by Mallory Kane
Mike nodded. “I’ve switched Crenshaw’s open cases to Dagewood and Phillips. They’re not happy, but I’ll deal with them. They’ll manage, unless we’re deluged with homicides. I want you to take Crenshaw through every single page of your October Killer’s cases. By the way, the evidence room tells me you have the files checked out.”
“Yep. I was reviewing them.”
“I want a report on my desk tomorrow detailing the similarities between the cases. The sheriff wants to see everything we’ve got. He’s less than thrilled about having to explain a serial killer in St. Tammany Parish, and he’s determined not to bring in the Feebs. Want to see his denture marks on my ass?”
Ryker held up his hand laughing. “Thanks, but no. I don’t need that picture in my head.” He sobered. “Do you think we’ll have to call in the FBI?”
Mike took a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and stuck it between his teeth. “I hope not. I’ve only got one ass. Get this thing cleaned up yesterday. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Ryker stood. “Can I have this?” He brandished the M.E.’s report.
Mike nodded. “Yep. Dave sent me two copies. That one’s yours.”
Ryker found Bill Crenshaw at his desk, working on the computer.
“Bill. How soon can we get together and go over these cases? Mike says he’s freed you up.”
Bill scowled at him. “Freed me up? Yeah, if you don’t count the notes I’ve got to type up for Dagewood and Phillips to bring them up to speed on my two cases. That alone is going to take me all day.”
“Then tonight. Come over to Nic’s apartment when you finish.”
Bill’s brows rose. “Nic’s apartment?” He grinned. “You’re living at Nic’s apartment?”
Ryker groaned inwardly. He hadn’t meant to say it like that. “She’s my only living victim, Bill. I can’t put her in protective custody, so I’m staying there—just to make sure nothing happens to her.” He wrote down the address for Bill. “When can you be there?”
“Not until after six. Later unless you’re going to feed me.”
“I’ll pick up something from L’Orage.”
Bill nodded as he went back to typing. “Takeout from the finest restaurant in Mandeville. This October Killer case might turn out to be a cushy assignment after all.”
Chapter Six
Ryker unlocked the door and stood back to let Nicole into her apartment that night. Even though she knew he and Bill Crenshaw were working there, the sight still surprised her.
A dark-haired, dark-eyed man in his early thirties who could have been a linebacker for the New Orleans Saints sat on her couch. He was surrounded by sheets of paper and sticky notes. The coffee table was groaning under the weight of five file folders, and several beer cans were lined up on the floor next to takeout boxes from L’Orage.
“Sorry about the mess,” Ryker muttered as he locked the door. “This is Detective Bill Crenshaw. He’s working with me on the October case.”
Bill Crenshaw set an empty beer can down on the floor and made getting-up motions.
“Don’t—” Nicole said, holding up a hand. “Please.”
“Bill, this is Nicole Beckham.”
Bill’s dark eyes met Nicole’s gaze, then slid all the way to her shoes and back up. He smiled and nodded. “Nice,” he said.
Ryker made a growling sound from behind her.
“To meet you,” Bill appended. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for letting us use your place.”
The glint in his eye told her that he knew, or at least inferred, that there was a lot more to it than just using her place. She let a corner of her mouth turn up, but she raised one brow, hoping he got the message that what she and Ryker were doing at her place was none of his business.
To his credit, Bill looked away, back at the sheets of paper in his hand. Then he looked at her again. “By the way, did you make that spaghetti?”
“The fettuccini alla carbonara with seared asparagus?” Nicole knew she was being pompous, but she’d taken special care with the meal she’d made for Ryker and his fellow detective. It was her signature dish, and she didn’t particularly like it dismissed as spaghetti.
“Yeah,” Bill said. “That. It was great. I never liked asparagus, but that was pretty good.”
“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I see you paired it with a fine domestic beer.” She turned to Ryker, who was watching her sheepishly, and gave him a small smile to soften her critical words.
