by Mallory Kane
Nicole sent him an odd look. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t do birthdays.”
That surprised Ryker. In his family, birthdays, anniversaries, holidays might as well be holy days. The whole family usually gathered, or as many as possible. Even while his father was in prison, serving the term his mother’s dad should have served, the tradition had continued. They’d even taken a birthday cake to the prison one year.
Ryker couldn’t imagine not celebrating. “Don’t do birthdays? Come on.” He smiled at her. “What are you—ninety? You mean Job didn’t bake you a cake?”
Nicole rose quickly. “Do you want some coffee?” she asked, already on the way to the kitchen.
His brow wrinkled. What was wrong with her? First the vehement refusal to consider moving. Now she didn’t do birthdays. Did the birthday thing have something to do with her childhood, too?
He moved from the couch to a bar stool, leaving the case files behind, and assessed her as she brewed the espresso and steamed the milk. Her shoulders were tight. Her back was stiff, and her chin was slightly lifted. He’d like to get his hands on those shoulders and massage all that tension out until she was relaxed and languid under his touch.
He gave himself a mental shake. Focus, he ordered himself. She’s your victim.
She set a steaming cup in front of him and then tasted her own. “What about the second murder?” she prompted. “How did she die?”
He shook his head. “No. We’re not talking about them anymore. You’ll have nightmares.”
She sniffed and her mouth quirked up wryly at one corner. “You don’t?”
He inclined his head. “Perks of the job.”
She looked past him to the folders stacked on the coffee table. “The second death was in 2007.”
Ryker didn’t like it, but having her knowledgeable about the way the killer operated fit with his philosophy of forewarned is forearmed, so he acquiesced.
“The second victim was Bella Pottinger.” As always, when he said her name, he had to stop himself from flinching. Bella and he had dated briefly when he was a sophomore at LSU and she was a grad student. They’d never been serious, but he’d liked her.
When he’d caught her case, he’d felt a responsibility to her, to find her killer. “She died on October 22. Her birthday was November 1. She was thirty. Mike thought her age and her birthday were enough to keep her from being part of the pattern.”
Nicole sipped at her coffee, then licked foam off her upper lip. Unexpectedly, Ryker’s body reacted to the sight of her small pink tongue. He’d tasted that tongue, felt it on his lips, his ear, his neck—
He cleared his throat and took a swallow of hot coffee to cauterize that dangerous train of thought.
“What happened to her?” she asked.
“The killer slashed her throat with a broken wine bottle,” he threw out gruffly, amazed that talking about Bella’s awful death didn’t quell his desire for Nicole.
She winced and her eyes closed.
“Sorry. I told you it wasn’t a good idea to talk about this tonight.”
“Who was next?”
“All right,” he said, sighing. He’d convince her that she didn’t want to know. “Here goes. On October 24 of 2008, Jennifer Gomez was strangled with her phone cord in her home. On October 20, 2009, Nicole Beckham barely escaped being stabbed with a knife from her chef knife case. Her roommate’s arrival scared off the attacker. Then, on October 22 of this year, Jean Terry, who by the way was thirty-seven, was stabbed in the back with a chef’s boning knife on her patio. All three have birthdays within two days of each other, although their ages range from twenty-one to thirty-seven.” By the time he finished, he felt like a total heel. He sat staring down into his empty cup.
He could feel Nicole’s gaze on him. For a few seconds neither of them said anything, then she set her cup on the counter.
“Why was it so hard for you to convince your boss that the deaths are connected?”
He looked up. “It’s a lot more complicated than just a few similarities among victims. If you look at the victim profiles, we have three Caucasian, one black and one Hispanic. The weapons, until Terry’s case, were weapons of convenience, found in the victim’s home and left there. That’s not much of a pattern.”
“But even so, you thought they were connected.”
He nodded. “Another issue is, we actually don’t have many murders in St. Tammany Parish.”
He turned his cup up to drain the last drops of coffee.
Nicole gestured toward his cup but he shook his head.
“Then you have to consider murder statistics,” he went on. “About a third of murders of women each year are linked to domestic violence. In the grand scheme of things, serial killers are rare—maybe one percent of all murders.”
Nicole rinsed out the cups and set about cleaning the cappuccino machine. “So I guess the question becomes not why your boss wasn’t convinced, but why you are.”
Ryker shrugged. “The dates, mostly. And the very fact that he isn’t organized—that I can’t link him by preferred weapon or method of killing. Not even by his choice of victims.”
“Except for our birthdays.”
“Except that. As far as the evidence goes, he doesn’t have a signature. Nor does he seem to take trophies. Jean Terry’s murder is the first time he’s repeated anything except the birth date.”
“The weapon. My knife.”
“Right. Hopefully, that will be his fatal mistake.”
“So it sounds to me like what you’re saying is, he’s not really acting like a serial killer.”
“That’s right. Not if you consider the usual pattern of serial murderers. They generally stay within their own ethnic group. Their victims will usually be connected—age, gender, even body type or hair color will be consistent. And they almost always take trophies.”
“So your guy isn’t playing by the rules.”
