Deadly Potential

  Orlund scowled. “That hardly—”

  “It wasn’t about the M&Ms.” Katie didn’t back down. “Their tour stage had a complicated set up with hundreds of detailed instructions. Missing any one of them could potentially cause serious harm to the performers or damage to the stage. Brown M&Ms meant the venue hadn’t read the contract carefully, and Van Halen couldn’t trust the set up. We use several clauses as safety checks. The order of the costumes on their rack, the color of tape marking the backstage routes, all small details to verify they’ve paid attention. When Sonya Petrova has a concern, I take it seriously. She is one of the most brilliant production managers in the business. The safety of nearly a hundred people, both on and off stage, depends on getting everything right.”

  “Sounds like a lot to coordinate,” Ray said sympathetically.

  “It is. And I need to get back to it. If we can help further with your investigation, please let us know.” A professional dismissal, delivered with confidence and assertiveness.

  Given Orlund’s insinuations, it was better than they deserved. But Ben couldn’t let Katie walk away without understanding what she faced.

  “The man stalking you is dangerous.”

  She stopped at his words, her hand paused in mid-reach for the door. “How?”

  She’s not afraid. Ben couldn’t speak, torn between his desires. He needed to inform her, but avoid eroding her confidence.

  “Has he hurt the other women he stalked?” Katie asked.

  “There’s no need for panic.” Orlund glared at Ben.

  “We have new resources to apply to the investigation,” Ray offered in an unusual moment of sincerity.

  “What happened to the other women?” Her sharp tone demanded an answer.

  Tense silence stretched as they all stared at one another. Orlund’s glare didn’t need a psychic to interpret the meaning. Ben refused to budge. Either you tell her or I will.

  Orlund finally spoke. “Nothing you want to know about. You don’t have to worry because he won’t get away from me again.”

  “How many times has he already gotten away?” When no one answered her question, Katie grimaced, and grabbed the door handle.

  Ben lifted his head. “He’s been targeting women for ten years. And he’s never been caught.”

  “Ten years . . .” Katie swallowed. “And what does he do?”

  As she met his gaze, everything else fell away. Then he dropped the truth that would shatter her world. “He kidnaps and kills them.”

  Chapter 5

  He kidnaps and kills them? Katie swallowed again, the dry tissues in her throat chafing painfully. It seemed too macabre to be real. She’d been prepared for an obsessive fan, not a serial killer. A stalker-slash-killer happens in movies and TV shows, not in real life. Except it did happen in real life. And now it was happening to her.

  “Easy there.” The taller of the two investigators, Ray Corwin, guided her to a chair.

  Despite her shock, Katie wondered if his meticulous haircut came from an Italian nonna who had taught him to cultivate his appearance. Speculating on his background was easier than thinking about what his partner had just said. Ray’s liquid black eyes exuded sensuality in a way rock stars would sell their souls to mimic. His good looks would have triggered suspicion, without the hint of humor in his eyes. They told her that he didn’t take himself seriously, and she shouldn’t either.

  Her legs were stiff, making it difficult to balance. She would have stumbled if not for Ray’s supporting hand. Concentration eluded her. Her brain was still locked in the gibbering terror stage. Facts would offset the fear coursing through her veins, and blocking her ability to think. Anything to throw light on her stalker, and banish the bogeyman lurking in the shadows. Once she knew the facts, she could make a plan.

  She asked the most difficult questions. “How does he do it? Why would he pick me?”

  Orlund polished his wire-rimmed glasses. “We can’t release details about an ongoing investigation.”

  The patronizing attitude alchemized her fear into anger. “I am the one in danger from this man. I have a right to know.”

  “We could tell you,” the second investigator said. “The details would give you nightmares, and won’t help you survive. Or we can go through your routine to figure out where he could grab you. From there, we can determine how to catch him, so he can’t ever hurt anyone again.”

  I want to trust him. It would be easier to let someone else stand up to deal with the situation. Except she hadn’t sat back, hoping for other people to fix her problems in a long time. Instead, she studied Investigator Ben Morgan, trying to understand why her subconscious would consider surrendering control to him.

  He was attractive, though not overtly beautiful like Ray. Her eyes traced the tiny creases around his eyes and mouth. They hinted at a remembered tragedy, one that still haunted him. He obviously shaved his head, one of the few Anglo-Saxon men to carry off the look successfully. It wasn’t for fashion, given the hints of stubble softening his scalp and chiseled jawline. Probably wanted a quick wash and go.

  The air of casualness and preoccupation continued in his clothing choices. The other two men wore suits. Ray’s was a high end designer, and custom fitted. Orlund’s was a respectable off-the-rack brand. Ben’s battered leather jacket and worn jeans showcased his wide shoulders and long lean legs. His one concession to professionalism was a white button down dress shirt, though she guessed the collar had never been constricted by a tie.