“I’ll let you two get on with your work.” She headed for her bedroom, taking a detour to the kitchen to fetch a bottle of water and a glass of chilled white wine. She was dying for a shower but she didn’t want to take it while Ryker and Bill Crenshaw were sitting less than fifty feet away from her bathroom door.
She closed the door to her bedroom and set the water and wine down on her bedside table. She started to undress, stopped and crossed the room to turn the lock on the door. The metallic click reverberated in the air. She winced.
After undressing, she pondered whether to put on jeans or to go ahead and get into her pajamas, although she really didn’t want to put on clean pajamas without showering. It had been a long day anyway, and just before closing time one of the waiters had bumped into her and spilled salad dressing on her blouse. So she smelled like balsamic vinegar, a fact that Ryker had politely failed to mention on their short ride from the restaurant to her apartment. She’d seen his nose twitch though.
She sat down on the bed in her underwear and took a long sip of white wine, savoring it as she sighed with exhaustion.
“Damn it,” she whispered. She wanted a shower. Now. She looked at her watch. Eleven-thirty. It could be hours before Ryker and his buddy got through with whatever they were doing, and she didn’t feel like going to sleep smelling like vinegar.
She set her mouth and stared at the bedroom door. Beyond it, she could hear the low, decidedly masculine murmur of the two men as they talked about the October Killer.
She took another, longer sip of wine, followed it with a deep breath, then stood. She’d made up her mind. This was her home, despite the fact that two large, virile men were sprawled all over her living room just waiting to leer at her.
No. On second thought, she doubted they were thinking about her at all, other than as the lone surviving victim of a killer. But that was their job. Hers was to plan, prepare and cook delicious dishes for hungry diners. She was due back at L’Orage in less than twelve hours, and she couldn’t go to sleep smelling like a salad.
Determinedly, she stripped and tossed her clothes into a basket in her closet. Then she grabbed a bathrobe from the hook on the closet door and wrapped it around her, cinching the sash tight. Another sip of wine and another long breath and she was ready.
When she turned the knob and stepped out of her bedroom, Ryker was pacing and Bill was poring over a dog-eared manila folder. Neither one of them acknowledged her.
“—no connection at all,” Bill was saying. His tone told her it wasn’t the first time he’d said it.
Ryker shrugged. “That’s why finding Nic’s knife is so important.” He ran his palm over his short hair. “Until Jean Terry was killed, I had nothing linking the cases except the dates, the victims’ birthdays and the very fact that he wasn’t consistent about weapon or age or race. I talked to the families and friends of the victims, reviewed every receipt, every tax record, every piece of paper I could find, but the victims have nothing in common but their birthdays.”
“I’m surprised Mike didn’t jump on the dates of the murders and the victims’ birthdays.”
“I actually thought he would last year. Maybe if the killer had succeeded in killing Nic—” Ryker cut his words short and sent an apologetic glance at Nicole.
Only then did she realize she had paused with her hand on the bathroom door handle to listen to them. She twisted it, hurried inside and closed the door behind her.
Maybe if the killer had succeeded in killing Nic.
She leaned bac
k against the door, feeling woozy. Her hand went to her stomach as Ryker’s words bounced through her like a pinball.
Killing Nic. Killing Nic.
Kill.
With nausea roiling up into her throat, she turned on the cold water and splashed her face.
BILL LEFT WHILE NICOLE was in the shower, taking a notebook full of notes with him.
Ryker gathered up the empty takeout containers and beer cans and threw them away, all the while listening to the sound of the shower running.
What a putz he was, carelessly tossing out his theory that Mike would have caved last year had Nicole been killed without noticing that she was standing right there. He’d clamped his jaw as soon as he’d said it, but it was too late. She’d been less than twenty feet away, the color draining from her face. Then before he could backtrack, before he could apologize, she’d rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door.