“And there’s the rub,” Ryker said on a yawn. “When is a serial killer not a serial killer?” He stood and stretched. “I’m tired. You must be exhausted.”
Nicole finished rinsing the cups and cleaning the cappuccino machine, then dried her hands. She came around the island headed for her bedroom.
Ryker stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Hey, Nic,” he whispered, turning her toward him, rubbing the smooth, supple skin of her shoulders with his palms. “I’m sorry about your birthday.”
“I told you, I don’t—”
He shushed her with his index finger against her lips. Then he leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss. It might have been just a birthday kiss, if they hadn’t slept together. If he didn’t know those lips, that coffee-and-melon scent. If she hadn’t opened her mouth and reminded him of the taste and feel of her little pink tongue.
When he felt his body readying itself for sex, he pulled away. The look on her face almost drew him back in, but he bit his cheek and took another step backward. “Everybody ought to get a birthday kiss,” he whispered with a smile.
Her tongue flicked out over her lower lip, followed by her teeth, lightly scraping. Her eyes crinkled a bit at the corners. “I guess I can’t argue with that,” she replied. “Thanks.”
She turned and headed for her bedroom. But instead of closing the door behind her, she turned and stuck her head out. “Ryker?”
“Yeah?” He had his shirt half-unbuttoned.
“How do you know that Daisy was his first?”
“What?”
“If this man is a serial killer, how did you decide that Daisy was his first victim?”
The question hit him like a slap to the face. It shouldn’t have, but it did. Nobody at the office had ever questioned him about that. Maybe because they didn’t want to encourage his theory, or maybe because they knew him and figured he’d covered every possibility. Which he had.
“I went through the 2004 and 2005 St. Tammany Parish records and didn’t find a case that bore any similarities whatsoever.”
�
�What about other parishes?” She leaned against the door facing, pushing a hand through her already tousled hair. “Could the killer have been working in another parish, too? Like Orleans Parish or Tangipahoa?”
His fingers stopped fumbling with his shirt buttons. He looked up and shook his head slowly.
“What if he started somewhere else? Or is killing more often than once a year in other parishes, but just once a year in St. Tammany?”
“Other parishes’ records. Why didn’t I—? Nic, I could kiss you!” Ryker started toward her but she held up a hand, looking slightly panicked.
“No! I mean—” Her face grew red. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.” She reached behind her for the doorknob, then sent him a teasing smile. “And besides, you already did. Good night,” she said firmly, and disappeared into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Ryker stared at the door for several seconds as her words spiraled through his brain. He felt like banging the heel of his hand against his forehead. What an idiot he was. He’d dug through St. Tammany records for 2004 and 2005, and not just the few murder cases, either. He’d studied each and every case involving a woman. Muggings, assaults, even accidents. But he hadn’t checked old cases in surrounding parishes. Maybe because he’d been getting such a hard time from Mike about wasting time on his serial killer theory.
But now—now he had a task force and approval to work the case as a serial case. Granted it was a task force of two and a grudging approval, but that was better than anything he’d had before.
If he were very lucky and could manage to dig up enough new evidence to reassure his deputy chief and the sheriff, he just might be able to catch the killer the media was calling the October Killer.
Chapter Seven
Ryker was gone by the time Nicole got up the next morning. She was relieved and yet at the same time oddly disappointed.
“Stop it,” she admonished herself as she made coffee. She was not going to get used to having someone there in her apartment with her. It was too easy to become accustomed to having someone beside her when she went to sleep and woke up. She’d had that little enough in her life. And it distressed her how much she longed for it.
Ryker Delancey had one thing on his mind. Catching his serial killer. If she made the mistake of thinking he was hanging around for any other reason, she was going to be in for a lot of heartbreak when the case was over and he went back to his own apartment and his own privileged life.
She looked across the kitchen island at her couch. He’d made an effort to fold up the sheet. It lay in a lopsided, uneven square on the arm of the couch, waiting for him to return tonight. The pillow he’d used was still where he’d left it, a slight indentation testifying to the fact that he’d lain there.
Nicole had to quell an urge to walk over, pick up the pillow and hold it to her nose. She blinked, and the sensual promise of the pillow faded, and all she could think about were the photos of the dead women. The victims of the same man who’d tried to attack her. Five women, so different and yet not so different at all.
How were they connected in the killer’s mind? A model, a professor, a bank teller and a real estate agent. One black, one Hispanic and three white. She took her cup into the bedroom to sip as she dressed.
A knock on her door startled her and she spilled a few drops of coffee. She looked at the time. Not even eight-thirty. Job was coming by to walk her to the restaurant, despite her protests, but he wouldn’t be there until ten. She crossed to the door and opened it as far as the chain would allow.
“Yes?” she said.
“Nicole Beckham? I’m Lon Hébert from the St. Tammany Parish News.”
Nicole’s heart thudded in her chest. “Yes?” she said coldly. “You’re the reporter that ran that article about me.”
He flashed a toothy grin. “That’s right. I’d like to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“It won’t take long. I’d like to get your reaction to the October Killer’s latest murder. The victim was stabbed with your knife.”
“I don’t—I have no comment. Please go away.” She pushed the door but the reporter’s foot kept her from being able to close it.
