He’d learned one thing already. Erin had a prickly conscience, one that wouldn’t permit injustice but allowed for breaking and entering. The malleable code intrigued him, but not as much as the story it would uncover for him.
At the landing, an unaware Erin glanced down the hallway. To her left, the stairs led up to the third floor. Four doors were arrayed on the second floor, two along the opposite wall and a third on the other side of the stairs. The fourth door stood ajar at the far end, and she glimpsed the corner of a bed in the center. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but the master bedroom seemed like a good place to start. If she didn’t find anything of interest, she’d move on. Going with her gut, she turned to the right.
Gabriel caught her arm to stop her. “What is the plan, exactly?”
“My plan—” She stressed the my. “My plan is none of your business.” Erin dragged her arm free. “I didn’t ask you to come with me.”
“I think we just had this argument. You don’t want me here. Too bad. I’m here.” He circled in front to block her. “I’m not leaving without the whole story. Like why you think Julian Harris was murdered. And why you’re lying to his neighbors to get inside his town house. And how you got inside his townhome.”
Erin jutted her chin out defiantly. “Why are you here?”
“For the headline,” Gabriel answered without hesitation.
“I need a big story to boost the Ledger’s sales, and I think your serial killer theory might be the ticket.” He smiled, that slash of white that made it hard for her to breathe.
Disarmed by his candor, Erin faltered. She hadn’t expected the truth. More to the point, she had no idea what to do with it. She understood subterfuge and lies. Honesty stumped her. “How did you know where to find me?”
“I take good notes. Plus, I followed you.”
Erin folded her arms and narrowed her eyes.“You followed me?”
“From campus after you’d finished giving that social psych exam. The cabdriver dropped you off and you spent a good fifteen minutes building up the courage to cross the street. Good move, to canvass the neighbors first.” He chucked her chin to close the mouth that had fallen agape. “You work like a pro, Dr. Abbott.”
Despite the sincere compliment, Erin considered the implications. Gabriel—no, a reporter—had lurked around the school, unbeknownst to her. He’d spied on her for nearly an hour and she had been none the wiser. The thud in her stomach echoed the pounding at her temple.
When she decided to investigate and gather clues, it hadn’t occurred to her that the quest could be her undoing. Gabriel may have only come for the murder story, but if he stayed too long, he could uncover more.
Glaring, she muttered, “I don’t like being followed.”
Gabriel shrugged. “Next time, invite me along.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” she said.
He had already come up with a better way to spend his time, Gabriel decided. “Tell me why you came to Julian Harris’s house.”
“To find the truth.” She stalked ahead of him into the main bedroom. An ascetic’s bed with a plain black comforter took up little space. Ruthlessly organized books lined the walls. An armoire in the same Shaker style as the bed frame stood partly open. Curious about its contents, Erin peered inside. It was, she determined, like looking into a satellite of Banana Republic. Cashmere sweaters, oxford shirts, and multiple slacks in muted, fashionable shades hung from cedar hangers. Accessories were in drawers that smelled of cedar chips. A perfect replica of a perfect life.
Erin took note.
“What are you writing?” Gabriel asked.
“A profile.”
Gabriel looked around. He, too, had been considering the simplicity and starkness in Julian’s bedroom. “What do you see?”
“Julian Harris was a man who cared about appearance, hence the trendy address and the expensive townhome. He also desired uniformity, as signaled by the ready-to-wear wardrobe. Comfort meant less to him than style.”
Impressed, Gabriel asked, “How do you figure?”
“The bed. All the furniture, actually. The Shakers were known for craftsmanship, not comfort, and the full bed couldn’t have been long enough for a man with a thirty-four-inch inseam.”
Gabriel pointed to the rows of books. “What do those tell you?”
Erin crossed over to the bookcase. With reverent hands, she thumbed through first editions, caressed embossed spines.
Julian had organized his collection by topic, in a modified Dewey system. Botany sidled up to biography. Geometry nestled alongside hermeneutics. Her eyes skimmed over topics and stumbled over a dust jacket that stopped her heart.
