Deadly Bonds (3 page)

Theo nodded but still didn’t do anything. “Maybe we should call it a draw and have a rematch in the fall?”

“If that’s what you’d like. I bet you’ll have more of your story to show me then too. In fact, that’s what I’m hoping.” Sara reached into her bag and pulled out the leather journal and drawing pencils she’d spied in the bookstore last week.

Theo’s eyes widened. He took the gift and flipped through the unlined, blank pages. His grin bloomed. “I think I already have an idea for a sequel.”

“Maybe we’ll get to know a little more about Mister X?” She had hoped Holt and Theo could spend more time together this summer, especially after Theo’s difficulties in class. Unfortunately, Holt hadn’t seemed able to make the time. “Is your father coming to the Labor Day picnic?”

Theo’s eyes shuttered. “I don’t think he knows about it.”

“Did you tell him?”

“It wouldn’t matter if I did. He’s usually busy.”

“But the picnic’s on a Saturday. He has a day off now and then, right?”

“Maybe. If something doesn’t come up.”

Sara didn’t know if she could safely push Holt into coming to the picnic. They had reached a polite, unspoken truce. He ignored her but was acknowledging weekly updates from Theo’s teachers. Sara was trying to stay out of it.

She gathered their things, then stood and brushed off the seat of her pants. “Your ride should be here any minute now to pick you up.”

When she and Theo reached the school and entered the cool foyer, Sara was brought up short by the sound of raised voices.

“He simply doesn’t have the grades,” Mrs. Robertson, the high-school-level English teacher, was telling a parent. John Rochard. The Rochards had a long history of attendance and success at the Academy.

“Can I help with something?” Sara asked. Behind John, a tall boy—Neil Rochard, a rising senior—and his younger brother, Jeremy, stood with identical slumped postures. Theo moved over to Jeremy, who was in his classes.

John’s gaze raked over Sara. He immediately dismissed her and turned back to the teacher. “Neil deserves an A in your class. He’s done everything you asked.”

Sara stepped beside Mrs. Robertson in a show of support. “I’m certain that if Neil deserved an A, that’s what he would have received.” She looked at Neil, whose gaze skittered away and then locked on the polished wood floor.

“Neil is a good kid,” Mrs. Robertson explained, sympathy in her voice. “And yes, he did the work, but not on time. And not to the standards of an A student.”

But John wasn’t listening. His attention was now fully on Sara, who’d dared to butt in and contradict him. “You may not be aware, but my family has done great things for this school.”

“I’m aware.” Sara had heard from the board many times about the Rochard endowments. John’s father was a prominent politician. “But that doesn’t mean Neil gets a free ride.” In her peripheral vision, Neil shoved his hands in his pockets. “Nobody does, not even the grandson of a United States Senator.”

“You haven’t heard the end of this.” His cheeks flushed with outrage, John looked as if he would say more. Instead, he pressed his lips together and spun on his heel, heading to the door. His two sons fell into step behind him as if marching to their doom.

Chapter Three

Holt rushed up the steps toward the large oak door of the Academy. He was late. Again. Which meant Theo would likely give him more of the silent treatment.

Inside, he found Theo waiting for him, not looking at all upset. Unfortunately, that was because Sara was standing there with him. As she laughed at something Theo said, her blue eyes sparkled with all the colors of the sea. Her hair shifted against her shoulders, reflecting shades of yellow, gold and light brown. Every hair on her head, even her eyelashes, seemed to have been dipped in sunlight. His breath caught in his chest. He coughed to cover the moment of poetic insanity.

“Hey, bud, ready to go?” Holt reached for Theo’s backpack.

Sara stepped into his path. “Well, hello, Dr. Patterson. I was keeping Theo company while we waited for you.” Her expression was a combination of amusement and determination. Hell, he knew that look. She had an agenda. “Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?”