“Are you afraid he’ll come after you again?” the man persisted. “With your own knife?”
“If you don’t get away from my door I’m calling the police.” She pushed against the door again.
“Hey, I’m just doing my job. Is it true that Detective Ryker Delancey has placed you under his protection?”
“I’m getting my cell phone,” Nicole said desperately, and backed away from the door. She grabbed her phone off the kitchen counter and pressed Ryker’s number as she walked back over to the door.
“Ryker?” she said when he answered. “There’s a reporter here trying to break down my door.”
“I’ll be right there,” Ryker said.
“Okay, okay. Give me a break,” the reporter replied at the same time. “I’m not breaking your door.” He backed away and Nicole pushed the door shut and locked it.
“It’s okay, Ryker. He backed off.”
“Make sure he’s gone.”
She looked through the peephole. The small, dark-haired man was standing on the landing looking thoughtfully at her door. Then he shrugged and headed down the stairs. “He’s headed downstairs. He’s gone.”
“When’s Job coming to pick you up?”
“Around ten.”
“Don’t even crack the door until you know it’s him. Understand?”
“Yes. I’m sorry to bother you.”
She heard him sigh. “It’s not a bother, Nic. My job is to keep you safe.” He paused. “Do you want me to come over?”
She heard the thinly disguised impatience in his voice. He was obviously busy. Plus, she was fine. The fact that the reporter had sought her out bothered her a little, but he was gone, and hopefully he’d gotten the message that if he came back, he’d have to deal with Ryker.
“No, of course not. I’m fine. Ryker?”
“Yeah, hon?”
“He knew that you’re staying here. He asked if it was true you had me under your personal protection.”
“He said that?” Ryker cursed. “I’m sorry, Nic. This is probably going to get worse before it’s over. Hang in there.”
“I told you. I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later.” Nicole hung up and glanced at the front door, then stepped over to double check all the locks.
As she did so, the reporter’s voice echoed in her head. Are you afraid he’ll come after you again, with your own knife?
“Yes,” she whispered to the empty room.
RYKER SPENT THE MORNING in court, testifying in a domestic violence case that had ended with the wife going to the hospital and the husband going to lock-up. Ryker testified that when he’d arrived on the scene he’d witnessed the man shove his wife down their front steps. His testimony sealed the DA’s case against the man.
Back at the Chef Voleur office, he met with Mike’s secretary, Anne-Marie Lafitte. He briefly reviewed the cases with her, then asked her to go through the five files and make notes of anything she found that the women had in common.
“No matter how insignificant,” he’d told her. “The same brand of toothpaste. Same credit-card company. Anything.”
Then he searched out Bill, who had just finished bringing Dagewood and Phillips up to speed on his open cases. Charles Phillips shot Ryker a dirty look and muttered something derogatory as he lumbered toward the conference-room door. Ryker and Bill had discussed how such a large man could move so fast when he wanted to.
Ted Dagewood was more vocal. “Delancey, you finally got your little serial killer fantasy past the boss, didn’t you? Your mama must be so proud.” The acerbic detective was tall and fit, and considered himself a ladies’ man. Word was his wife kept him in line though.
Ryker had to bite his tongue to keep from shooting an insult back at him. He managed not to speak until Dagewood sauntered o
n down the hall.
“Jerk-ass,” Bill said.
“What you said, and more. Did you get in touch with Hébert?”
“Nah, every time I called over there, they told me he was out.”
“Yeah, out harassing Nic.”
“He’s been bothering her? What’d he do?”
“He went to her apartment. She called me and told him I was on my way over, so he backed off. He’s probably back at his office by now.”
“I’ll go remind him what he’s supposed to be doing,” Bill said.
“No. I will. I’ve got a couple of things I need to say—just him and me.”
“You really don’t want him messing with Nicole, do you?”
“He knows I’m staying over there—to protect her.”
“Somebody around here’s got a big mouth.”
Ryker looked past Bill and saw Dagewood moseying back down the hall toward them. “Look who’s back,” he muttered.
Bill casually turned around as Ryker braced himself for another smart-ass comment from the cop.
“The boss sent me to find you,” Dagewood said sarcastically.
“Yeah?” Ryker responded. “Something about my serial killer fantasy?”
Dagewood smiled, as if pleased that he’d managed to get to Ryker. “Nope. He wanted me to let you know that some crazy old man called, ranting about his daughter being murdered.”
“Where?” Ryker was instantly on alert.
“Don’t get your boxers in a twist, Delancey. He’s been calling for years. Like I said, he’s a crazy old dude.”
“Why have I never heard of him, and why did Mike say to tell me?”
“Hey. Who am I? Your secretary? Boss asked me to deliver a message and I did.” Dagewood pushed past them and walked away.
“I’ve got to go see Mike. How far along are you on reinterviewing the families?”
“I’ve talked to two. Nothing new. I’m going to see Jean Terry’s parents this afternoon.”
“Good. Anne-Marie is reviewing the files and making notes on similarities between victims. Maybe we’ll get somewhere. Talk to you later.” Ryker headed to Mike’s office, where he found the deputy chief on his way out.