There it was again, Gabriel thought, watching her remove a book from the shelf. An emotion that wasn’t quite panic, wasn’t quite guilt, clouded her beautiful eyes. It trembled her hands until, as he looked on, she willed them into steadiness. Control and what he could only describe as grit displaced the shocked look.
“What’s the book?” he asked.
“The Language of Discovery by Nathan Rhodes.” The name emerged without a hint of the turmoil raging inside her. She was proud of the deception. “A linguist from California.”
“I thought our Mr. Harris was an architect?”
“He appeared to have a wide range of interests.” The explanation did nothing to quiet her anxiety.
Gabriel lifted the book from her nerveless fingers. He flipped through the pages, hoping for a clue to why the tome had frightened her. On the inside flap, a distinguished older gentleman with black hair winged with silver gifted the camera with a haughty half smile. “Looks like a pompous ass.”
For that alone Erin could have kissed him. Instead, she managed a smile. “Academics often are.”
Gabriel shoved the book into its space on the shelf. “Are you?”
Erin shook her head. “I don’t think so. However, you’d have to ask my colleagues. What was it Robert Burns said about perception? ‘Wad some power the giftie gie us—’”
“‘To see ourselves as others see us.’” Gabriel finished. At her look of admiration, he comically bowed. “I’m a layered man, darling. Surprise after surprise.”
“Amen.” The impassioned whisper carried no farther than her lips, but he heard it.
“Give me time.” Promise glittered in his pewter gaze, darkened the midnight voice.
When she tamed her skipping pulse, Erin returned to her task. “Time is in rather short supply.”
“How much do we have?”
“From the dates of the obituaries, I’m sure he’ll strike again soon. Ten days, maybe. Two weeks at most.” She slid another book into place. “If I’m right.”
“I think you are,” he replied evenly. “I think you see something in those obituaries that most people can’t. Though I wonder why the killer knew you would.”
A flush crept to her cheeks. It was difficult to lie when silver eyes held hers captive. They seemed to reach out to her, to offer a haven where she’d be safe and secure. An illusion, she chided herself. Just an illusion. Nothing more. She shrugged, dismissing his question. “I explained it to Detective Iberville. I’m a criminal psychologist.”
Gabriel felt the sudden burn of anger at her obvious lie. He didn’t like it. So he pushed. He crossed the room in two strides, crowding her against the bookcase. “Try again. Most criminal psychologists don’t know the Middle French spelling of surcingle and the proper description of a bludgeon.”
“I like crossword puzzles,” she snapped impatiently. Shoving at his chest, she added, “And my space.”
“More than the truth, I see.” Gabriel had sparred with her enough for one day. Turning away, he moved to the doorway. “Let’s check the next room.”
Aware she’d made a narrow escape, Erin quietly followed.
CHAPTER 8
By nightfall, they had checked every room and Erin had read every scrap of paper in the townhome. She was no closer to a motive or a connection or
the identity of the killer.
The sum of her discovery was Julian’s passion for reading, his unremarkable taste in clothing, and his fondness for solitude. She’d found no letters, no correspondence of any kind. Gabriel had taken the lower level, but she doubted he’d be any more successful.
She dropped onto the lower steps of the staircase, chin in hand. What had she expected? A signed note from the killer? If her theory was right, she was dealing with a brilliant, twisted mind, one that wouldn’t reveal itself until it was ready. Until the audience was ready.
“Thirsty?” Gabriel handed her a mug of steaming coffee. When she hesitated, he said in a dry tone, “I don’t think he’ll mind.”
She took the cup and sipped. Warmth spread through her, banishing a cold she hadn’t been aware of. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Gabriel replied as he squeezed onto the step beside her.
The narrow steps pressed their bodies into contact. Erin tried to scoot away, only to be stopped by the banister. She smothered a sigh. Personal space appeared to be a foreign concept to Gabriel, but she was too tired to argue. Instead, she asked, “Find anything?”
