Lethal in Love

by Michelle Somers

  ‘I forgot about that. You’d better come in then.’

  ‘So nice of you to ask.’

  She ignored his pique and turned up the path to the front entrance. He followed, focusing on the provocative sway of her backside in her jeans. Wondering at his reluctance to leave. He’d barely slept in the past twenty-four hours and should have been anything but invigorated.

  It was the case. The knowledge of how close he was to success. His inability to let go when he was onto something good.

  She unlocked the main door, then crossed the entrance hall to the lift.

  He reached across and pressed ‘up’. ‘There’s one thing about this case that’s bugging me.’

  ‘Just one thing?’

  His jaw tightened. He glanced across at her before turning back to watch the descending numbers on the LED above the elevator doors.

  ‘I’ll ignore the wisecrack and chalk it up to a long day and a short fuse.’ He shot her a tight grin. ‘I’ve been going through this in my mind, but whichever way I look, it doesn’t make sense. Bec doesn’t fit the Night Terror’s type, so why her?’

  Torment filled her expression. ‘To get to me.’

  ‘Why you?’ The tarnished aluminium doors slid open and he stepped in after her, waiting until she selected the second floor before continuing. ‘He could have targeted anyone in your squad, or the entire police force for that matter, but instead he chose you. Have you thought that maybe this sicko is someone you know?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ Her eyes shuttered, her lips pressed tight, making him think of a mule refusing to drink.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘It’s like you said—why me? Don’t you think I’d know if some psycho-killer inserted themselves into my life?’ Her hand shook as she pushed back an auburn lock. ‘Look, I’m lead on the case—or at least, I was—so sending me a message is like sending a message to the entire squad.’

  She was too close. He’d seen it before, when a detective was too invested, when the case was too personal. He couldn’t fathom any other reason for her ignoring the obvious.

  The doors opened and he followed her out and along the hallway. ‘So, you don’t think you should be worried?’

  ‘No more than on any other case.’ She shuffled her keys before inserting the right one in the lock.

  ‘Only, this isn’t just any other case. It’s personal.’

  Her hand froze, her head jerking back, eyes widened and moist. He had her attention now.

  ‘He’s made it personal, for you, which makes me think this is personal for him, too. So, regardless of what you believe, just make sure you cover your back. And be careful.’

  The corner of her mouth quirked in that teasing half-smile of hers as she twisted to face him. ‘Watch it, Seth. Your maternal instincts are starting to show.’

  He stepped in, resting one palm lightly over her bicep, the contact burning his skin. ‘Watch it, Jayda. Any witticisms might be mistaken for a sense of humour.’

  She swayed. Green apples teased his senses, their promise taunting his tastebuds. He leaned in.

  With a jolt, she stepped out of his reach, swinging the door open. ‘Your computer’s on the dining table.’

  His hand fell to his side. She blew hot and cold so fast, he didn’t know where the hell he was at. Not that it mattered, considering this was work.

  ‘Sure.’ He draped Bec’s dress over a chair and packed the laptop into its bag, too aware of her watching his every move. Then he slung the strap over his shoulder. ‘Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Not too early.’ Air huffed through her lips, as if she were doing him a favour. ‘Use my spot in the garage. Number twenty-nine.’ She dropped the remote control in his palm, her lip caught between her teeth again. It took all his strength not to move in and kiss it free.

  ‘Nine?’

  ‘Make it ten.’

  ‘Make it nine-thirty and I’ll bring coffee.’

  ‘You sure know how to woo a girl.’

  ‘You have no idea,’ he muttered. Then he turned and left while he still could.

  18

  The witch entered the building, but not alone. Scampering close at her heels was her two-bit reporter, like some faithful pound-puppy, tongue lolling, tail wagging.

  Fire blazed up from his lungs and into his throat, drowning his tastebuds in a flood of burnt copper and bile. He spat out the phlegm and blood that followed, his hand fisted against the spasming muscle in his chest. Time was running out, and there was still so much to do.