  His eyes never left her, waiting for her reaction. His mobile mouth kept folding down into a narrow line. Her fingers itched to record her impressions in her notebook for a future song. Battle-weary but dangerous. The jacket wasn’t designed to be form-fitting, but the breadth of his shoulders couldn’t be suppressed by mere layers of dyed cowhide. He seemed ready to burst into action any second. It was oddly reassuring. The men she’d dated were musicians; creative, sensitive, and inclined to fight with words, not fists. Until today, she would have said she enjoyed the bad boy in fiction, but not in her life. Now, she reconsidered.

  “I won’t be kept in the dark,” she said. “I’m the one who loses if you make a mistake.”

  “Understood.” Ben’s dark eyes held hers.

  “We won’t share confidential information,” Orlund interjected.

  There’s a conflict of authority. Special Agent Orlund had been introduced as the one in charge, but neither Ray nor Ben hesitated to offer differing opinions. In her industry, too many bosses meant a botched recording or an overproduced track. Expensive, and frustrating, yet ultimately fixable. Not the case with a serial killer.

  “Let’s have a look around,” Ray suggested brightly. “You must be busy, so Special Agent Orlund and I will visit the stage with your production manager. While she checks the details, we can identify where this unsub might find further opportunities. Aggi has two shows in San Diego?”

  “Unsub?” Katie interrupted.

  “We prefer not to use the press’s more colorful names. ‘Unsub’ keeps focus on the innocent,” Ray added. “While we check out the arena, you can show Ben the security arrangements here in the hotel. Aggi is performing two shows in San Diego, right?”

  “Tonight and tomorrow, then two days off before the first show in L.A.” Katie stood, grateful her legs were cooperating again.

  Ben had gone silent, standing on the far side of the table. She couldn’t tell if he was annoyed to be left behind, or controlling his reactions to avoid provoking Orlund.

  Ray winked “Might there be some unclaimed tickets lying about? Purely in the interest of protection, of course.”.

  “Of course.” She smiled at his playfulness. “I’ll let Sonya know.”

  Orlund rose stiffly, and walked out the door without a further word. Ray rolled his eyes and followe
d, leaving her alone with the intriguing Investigator Morgan.

  “What’s your role during the concert?” he asked.

  “I’m one of the backup singers.” Katie realized she was fidgeting with her keycard, and made herself tuck it away. “Where do you want to start? Our crew and performers are on the fourteenth and fifteenth floor. Aggi and I have the two penthouse suites on the top floor. We also use a few rooms on the ground floor for rehearsals and staging. The tour buses and trucks stay at the venue.”

  “Where do you spend the most time?”

  “My suite. It’s my office away from home.” Her belly hollowed at the thought of him in her rooms.

  “Then we begin there.” He opened the door for her, checking the hallway. His evaluation happened too quickly to be conscious. It must be automatic.

  As the elevator climbed, she found herself acutely aware of his masculine presence. Incipient fantasies about hitting the emergency stop, and taking a different kind of ride kept popping into her brain. She pushed them aside, promising her libido to remember them later. “The elevator is monitored, and requires a keycard for each floor.”

  “Those precautions might not be effective against special abilities,” Ben commented as they exited.

  Special abilities. She’d seen the broadcasts three years ago. It had seemed impossible that psychics and shapeshifters could be real, or that an ordinary-looking person could lift a car over their head. After the shock wore off, everyday life reasserted itself. She’d focused on other issues. Maybe I shouldn’t have.

  “You need multiple layers of security. An occulata’s powers might seem incredible, but they have limits.” His explanation rolled with practiced ease. “There’s no Superman. Someone might manipulate a camera, but be stopped by a physical lock.”

  It seemed too recent for such definitive certainty about the occulata. Is he acting confident to reassure me, or does he really know what to expect? Her finger tugged on a loose strand of her hair. “What can the unsub do?”

  “We can’t be sure. The government tried to create a registry of abilities and individuals. It didn’t go well.”

  She remembered the debate about individual rights versus the rights of the public. There had been a voluntary program of resettlement. She vaguely remembered controversy about how it was handled, and whether or not it had actually been voluntary. What was the place called? Woodpine? She’d been busy at the time. Aggi had been targeted by a series of trolls offended by her message of equality and personal freedom for young women. Katie spent months sorting it out.

  “Have you noticed anyone acting oddly?” Ben asked. “A change of personality or uncharacteristic actions? Any strange feelings?”

  “No. Nothing.” Katie unlocked her suite. “It’s the entertainment industry. Everyone is a little unusual.”

  “Do you often get messages addressed directly to you through Aggi’s social media?” Even as he asked, his gaze swept through the room as if noting everything from the half-finished breakfast sandwich on the room service cart to her guitar case propped against the wall.

  Katie shrugged. “It’s unusual, but not unheard of. Aggi talks about me in interviews, and I handle the professional interactions. People will contact me to get to her. Sometimes I’ll hear from songwriters or people who want to be songwriters.”

  Ben scanned the view from the windows. “Why did you reply to him?”

  The implication annoyed her. I won’t curtail my actions because someone else might be an asshole. “I always reply to messages to me.”

  “Why did you refer the second message to your media person?”

  “The grandiose way he phrased things made me uncomfortable. He wouldn’t accept me choosing my career path. I would have forgotten him if I hadn’t gotten the dress.”

