Mick certainly did. Three other cities—Philadelphia, Dover, and Newark—had ongoing murder investigations that, taken in the context of five separate Kazimer novels, fit the profile of a serial killer.
A serial killer using Mick’s books as blueprints for mayhem.
“My God, this is a nightmare.” He resisted the urge to put his head in his hands. “How many homicides do they think the same guy committed?”
“This latest makes fifteen over a five-year period.”
Mick shook his head, too stunned by Jamison’s statement even to curse.
“Do not blame yourself,” the FBI agent said firmly. “Serial killers are complete nut cases. They don’t need an external reason to go off.”
“But don’t they sometimes kill to impress someone they admire? If this guy fancies himself as my biggest fan, could he be killing the way my characters kill out of admiration for M. S. Kazimer?” When the agent didn’t answer readily, Mick added in a low, intense voice, “Don’t bullshit me, Jamison. Is this lunatic killing because he wants to impress me with his devotion?”
“I had hoped that wasn’t the case, but after this last guy in Baltimore . . . “
“It looks like that’s exactly what the killer is doing.”
“‘Fraid so.”
Mick clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt. “You said the people associated with this tour would be in no danger. I’d never have agreed to this scheme if the Bureau hadn’t assured me it was safe.”
“It’s as safe as we can make it.”
“Meaning exactly what?” Not knowing what to do with his hands, Mick started pleating his linen napkin.
“It’s a carefully screened group. Ninety percent of all serial killers are white males between the ages of twenty and thirty-five. The two female authors have a readership that’s primarily female. Obviously, the author of the children’s book draws parents and grandparents for the most part. And Jones, being a black man writing self-help books targeted toward minorities, is the least likely of all to attract a serial-killer type. None of their books are remotely like yours.”
“Except the one you’re selling.”
Jamison shrugged, then smiled wryly. “Of course, that’s because you wrote it. Thanks, by the way, for keeping that old unpublished manuscript around. It’s brilliant cover for me.”
“Back to this safety issue,” Mick ordered.
The agent nodded. “We’ve got everyone on the tour, excepting you and Jennifer, on the same floor of each hotel. No other patrons are on those floors. Just my agents.”
“I know the setup, but you never really said why Jen and I are isolated.”
“Simple.” Jamison assumed his most FBI-like tone. “Since we must consider you attractive to our perp, we’ve got you in a limited-access area. The penthouse floor is easily guarded, and my best agents and I are right across the hall from you at every stop.”
The thought of being attractive to a serial killer made Mick’s skin crawl. But maybe that would work to their advantage to catch this bastard. “If I’m a magnet, aren’t we putting Jen in danger by having her with me?”
“It would look far more suspicious if she wasn’t. As your publicist and fiancee, she’s got to be staying close to, if not with, you.” Jamison glanced at a small notebook he’d taken from his suit pocket then met Mick’s gaze again. “For the record, I disagree with your not telling her about this.”
“Trust me, Robert, there would be nothing covert about this operation if Jennifer knew.” Nor would I hear the end of her demands to cancel it. Mick debated telling Jamison that the wedding was off, but decided he didn’t need to know. Nor did he need to know that M. S. Kazimer was retiring from writing after the tour ended in New Orleans. “Anything else about security you haven’t told me yet?”
“The local police in each city—as well as the nearest field operatives and the staff at every venue—have been alerted to watch for anything unusual in and around the convention centers and hotels—”
“A fact that didn’t help the previous fifteen victims.”
“That’s because we only recently discovered a relationship. The latest vic went off to find a prostitute and got clocked by this maniac.”
“Just like the final murder in Deadly Passions.” Morosely, he added, “The last book before Mortal Sin.”
“Yes.”
Mick massaged his temples with his fingertips, contemplating all he’d been told. Then he leveled a stare at Jamison. “So, if the pattern is actually being followed, the guy should have struck in Toledo because the first victim in Mortal Sin died there.”
“There have been no reports.”
“Good.” At Jamison’s grim look, he added, “So far, you meant to say. And that also means he’ll look for his next victim in St. Louis.”
“That’s our hope.”
“Helluva thing to hope for.” Mick crushed the napkin in both hands, then tossed it onto the table.
The agent barely flinched at this display of temper. “Actually, it’s more than Detective Bird had to go on just a few months ago. If he wasn’t such a big fan of yours and hadn’t figured out the pattern, who knows how long it would have been before someone caught on to what this wacko is doing.”
“Somehow, that’s not much consolation,” Mick said tightly.
“But it is something,” Jamison persisted. “The guy’s going to kill, regardless of whom he patterns his acts after. He’s programmed to kill. Now that we know how he operates, we’ve got a great chance of ending his career.”
“Let’s get this bastard before he experiences any more career advancement.”
“Amen to that.”
The waiter brought their meals, forcing Mick to pick up his napkin again, but his appetite had long since left him.
Sweet Jesus, have I opened Pandora’s box? he wondered desperately. He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to someone involved with this tour—a tour he’d agreed to headline partly because he couldn’t comprehend anyone sick enough to kill to impress an author.
