able to get a good look at his face.
He’d seen him before.
He sat down with the photo album and thumbed through all the newspaper clippings he’d saved from the murders. He’d seen that cop before. It could have been several years ago, during the brief time the police were investigating his daughter’s murder. Or maybe his picture had been in the newspaper.
It didn’t matter where he’d seen him. What mattered was, he was a cop and he was watching out for Nicole. Did that mean the police were finally taking the murder of young women seriously?
If so, then Albert had to be doubly vigilant, and doubly careful. He sorted through the six insurance forms, looking at the birth dates. He narrowed his choice down to two, both of whom had been born on the twenty-fifth day of October, three days after his daughter.
THE NEXT MORNING, Deputy Chief Mike Davis of the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office satellite office in Chef Voleur leaned back in his desk chair and frowned at Ryker. “I just got off the phone with Lieutenant James Faraday in Mandeville.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t give me ‘yes, sir.’ Tell me what you were doing arresting a kid in Mandeville at midnight last night. And don’t tell me this has anything to do with your serial killer obsession.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do both, sir.”
Mike scowled. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I was off duty. I observed a kid accosting—someone. He was acting d
runk or high. I dispatched a couple of locals to run him in.”
Mike Davis sighed and sat up straight. “And the someone? That wouldn’t be that young woman whom you’ve been stalking, would it?”
Ryker studied the toes of his shoes. “The victim of last year’s foiled attack. Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t I refuse your request to provide protection for her?” Mike’s voice rose in volume.
“As I said, I was off duty,” Ryker said mildly. Mike couldn’t tell him what to do on his own time, but Ryker didn’t like bucking authority. He believed in going by the book. He also believed Nicole’s life was in danger.
And that belief took priority over any other.
“You’re going to give me apoplexy, Detective Delancey.”
Ryker wasn’t sure what apoplexy was, but he’d already noticed Mike’s red ears, a sure sign of an impending explosion. Now the redness was creeping down his neck and up his cheeks.
“Sir, I know that the man who broke into Nicole Beckham’s apartment last year is the same man who killed those other women. I know it.”
Mike sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I’ve already told you, my hands are tied. If I combine the cases and make it official that we believe the deaths are the work of one man, I’ll have to appoint a task force, and involve the district attorney’s office. The media will be all over us.”
“Women are dying.”
“Not to mention that we’re shorthanded already. I need more evidence—a lot more.”
“Damn it, Mike. How much more evidence will it take? For four years he’s struck during the same week in October. It’s always a nighttime home invasion, always when the women are alone. And they were all born in October.”
“I thought one of them was born on November 1.”
Ryker gritted his teeth. “One day.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but there’s not enough consistency. You can’t connect the women. You’ve got different weapons, different dates.” Mike stood. “And it doesn’t help your case that you have a history with one of the victims.”