“Nope. Nothing in the cellar.” He looked at his notepad. The pages were still blank. “You?”
Erin shook her head and set her cup on the step above them. “I’m not sure I know what I’m looking for.”
“Serial killers have patterns, don’t they? A reason for the victims they choose.” Gabriel placed his mug beside hers. “Like Ted Bundy or Albert Fish. Psychopaths target their prey because of what the person represents.”
She thought of the book upstairs, of Nathan’s photo on the dust jacket. “Sometimes, the victim isn’t the target. He’s just a means to an end.”
“A way to get to you,” Gabriel said flatly. Before she could lie to him again, fob him off with a nearly plausible explanation, he continued. “I don’t believe he picked you because of your training. With all the cops and profilers here in town, he has other options. But he picked you. The note was personal.”
“You think ‘find me’ is personal?” Erin scoffed. “I’d hate to get a love letter from you.”
Without warning, Gabriel twisted to face her, irritation fighting with worry. He grabbed her shoulders to draw her close. “I’m not Sylvie, Erin. I can see that you’re terrified. You know he’s baiting you, and you know why.” He lifted a hand to her cheek. “If you don’t talk to me, I can’t help you.”
Shoving his hands away, Erin struggled to her feet. She brushed against the banister and clamped onto the railing. “I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t need you.” The last came out breathless.
“You need someone.”
“No. I don’t.” She took a deep breath, calming herself. Letting him come inside with her had been a mistake. If the police wouldn’t help, she’d do this alone. “I can find the monster on my own.”
Emotion flickered in luminous brown, an edgy emotion he’d seen before but couldn’t quite place. The same emotion quavered in her smoky voice. He didn’t like it. “How? By poking through the victims’ closets?”
Erin pushed past him and walked to the front door. “I’ll find him by doing what I know how to do. Profiling.”
“You said you didn’t know what you were looking for.”
She paused in the doorway. “He does. Lock up on your way out.”
Gabriel followed her out of the house. “How will you get home?”
The same thought had occurred to her. A taxi would take nearly half an hour, and the bus would take longer. “I’ve made arrangements.”
With a snort of disbelief, Gabriel steered her toward his car. He fairly threw her inside, and slammed the black door with its deep gouges revealing gray primer. The force was necessary, both as a vent to his frustration and as a counter to the stubborn fifteen-year-old hinges that occasionally resisted the instruction to close. The buyout from Mirren and a modest inheritance certainly afforded him the luxury of reliable transportation, but Gabe had plowed every red cent back into the Ledger. “St. Bennett, right?”
Sulking, Erin refused to answer. Instead, she turned her face to the dirt-clouded window. “Car washes are legal in this state,” she said.
“Then buy your own car.” To drown out her response, he flicked on the radio, allowing Thelonious Monk to fill the cramped space.
At her apartment, Gabriel dogged her steps and followed her inside. He’d check out her apartment, guarantee she was settled for the night.
Erin Abbott had a protector, whether she liked it or not.
He blocked her attempt to shut the door and this time came inside. “Nice place,” he murmured as he surveyed her home, quickly cataloging its contents.
A wide navy cotton-upholstered chair had been placed perpendicular to the pristine matching sofa, whose brushed linen appeared untouched. Bay windows opened onto a tiny balcony she’d crowded with plants of every variety.
The kitchen was ruthlessly clean, not a bowl or cup out of place. Behind the sofa, a badly lit hallway led to what he assumed was the bedroom. He strode down the hallway, flipped on the lights. Erin chased him, protesting.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Looking after you. Somebody has to.” Gabriel hid a smile at her inventive description of his body parts.
Returning to the living room, he moved to the far wall. The mantel gleamed in polished mahogany flanked by bookcases filled to overflowing, but scrupulously organized.
“Rent or buy?”
“Buy,” she answered automatically. Erin snapped her teeth shut with an audible click. She was not going to engage in conversation with him. First he kidnaps her; then he prowls around her home, as though he had every right. Any relief she felt was buried beneath righteous indignation.