He sat down on the couch and stacked the case files on the end of the coffee table. One was missing. Nicole’s. Bill had taken it with him to review. Ryker picked up the file on top. It was the first victim, Daisy Howard, the case he’d gone back and found after he’d begun to suspect that he had a serial killer. Ryker opened it and sat back, barely glancing at the meager information. After all this time, he had it memorized.
Bill had posed some good questions and suggestions. He’d volunteered to reinterview the families of the victims to see if maybe there was a slender thread of connection that Ryker had missed.
Ryker pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to massage away the headache that was starting, then rubbed his eyes. He heard the pipes squeak as Nicole turned off the shower. Within a few moments, she opened the bathroom door and emerged in a puff of steam. She was wrapped in a pale blue waffled robe and her hair was wet. He stared, thinking that he liked her delicate features and fresh pink skin better without makeup.
“Hi,” he said.
She licked her lips and clutched the lapels of her robe tight at her neck. “Hi.” She turned toward her bedroom. “Nic, I’m—”
She paused.
He started again. “I’m sorry about earlier. I forgot we weren’t discussing the cases at the office. Detectives have to be able to analyze crime scenes, corpses and evidence rationally and without mincing words.” He spread his hands. “Sometimes we even joke about it. It’s not respectful to the victims, but that’s the way it is.”
Nicole waved a hand and shook her head. “It’s all right. I understand. I’m not thinking about cute little flop-eared pet bunnies when I butcher a rabbit.”
Ryker frowned, then laughed. “I guess that’s the same—sort of.”
“Well, I need to change—”
“Right. You’re probably exhausted. Thanks for the food. It was great, as usual. You’ll have to forgive Bill. He likes to act like a good old country boy. He might have called it spaghetti, but you should have seen him eat it. I suspect you gained a new patron at your restaurant.”
She nodded, her gaze flickering from him to the pile of folders on the coffee table, and she looked as if she was going to say something else, or ask something, but apparently she changed her mind.
“Good night,” she said, and disappeared into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Ryker closed the folder and tossed it onto the coffee table and got up to get some water. He’d drunk a couple of beers with dinner, although he’d have preferred a good chardonnay, and now he was thirsty.
About the time he drained the glass, he heard the bedroom door open.
Nicole came out carrying a wine goblet and a water glass. She was dressed in blue pajamas. They were cotton and rather loose, but that didn’t matter. The soft material gave hints of her beautiful, curvaceous body as she moved. Hints that beneath the deceptively modest cotton, she was naked. The modest top and pants were almost sexier on her than her bra and panties. Almost.
He swallowed and set the glass down on the kitchen counter. He had an almost uncontrollable urge to apologize for being there in her apartment.
She took a couple of steps toward him, then paused. “I just wanted to get some water.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Ryker stepped toward her then pressed against the counter so she could get by him. There was barely room for the two of them standing sideways. He felt the tips of her breasts brushed against the thin cotton of his T-shirt as she slid past.
He went back over to the couch and sat down, repeating over and over silently, She’s a victim. She’s a victim. She’s not sexy, she’s a victim.
He picked up Daisy Howard’s file again, just to have something to do. He heard water running. Then it cut off.
“Are those the case files?”
He looked up. Nicole was standing there, pointing with the hand that held the filled water glass.
“Yep. All except yours. Bill took yours with him to study.”
She drank her water, never taking her eyes off the folders. After a few seconds, she started to turn toward her bedroom, and then paused. She looked at him, at the files and back at him.
“Tell me about them.”
“About who? You mean the women? No.”
Her eyes widened.
“I mean, I don’t think it’s a good idea. You don’t need to know—”
“Yes, I do,” she interrupted. “I do need to know.” She swallowed. “Maybe I could help.”
Ryker couldn’t quite suppress a wry chuckle. Everybody was a detective these days. The TV shows perpetuated the myth that anyone—a housewife, a crime writer, a fake psychic—could solve murders. Still, he supposed it couldn’t hurt.