Despite the bite beneath her words, the silk of Sara’s voice slid over him like a caress. His gaze moved to her lips and his groin hardened. He chalked the weakness up to male hormones. Then again, no female had aroused his interest since Elizabeth. Sara’s combination of quiet intellect, snarky humor, and subtle beauty were a seductive weapon. They always had been. Which was why she was so dangerous.

He jerked his attention away from her lush mouth. “I’m in a hurry.”

He avoided the temptation to slip into a familiar pattern of banter with her, especially with Theo looking on with interest. Ten years ago, she’d had a wit as sharp as a samurai sword. He was curious if she still had it.
Curiosity killed the cat.
Better to stay away from the cream. He’d learned his lesson the first time.

“I have to be somewhere, so if you don’t mind...” He nudged Theo. Thankfully, his son took the hint and headed out the open door and toward the car. Holt wasn’t so lucky. Sara’s hand touched Holt’s arm, bringing him to a halt before he could get through the door. A memory of those slender fingers gliding along his jaw jolted through him. But she removed her fingers and the memory was gone in an instant.

“I happen to be pretty busy myself, up to my elbows in boys who’ve been cooped up all summer and ready to unleash themselves on the remainder of vacation. Theo is one of the afflicted.”

“What’s he done this time, Director? Doodling on his homework?” He arched a brow at her and watched her lips press together in irritation. He probably enjoyed her response more than he should.

She looked away. When she turned back, misery was heavy in her eyes. “Can’t we put the past behind us? I don’t know why you’re still so angry with me, but it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. What matters is Theo.”

He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Agreed.”

“Good.”

He glanced at his watch. Time was slipping away. If he wanted to make the television interview, he had to leave now. His mind was already cartwheeling ahead to what he needed to say. They were going to show the footage from the parking garage surveillance video. Nothing gory. All it showed was someone disguised in a hooded windbreaker exiting the car four minutes after Beechum got into it. What they wouldn’t show was the hours the man had lain in wait in that parking garage to kill Beechum. The killer was highly organized and dedicated to his mission, which worried Holt more than anything. He wouldn’t be easy to catch. But maybe someone would recognize his walk, his posture—hell, even the windbreaker—
anything.

He was betting the killer would come to him. Based on the “drama queen” assumption in the profile Holt had developed, this broadcast might be his best shot at catching him before he killed again.

“Look, I really do have an appointment,” Holt told Sara. “Could you email me or something?”

She huffed out a laugh. “We both know that would go ignored. I wanted to invite you to...I mean...”

Her hesitance had him raising an eyebrow. He’d never known Sara to dance around an issue. Was she going to ask him out? The idea was both ludicrous—given their history—and enticing...which was also ludicrous. What was he thinking? He had to get out of here. “What?” he asked, not bothering to hide his impatience.

“I thought you’d want to know about the Academy’s upcoming picnic. It’s a week from tomorrow, and it’s shaping up to be kind of a big deal among the students. Games and activities. Lots of food. It’s a fun way to welcome the kids back to school, and I’m hoping it will become an annual tradition.” She seemed to glow as she rushed through the explanation. When he didn’t respond right away, her excitement faded. She frowned. “But if you’re too busy to be there for Theo...”

“Ah, there’s the Sara I know, trying to manipulate me using my emotions.” Why couldn’t he stop prodding her? They’d always been able to push each other’s buttons, and he usually felt like a louse afterwards, which is why he avoided her.

Regrettably, the blue fire of her eyes dimmed. “And there’s the psychologist
I
know. You think you know me...or knew me. It was one night, one mistake. Things weren’t what they seemed ten years ago, and you certainly don’t have a clue how they are now.”

“What? You weren’t trying to break up Elizabeth and me?”

She looked away. “I don’t want to stroll down memory lane with you. I only deigned to pester Your Almightiness in order to beg you to put your saving the world on hold long enough to attend a picnic that might be important to your son. Theo said he wasn’t going to ask you because you wouldn’t come. I don’t think he can stand another disappointment, not after the year he’s had. Elizabeth would want you to come, for your son.”

Holt’s irritation flared. “Damn, Sara. Don’t hold back.”