  He thought of the reporter. How he’d insinuated himself into her life. So easy, so fast. She flitted from one sap to another. So like a woman. Fickle and faithless. Her only saving grace was that the hound left minutes after arriving, tail firmly tucked between his legs, not hers.

  Rendering her alone in that big, empty apartment.

  He grinned. What did she make of him now?

  He thought about what was to come and his heart began to race. Let the games begin.

  19

  Sleep was impossible.

  Thoughts jumbled through Jayda’s mind, elbowing roughly for attention as she lay on her back and stared into the hazy dark above.

  First came Juz’s allusions regarding her parents’ split, her father’s evasion. Then her battered car, in evidence being dusted for prints. The parking garage’s blank video feed due to unexplained interference with the building’s security system. Chase’s weird behaviour. His unquestioning compliance in cutting her off from the investigation. Seth declaring the Night Terror was someone she knew.

  Bec dead.

  She bit her lip and blinked. Yet, despite her squad’s stonewalling, she’d made a breakthrough. The end of the week seemed an eternity away, but at least Will Andrews could be trusted to pass his DNA findings on to her given his old-school loyalty to her father.

  Flinging onto her side, she punched the pillow and scrunched her eyelids. Bec’s scorched face stared vacantly back.

  Jayda’s eyes catapulted open. She scrambled over the bed and flicked the switch on the bedside lamp. Yellow flooded the room and the image dissipated.

  Not tired enough yet. Her weary body protested, but her mind refused to follow suit.

  Pushing up, she squished her pillow into shape, falling back against it and the bedhead as she checked her mobile. No messages. Her mother hadn’t returned any of her calls.

  A rapier taunt pierced her heart. Does she blame me for Bec’s death?

  As the thought growled through her mind, she reached for her sister’s address book from the bedside table.

  When he died, I always wondered if they wished it was me.

  She shook her head, turned the first page. Her mother was nothing like Seth’s . . . and damn the man for unleashing the idea.

  Her conscience rumbled.

  The hard lines of the book dug into her palms. It didn’t matter why he’d said the words, they were out and causing havoc. Irrational thoughts would do nothing but undermine her and her ability to catch the killer. That and nothing else was priority right now. He was becoming too bossy, too know-it-all, and filling her thoughts too much. She’d be better off working the case alone.

  With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts. Eleanor Roosevelt’s words whorled across the top of the first page in Bec’s perfect, sinuous hand.

  That was Bec. Hopeful. Forever the optimist.

  Jayda pushed thoughts of Seth to the backburner and turned to the next page.

  Every path has its puddles. A line Bec had used on more than one occasion. Much as her heart wrenched, she could feel herself smile.

  Each page began in the same way. An inspirational quote followed by a list of contacts, both family and friends.

  As she scanned the pages, nothing leaped out. What had she expected? The killer’s name and address in Bec’s own scrawl?

  It was doubtful her sister had known the Night Terror. Just as it was doubtful she herself knew him. Regardless, tomorrow sh
e’d call every number in the book. Someone in it might know something.

  The print blurred and she snapped it closed, holding it tight against her chest. What if Seth was right? What if this was personal?

  It wasn’t as though she hadn’t considered the prospect. There was just no foundation for it. And no sense. Or was it that the idea was too terrible to contemplate?

  She shivered, pulled the duvet tighter around her arms and shoulders.

  Why would a killer from twenty-five years past send her a message? She’d been, what? Two or three when he was at his peak, before he stopped killing and dropped clear from the radar. To suggest he was somewhere in her life now . . . Why her? There were other, more prominent members of the force if he wanted to make a statement. Like those who had worked and failed on the case before her, for instance.

  Her mobile buzzed. A message—she hadn’t heard it ring. More for distraction than interest, she dialled voicemail and switched the phone onto speaker. ‘This is Detective Symonds from the OPI. Please call me back as soon as possible on this number.’