At least it couldn’t hurt his case. He wasn’t so sure about whether it might hurt Nicole to know the details of the murders committed by the man who had almost succeeded in killing her.
“Okay,” he said. “Sit down over here.” He’d show her the victims’ pictures and tell her about the murders, but he wasn’t going to let her see everything, certainly not the crime scene photos or the autopsy pictures.
Nicole sat down next to him on the couch and put her glass on the coffee table. Then she clasped her fingers tightly together in her lap. Hearing about the murdered women wasn’t going to be easy for her.
He opened Daisy’s file. On top of the pages was a five-by-seven color photo of a young black woman with close-cropped hair. “This is the first victim. Her name was Daisy Howard.”
She unclasped her hands and picked up the photo. Her hand shook. “She’s— She was really beautiful.”
“Yeah. She was a model. She lived in Chef Voleur and worked in New Orleans.”
“You said she was the first?”
He nodded. “She died in October of 2006. That was before I made detective. I didn’t know about her until last year. After your case, I talked to the other detectives about my theory and somebody mentioned Daisy. And sure enough, her case fit the pattern.”
“What’s that picture?” Nicole set the picture she was holding down and reached for the corner of a photo that peeked out from behind some papers.
Ryker stopped her hand with his. “You don’t want to look at that one.” It was the crime scene photo of Daisy, lying in her own blood, with the blood-covered fireplace poker beside her.
“Why? Is it—?”
He carefully and deliberately set her hand back in her lap. She intertwined her fingers again.
Ryker fanned the corners of the dog-eared pages with his thumb as he talked. “On the night of October 26, Daisy was home alone. Her fiancé was out of town. The killer apparently broke down the front door and surprised her coming out of the bathroom. He grabbed the fireplace poker and stabbed her in the stomach. Several times.” Ryker shook his head. “If her fiancé hadn’t been out of town, or if the neighbors had been more responsible, she might have lived. The M.E. estimated time of death as 6:40 a.m.”
Nicole’s gaze snapped up to his. “A.m.?”
“A neighbor out to pick up his morning paper saw her front door ajar and called 911. W
e don’t know exactly what time the killer broke in, but besides the blood spatter all over the living room, the blood pool beneath her had been spreading for several hours. The center of the pool was still wet when the crime scene analysts arrived.”
“But she was dead.”
Ryker nodded. “Later, the detectives found a neighbor across the street who said he’d heard something around eleven, but he didn’t hear anything else, so he didn’t bother to check on it.”
“That’s so awful!” Nicole shook her head. “You said she fit the pattern. What pattern? Why did you think she was killed by the same man?”
“The similarities. Even though the victims seem to be chosen randomly, they’re not. Whoever this guy is, he’s got an agenda.”
“An agenda? You mean other than just to kill? I thought serial killers couldn’t help themselves.”
“That’s usually true. Plus they generally escalate, and this guy has stuck with once a year. He could be what psychiatrists describe as a mission-directed killer. Most serial killers are obsessive-compulsive or bipolar. As you say, they can’t help themselves. It’s practically impossible for a serial killer to keep himself reined in. The more he kills, the less effect it has on him, so he escalates. The time between killings becomes shorter and shorter. But this guy—you could set your calendar by him. And he chooses his targets carefully.”
“You know a lot about serial killers. Have you had a case like this before?”
Ryker shook his head. “No. I’ve read a lot in the field of profiling though. And last year I consulted with one of the best profilers in the Department of Justice about the anomalies in this guy’s choice of victims.”
“How? How did he— Why did he choose me?”
Ryker closed Daisy Howard’s file. “He seems to have a way to access birth records, addresses. Each victim was born in October, between October 22 and November 1.”
“My birthday is—”
“The twenty-fifth.” Ryker glanced at his watch. “Today, at least for twelve more minutes. I’m sorry. I ruined your birthday evening. If I’d been paying attention, I wouldn’t have invited Bill over here.”