But reality had a way of biting a person in uncomfortable places, and Mick could feel the teeth marks. If he’d had any doubts about the wisdom of changing vocations, they’d been erased with Jamison’s report of the Baltimore murder. As of that moment, M. S. Kazimer’s novel Mortal Sin was his last. Mick would never write another horror story.
Jennifer had essentially chosen to leave him for following his conscience, even though she didn’t know it. As much as that hurt, at least she’d leave untainted by the evil he could practically smell in the air around him. And she’d leave walking. Not in a body bag.
MORT MADE IT clear he’d be sitting by Cassie when he crowded into the middle of the cab’s back seat, trapping her behind the driver and forcing Endora to take the front seat or be squashed next to Medusa.
The ride to Gino’s East was anything but comfortable, and not just because there was so much of Mort’s long legs to fold into cramped quarters. The witch silently managed to be condescending and proprietary, and by the time they arrived at the restaurant, Cassie was ready to explode.
He sealed his fate as they were being seated.
Endora spoke to the concierge while Mort did his best to bore a hole into her back with his preternaturally bright gaze. However, being feline, she could easily ignore any other creature she chose to. As she blithely followed the hostess to their seats, Mort turned his glare on Cassie.
“You allow your familiar to dine with you?”
She cocked both brows, a sure sign to all who knew her that her tolerance level had gone above flood stage. But she held her tongue until they were seated—deliberately sitting between Endora and Medusa—and the hostess left. “You find something wrong with Endora’s being here?”
“Indeed,” came Mort’s haughty reply
. “Your familiar is, after all, your servant. Why ever would you condescend to allow her to remain in your presence in a social setting? Unless, of course, she was serving the meal. Or cleaning up.”
Even Medusa had the grace to blush at that comment.
Cassie shot her mother a glance before she turned to face Mort. “Let me be frank here, Mortie. You’re a guest. Dora’s family. She’s neither serving wench nor maid, and she won’t be treated as such. Her duties are far more important. She’s my guardian and my guide, and most importantly, she’s my friend.”
“She’s an inferior being,” Mort stated doggedly. “By dining here with us, she’s acting above her station.”
Cassie could feel her eyes almost shooting sparks and could guess her cheeks flamed from anger. But she kept her voice even when she said, “As she is my familiar, her station is where I determine it to be. And that is wherever I go. No one—and that includes you, Mort—will mistreat her, in my presence or out of it, without answering to me. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Belatedly, the witch sensed her suppressed fury. If possible, his skin blanched even whiter. “As crystal.”
“Good. That will save me from having to curse you with impotence.” She turned to the other two women at the table. “Are we ready to order?”
MICK SHOULD HAVE ignored the note sitting on the bar in the penthouse suite, but some perverse sense of duty had him opening it to read. Jennifer had asked him to knock on her bedroom door when he returned from dinner. He didn’t want to, but she was his business manager after all. And they were supposedly on a promotional tour. At no time until this little drama played itself out could he afford suspicion on the part of any other member of the group.
He walked the twenty feet to her door, wishing fervently that he’d not bothered to answer what amounted to a summons.
Jennifer opened the door with barely a word of greeting, and Mick felt the chill immediately. Silently, she stepped aside to allow him entrance. The “bedroom” he stood in was the size of most regular suites.
“Did you get a load of that guy who came in with Cassandra Hathorne’s mother this afternoon?” he asked as he moved past Jennifer into the room, hoping to warm the icy air with inane conversation. Unfortunately, his chosen topic had the opposite effect. Nice going, Sandor, he silently castigated himself. Mention the one thing sure to get Jennifer’s back up.
“No.”
He pressed on—perhaps he truly was a latent masochist—determined to act as though this was a comfortable conversation. “Probably some Rocky Horror cultist. Looks like he’s been dead for a century.” Jennifer’s lack of response didn’t stop him. “Maybe a reject from some semi-semi-pro basketball league. He’s a good hand taller than I am—six-ten or eleven, I’d guess. But he looks like he’d blow over in a breeze.” He faked a shudder. “Wanna bet he’s an escapee from some asylum?”
“Give it a rest, Mick.”
At her abrupt comment, he stopped in the middle of the room and planted his fists on his hips. “Why? I thought you liked chitchat.”
“Not about women who vie with me for your affection.” Jennifer moved to stare through the hotel windows at the glittering lights of nighttime Chicago. Back to Mick, hands crossed over her breasts, she embodied the word “inaccessible.”
Uh oh. “What are you talking about?” The only thing he could do at this point was gut this out. He himself had brought on the tirade he felt brewing in Jen’s compact body.
“Cassandra Hathorne, of course.”
“Oh, come on—”
She spun to face him, anger contorting her beautiful features. “Don’t deny it, Mick! You’ve defended her this entire trip: ‘She’s no competition, Jen.’ ‘I’ll sell plenty of books even though she’s here, Jen.’ ‘You’re too hard on her, Jen.’ Then you had lunch with her today while I stayed to make sure they spell your damned name right. I’m no idiot. I know where this is going.”