  She stared blankly at the screen before she remembered to disconnect the call. Why was the Office of Police Integrity calling her? They investigated police corruption and misconduct. Her squad was clean, she’d swear to it.

  An image of Chase clasping his bandaged hand sprung to mind. Lately his behaviour seemed off, his explanations evasive. He’d never mentioned an old sprain. Was something going on that she’d missed? Something that had blipped on the OPI’s radar?

  Her mobile rang again. A familiar number this time. ‘Dad.’

  ‘Hey, honey. I missed you today.’

  Damn! How could she have forgotten? What with her car, and then Seth hanging around, distracting . . . Still, the last thing he needed to hear right now was that his other daughter was the target of a madman, too.

  She picked at a speck of lint on her pyjama top. ‘I got caught up with the case.’

  ‘Of course.’ There was a quality to her father’s voice she’d never heard before. He sounded tired, old, and the knowledge squeezed at her heart. ‘What’s this I hear about your car?’

  She should have guessed he’d find out. ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘I may be retired, but once a cop, always a cop. Any idea who did it?’

  She crossed her fingers. ‘Probably hooligans. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘There was a time I would have agreed. Now I’m not so sure. Promise you’ll watch your back.’

  ‘I always watch my back.’

  ‘Good.’ She sensed his distraction, his attempt to inject an upbeat tone into his voice. ‘How’re you holding up?’

  ‘I’ve been better.’

  ‘We all have.’

  Papers rustled and she pictured him at his desk, rifling through a mountain of them, his new reading glasses perched low on his nose. Dean Thomasz’s idea of method was her personal nightmare. She needed order, everything in its place. And she needed lists. Her father, on the other hand, required everything close at hand, which meant his desk resembled the aftermath of a tornado. Yet ask and he could lay his hands on anything in a matter of seconds.

  ‘Dad?’ She clutched the duvet to her chest and forged on before the clamp around her heart made her change her mind. ‘Does Mum blame me for Bec’s death?’

  ‘Oh, honey, no! No! Why on earth would you think that?’

  ‘She hasn’t called. I thought maybe . . .’

  ‘This is not your fault, Jayda.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t she returned my calls?’

  Something clattered, followed by more clattering, this time muffled. Her father swore. Then sound through the phone sharpened again. ‘She’s coping the only way she knows how. But she’ll call you, soon. She just . . . can’t right now.’

  She wasn’t sure if his assurances helped or made things worse. It was like imagining a mug of freshly brewed Jamaican blend and tasting instant instead. Profoundly unsatisfying. But she knew her father well enough to know talk on the subject was over. Impossible to forge through fortified steel.

  He coughed, cleared his throat. ‘Meantime, we have work to do. I spoke to Will. He’s pulled the evidence from storage and says he’ll start first thing tomorrow. You’ve got science on your side, and smarts. I know you’ll succeed where we couldn’t.’

  Cold shuddered through her chest. ‘I keep forgetting you worked the case back then.’ How had that fundamental detail slipped her mind?

  She hauled her attention back to their conversation.

  Silence yawned down the phone line. Had he heard? Or had they been disconnected? ‘Dad?’

  ‘The Night Terror was my first and last serial killer.’ He sighed, heavy. So unlike him. ‘He may have been a psycho, but he was meticulous. Organised. Never left a single clue. And without today’s forensics, finding him was a hopeless task. The relief when he suddenly stopped . . . Well, we all wondered if he was dead.’

  ‘Seems not.’

  ‘If only he were. If only we’d found something to stop him.’ Again, there was that silence. ‘But, I know you’ll do whatever it takes to put him where he belongs.’

  If ever there was a time to read between the lines, it was now. This conversation was about more than just ranting.

  ‘What’s wrong, Dad?’

  Again there was that throat clearing. ‘I called to give you the heads up.’ More rustling, this time a delay tactic, but for what?

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’re going to get a call from the OPI in the next day or so.’