  “Which he left in your dressing room.” The muscles in Ben’s jaw flickered. He avoided looking at her, glancing into the bedroom instead.

  “He crossed a line, even if he didn’t mean any harm. So I called the police.” Her libido kept wrestling control from her growing fear about the situation. The back and forth threatened to give Katie emotional whiplash. In any other circumstance, she’d explore whether the spark was mutual. But it seemed wrong to proposition the law enforcement agent protecting her from a serial killer. “What happens next?”

  “The FBI will coordinate with the San Diego and Tucson police to find the unsub. Investigator Corwin and I will consult about potential complications due to supernatural abilities.” His eyes met hers.

  She sucked in a hasty breath to offset the sizzle of the chemistry between them. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his hands tightening. A smile of feminine triumph threatened to curve her lips. It reassured her to know she wasn’t the only one affected. He resumed his professional interview, to her libido’s disappointment. As she answered his questions, one thing became increasingly clear. Investigator Ben Morgan would be inspiring a lot of passionate songs in her near future.

  Chapter 6

  The dressing room’s concrete walls reduced the heavy bass and roaring guitars to a dull thumping and a subsonic whine. Ben planned to pick up earplugs before tomorrow’s concert. The backstage staff wore heavy ear protectors. When the music began, he’d wished he’d done the same. It would make it easier to concentrate on these FBI case files. He opened the next digital file, suppressing a frustrated sigh. There must be an overlooked clue, a detail to unlock the information they needed. Eight women had been systematically killed, and staged in elaborate costumes and tableaus. He gritted his teeth, and stared at the crime scene photos. This is necessary. Except he sat in the unsub’s ninth target’s dressing room, bringing more than a hint of obscenity to the task.

  “Last file done.” Ray grimaced as he set down his tablet.

  Ben shut down his device. He stared at the room, hoping for insight. A silk robe and three framed pictures propped on the vanity table were the only personal touches in the cramped quarters. Katie had taken her costumes to the quick-change tent backstage to avoid disturbing him and Ray during the show. One picture showed Katie and Aggi together, arms linked and laughing. Another displayed an older woman on a dimly lit stage, strumming a guitar. The last one was of a young Katie and Aggi with an older man between them.

  Ray cleared his throat, jerking Ben out of his distraction.

  “What do we know?” Ben asked gruffly.

  From the bemused expression on Ray’s face, the cover up wasn’t successful. “We know that he takes his time with the target after death. He sewed hair extensions into Rhonda Carson’s scalp, gave Juanita Baez a manicure, and glued the prop skull into Sonja Freeman’s hand. The level of detail suggests he’s more comfortable with the dead than the living.”

  Ben continued, “He prepares for months before making contact. He travels all over the country for his targets. He has money, but not a regular job.”

  The unsub dressed his targets in hand-sewn costumes and custom crafted jewelry. Without evidence of purchase or commission, the FBI concluded that the unsub must be making the items himself.

  “All of the previous targets were launching careers on stage. ” Ray paused. “They were actresses and models. Now he’s focused on a singer-slash-songwriter. Do you think he discounts Katie’s success because Aggi is the headliner? He mentions her going solo in the first message.”

  “There’s more to it.” Ben shook his head. “He could target any number of aspiring singers. He chose one in the public spotlight.”

  Ray didn’t give up his theory easily. “He obviously likes the attention. He posed Ashley Gilpin in a department store window. Sonja Freeman was propped up on the stage of her local theatre. Aisha Jackson even got a red carpet.”

  “But none of them were successful before he killed them. Rhonda Carson’s agent fired her. Juanita Baez didn’t get a single call back. No
ne of them were working in their chosen profession.”

  “Maybe it’s a copycat with a personal grudge against Katie. They’re mirroring the Director to throw off an investigation. She doesn’t get along with Aggi’s mother, the tabloids mention it constantly.”

  Ben considered the idea carefully. “If someone wanted Katie out of the way, it would be easier to stage an accident or a random crime. This way has too many chances to be caught. Our understanding of the unsub’s profile and victimology is flawed.”

  “I doubt Mr. Orlund will be happy with our insight,” Ray said dryly.

  “He’s worked the cases for the last three victims, and the unsub took those girls from under his nose.” Ben’s stomach turned as he remembered the details. The unsub had walked through police perimeters and into safehouses, kidnapping his targets in broad daylight. There was no question. They were dealing with a supernatural ability. But which one?

  He could rule out the spectacular fictional options, like stopping time, phasing through walls or teleporting. Despite the media’s fascination with these so-called superheroes, their abilities weren’t the stuff of special effects. “Any word from Lucy about the footage?”

  “Nothing yet,” Ray replied. “I’ll give her a call.”

  The surveillance footage appeared seamless. Dozens of people walked past the entrance to Katie’s dressing room. Not one went in. And yet, the package still appeared. Hopefully Lucy’s expert eyes would spot how.

  “Investigator Adler speaking.” Even over a crappy speakerphone, Samantha Adler’s clipped tones were perfectly polite, but also conveyed the caller had intruded. “How can I help you, Investigators Corwin and Morgan?”