“Nice digs,” he said. The apartment spoke of quiet wealth and impeccable breeding. It explained the aristocratic tones and the arrogant manner. He understood, as a product of both himself. He recognized the Limoges on the mantel, the Persian on the floor. The lithograph by Jacob Lawrence drew a twinge of envy.
Suddenly he noticed something peculiar. In spite of the remarkable lack of clutter, tawdry knickknacks jumbled on the mantel’s surface. On first glance, the collection of mismatched trinkets screamed of comfort and home. Upon closer inspection, Gabriel discovered, the mélange was a dogged grouping of commercial tchotchkes and bric-a-brac designed to trick the untrained eye.
If he had to guess, local merchants had made a killing off of the fair Dr. Abbott during her short tenure in the bayou. He lifted a squat gnome grinning with ivory teeth. These weren’t items lovingly accumulated over the years. These were the mementos of other families, the creations of shopkeepers, calculated to sate the nostalgia of tourists.
He didn’t know her well, but he was willing to bet good money these items weren’t Erin’s keepsakes. Not unless she harbored an unusual fascination for the cheap and grotesque, a possibility belied by the showroom quality of the rest of the apartment.
Intrigued, Gabriel set the gnome beside a porcelain ballerina, en pointe, and dropped into the great chair without asking permission. He could tell from the gentle indentation of the cushions, the massive chair was her favorite seat.
Standing over him, Erin seethed at his easy usurpation of her place. He, she thought dourly, has no manners. “Feel free to sit wherever you want,” she muttered.
“You say something?” he asked with a smirk. “You tend to mumble when you’re angry.” Without waiting for an answer, he lifted the album she’d set on the table and began to flip through the vellum pages.
“I’m not angry. I’m irritated. A condition that is easily satisfied by having you not here.” Flouncing a bit, she perched on the end of the sofa. She didn’t sit back, deciding that if she made herself comfortable, he’d take it as invitation to stay. Instead, she scooted forward farther, perched on the edge of the cushion. Her knee brushed his, and she quickly shifted away.
Gabriel moved forwar
d as well, until their knees brushed again. Lifting a hand to the curls lying against her temple, he murmured, “You still don’t like me, do you, Erin?”
Rearing away from his heady touch, she said bitterly, “What gave it away? The many times I’ve told you?” She’d be fine if he’d stop touching her. Light, undemanding points of contact designed to rile and disturb. “In case I’ve been vague, I don’t like you.”
“I’m crushed.” He angled closer, caging her legs between his powerful thighs. His eyes captured hers as he stroked a finger along the fist she’d been unaware of making. “However, in all fairness to me, you’ve only said you don’t like me once.”
Though only her legs were imprisoned and a single fingertip touched suddenly sensitive flesh, Erin felt surrounded. Invaded. What disturbed more was the feeling of safety. “I don’t want you as a partner. I don’t want you in my house,” she said. “But you keep crowding me.” Easing back along the cushions, she stared pointedly at his position. “Like now.”
Gabriel moved forward, following. “You think I’m crowding you? I’m sitting in a chair, darling.”
“Take your hands off of me.” She flicked a disdainful gaze at the hand that now covered her own. “I choose who touches me.”
The haughty sneer pulled at him, stiffened his spine. Whenever she chose that lady-of-the-manor tone, he was hard-pressed not to snarl. Gabriel wondered what it was about the determinedly isolated professor that made him so determined to antagonize her. “Don’t push me, honey. I don’t like games.”
“I’m not playing games with you. I’m being as honest as I can without calling the police.” Erin stood, studiously avoiding contact. She opened the door and shot him a pointed look.
Duty completed, Gabriel walked to the door. He paused in the doorway, his body brushing against her. “I’m going to figure you out.”
The words, intended as a promise, sounded like a threat even to his ears.
“Peter, get me everything you can find on a Dr. Erin Abbott!” Gabriel shouted as he stormed into the Bayou Ledger thirty minutes later.
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