If he was honest with himself, he couldn’t deny that Cassandra Hathorne intrigued him. Attracted him on more than just a physical level. Even with his life falling apart around him, indelible images of being near her for the past two days had burned themselves into his brain. He’d gone so far as to haul her into the men’s bathroom that afternoon! He gave himself a mental shake. What kind of degenerate was he? His ex-fiancee looked ready to fly apart at the seams, he’d decided to end his writing career, and a madman was making a reality of Mick’s fictional mayhem. And he couldn’t get Cassandra Hathorne off his mind? Maybe he was the lunatic here.
Torture couldn’t have made him confess that Jennifer was right about Cassie. But he had to smooth this over somehow. Since he towered over his business manager, he decided to assume a less intimidating position by sitting down in the nearest overstuffed chair. As gently as he could, he stated, “You have no idea where this is going. And I can’t tell you much more than that.” He started to reach out a hand to her, then let it drop. “Please. You have to trust me on this. Cassandra Hathorne is not the issue here.”
“Then why did you bring her up?”
“I didn’t.” At least not directly. “I brought up the weird guy who was with her mother.”
Jennifer, pouting, kept her defensive stance. “Why did you even notice the guy? Or anything going on with her, for that matter? You were busy autographing books.”
Mick took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Of course, he’d spent three pleasant hours in a restaurant with Cassie before the signing and another three hours sitting close enough to smell her perfume during it. And they shared a bond as authors. But he didn’t want to go anywhere near the fact that she was extremely attractive. “Why wouldn’t I notice some tall, scrawny geek in a black tuxedo and full-length opera cape, looking like sunlight hadn’t touched him in a decade? Hard to miss that, even in the middle of a book signing.”
“I didn’t see him.”
“You were too busy bullying the McCormick Place manager.”
The minute he spoke, his heart gave that funny little burning-spasm beat it always did when he knew he’d stuck his foot in it. That hadn’t sounded at all like the joke he’d intended. Jennifer flinched as if struck, and he was instantly on his feet gathering her into his arms. She resisted halfheartedly, but with a firm yet gentle hand he guided her head down to his chest.
“God, Jen, I’m sorry. That didn’t come out the way it should have.”
“You’re a jerk, Mick.”
“You’re right,” he agreed on a sigh. “I get tongue-tied under pressure.”
Lifting her head, she stared up at him in disbelief. “Bullshit. You make a living with words, and you’re telling me you don’t know how to use them correctly?”
He shook his head. “Writing’s not conversation. I’m terrible at talking face-to-face.”
“You’re terrific with your fans. And a terrific speaker.”
“I make small talk with my fans and give scripted speeches. Neither of which is the same as a conversation, especially when that conversation is extremely important.”
“I guess I don’t see the difference.”
And maybe that’s part of why we broke up, Mick thought grimly. “Talking to people isn’t like writing dialogue. I control every word my characters say, every action they perform. If they don’t behave the way I want them to, I revise before anyone else sees it. Before feelings get hurt.” He saw she hadn’t understood his subtle apology and with sadness admitted this didn’t even surprise him. “My witty heroes always have exactly the right thing to say in any situation—”
“And that’s why your fans love you so.”
“I’m not my heroes. I’m one of those poor schlepps who always comes up with a clever rebuttal, five hours after the fact.” He released her, started to pace. “I’m only erudite at a keyboard. I can’t be spontaneously clever to save my life.�
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Jennifer moved to the minibar to pour herself a shot of whiskey, then added the appropriate amount of tonic. “Why do you need to be clever?”
Having followed her, he stopped her hand from bringing the drink to her lips. He knew his eyes glittered. “I don’t need to be clever, I just need to be myself. I’m not M. S. Kazimer. I’m Mick Sandor, a guy who has made a living turning a phrase, but who can’t do it anymore.” He turned her to face him. “I won’t be convinced to keep writing. When this tour’s over, I’m announcing my retirement. Mortal Sin is the last book M. S. Kazimer will ever author.”
Anger flashed in Jennifer’s eyes. “How can you throw away your career?”
“I just gave you some damn good reasons, although they’re not the only ones.”
“Tell me some others.” She planted her feet apart, hands fisted on hips.
Mick grimaced. “I can’t right now, but when you know the details, you’ll agree I’m doing the right thing.”
“Quit, and you’ll be looking for a new manager.”
Somehow, that threat had no impact. And he realized that her calling off the wedding hadn’t devastated him, either. That lack of reaction couldn’t be blamed on a demented murderer by any stretch of the imagination. With stunning clarity, he knew his love for her truly no longer existed. If it ever, in reality, had.
“You can still manage my career. I’ll still be a famous writer, with all those backlisted books to sell. I just won’t be adding anything new to increase my wealth. Or yours.”
“You bastard!” Jennifer slapped his face, then stalked to the closet for her purse and coat. “When you get back to New York, I won’t be there.”
He stood frozen, watching her leave. “Jen, I’m so sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“Tell someone who cares, Mick.” With that, she was gone.
He stared at the door for a split second. Then panicked. “Jen!” Racing after her, he found the corridor empty. In a flash he was in his own bedroom calling Jamison on his cell phone.
Some Practical Magic Page 6