  Her heart freefell as she waited for what she hoped he wasn’t about to say.

  ‘I’m being investigated.’

  By the time Seth knocked on her door one minute shy of nine-thirty, Jayda was halfway through her second cup of coffee. She’d called more than half the numbers in Bec’s address book and run a check on her bank and phone records.

  Her eyes felt gritty and dry, her body like it’d been dragged backwards through a wringer. Sleep had more than evaded her. She wondered if she’d ever sleep soundly again.

  Papers covered her desk, not one of them indicative of who had killed Bec. She tried not to think about the rest. Her father was the reason she’d joined the force. The reason she’d become a detective and set her standards so high. And now he was accused of the unthinkable. Planting evidence with the intent to manipulate an investigation. Evidence tampering. By some anonymous caller who didn’t have the balls to lay blame face-on. Who’d no doubt manufactured the allegations to combat some warped sense of boredom, discrediting a model cop with an impeccable career in the process.

  There was no other explanation.

  This time the knock came louder. ‘Jayda!’

  Finger-combing her hair back from her face, she pushed up from the desk and made for the front door.

  A quick check through the security keyhole confirmed her suspicions before she pulled the door open.

  Her heart stuttered.

  Hands laden with laptop case, coffee and bags from a local bakery—his hair and jacket dripping wet from what must be rain—Seth looked ready to kick down her door. Patience was obviously not his strong suit. And by the look of him, his night had been as restless as hers.

  ‘You are home.’

  The way his gaze rolled over her made the heat in her tummy fan up and out through her body. It shouldn’t have bothered her that she still wore her old, tatty PJs and robe, the one Seth had worn a few days earlier. She shouldn’t have wished for a comb and cosmetics, to look more like the woman he’d first met. She wasn’t even happy to see him. Didn’t need or want anyone other than herself working the case. ‘Where else would I be?’

  ‘Good question.’ He shuffled the take-out coffee tray resting precariously on the crook of his left elbow. ‘Can I come in?’

  She opened the door wider. No sense wasting good coffee and pastries. Her tummy rumbled in agreement as he strode past and dumped everything onto her dining room table.


  He shrugged out of his jacket, looking around for somewhere to hang it. ‘I’ve been thinking—’

  ‘A dangerous preoccupation, I’m sure.’ She took the leather aviator jacket, ignoring the scent of wet meadows as she draped the collar over the hook on her front door.

  ‘I see a good night’s sleep has done jack for your disposition.’

  Her jaw clamped. ‘My disposition is fine, thank you.’

  Turning slowly, he assessed her through hooded lids. Heart pounding, she pulled the robe tighter round her waist. Thankfully he didn’t comment on the blotchy red of her complexion or the suitcases under her eyes.

  His gaze softened. ‘I’m a grouch before my morning caffeine fix, too.’ He smiled, passing her one of the two waffle cups, raising the other to his lips.

  This time the clamp hit her shoulders, and locked vertebrae by vertebrae down her spine.

  If not for the tantalising aroma of freshly ground beans, she would have hurled hers back at him. First he attacked her disposition, then all but called her a grouch. She hugged the cardboard cup in her palms, biting her lip against angry words that jostled impatiently on her tongue. She needed a fight this morning even less than she needed the last word.

  ‘You were saying . . .?’

  ‘Yes I was.’ He grinned, and in spite of herself she felt her knees wobble. ‘I think we should take a closer look at your dad.’

  Her head jerked back. ‘What?’

  ‘Last night, I tried to figure out what link you could have to the Night Terror. Then I remembered your father worked the case twenty-five years ago. What if this psycho is targeting you to get back at your father?’

  ‘And why would he do that?’

  ‘They could have crossed paths, either before or during the Night Terror’s old reign. Or maybe he didn’t like the way your father handled the case and this is his retaliation.’

  Lack of sleep and its underlying reasons bombarded her brain. ‘My father has never been anything but ethical.’ Each word was bitten out through clenched teeth.