Her chin lifted a notch. “Considering I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks, I figured I’d better lay it all on the line. I can keep my distance from you at the picnic, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m not that shallow.” Or was he? Part of his conscience pricked at him. Hadn’t part of him been avoiding most activities at the school because of her? And hell, didn’t that make him feel like a dick when she was so ready to offer to make herself scarce at her own event, just so he could be there his son. He jerked out a nod. “I’ll come. For Theo.”

“Pinky swear?” She held up her hand, fingers folded except for her pinky, which stuck defiantly into the air. Her nails were neat and trim, and painted a soft seashell-pink. She silently dared him to commit.

He matched the determination in her eyes with a hard look of his own and linked his pinky to hers. “I’ll be there.” Liking the sizzle of contact a little too much, Holt untwined his finger and turned away.

He could have sworn she’d added, “It’s about time,” beneath her breath as he walked out. But maybe that was his conscience speaking up again.

Fifteen minutes later, he’d settled Theo in a soundproof room where he couldn’t hear the news broadcast.

“You’re on in two, right after the headline stories and a commercial break.” The blonde with the heavy makeup—Sherrie or Sharon or something like that—placed her hand on Holt’s arm as she spoke to him.

Whoa—a come-hither smile aimed in his direction? It had been years since he’d noticed one. But Shannon—yes,
that
was her name—didn’t get his hormones racing. Maybe he was just getting old. At thirty-five, sometimes he felt more like fifty. He felt like he’d lived a lifetime in the past couple years.

Then again, there were certain people who made him feel like a twenty-year-old pulsing with energy again.
Sara.
A
pinky swear.
Christ, what had he been thinking? Letting any part of her touch him had led to near-constant thoughts of her on the drive to the station.

He forced his attention to the present. The anchorman had already been given strict instructions to ask questions from the script Holt had provided. As directed, the station had included the promise of an expert’s profile of Chicago’s latest serial killer in the commercial it ran several times a day. Not typically a gambler, Holt was betting his reputation that the killer would be watching along with most of Chicago when Holt finally delivered that profile.

He followed Shannon into the taping area. Some other woman removed his glasses and waved a makeup brush in his face, dusting his skin with beige powder. He resisted the urge to swat her away like a gnat.

Shannon was all business now, rattling off a list of dos and don’ts. “Look into the camera, or at Steve. Speak clearly. Be sure to mention your agency and the tip hotline often, even though the number will be at the bottom of the screen. Make sure to list the points our viewers should look for...”

He tuned her out. This wasn’t his first rodeo. He’d delivered profiles of varying types and degrees to many different agencies around the world. This would be his first time on television, but, really, it was no different. He was hunting a killer and his goal was to make the public and law enforcement better prepared to help, or to defend themselves, should the need arise. He simply needed to keep in mind his audience—and hopefully the killer was among them.

He took his seat next to Steve Bollardi, the ageless anchor of Channel 7 News, who was diligently reviewing the questions Holt had prepared, displayed on the teleprompter. Someone immediately stepped forward to straighten the collar on Holt’s suit.

A countdown signaled they’d be on the air in three, two, one...

Steve looked into camera one with a grim smile. “Welcome back to Channel 7 Nightly News. A new threat to Chicago citizens has recently been identified by local law enforcement. Tonight, we have forensic psychologist Dr. Holt Patterson here to discuss three murders and the man behind them. Dr. Patterson, what can you share with us about these cases?”

Here we go.
One unprofessional asshole coming up.

Holt had decided this persona would be the best way to lure a killer he suspected suffered from severe egocentrism. “First of all, I’m not sure
man
is how I would characterize this
animal.
He is a creature without conscience. A monster. He’s killed three innocent people.” Calling the killer an
animal
and other names, and referring to his victims as
innocent
, was all part of Holt’s strategy, but his pulse accelerated as instinct told him to shut up and run.

“Victim number one was a successful CEO,” Holt continued. “I’m certain jealousy was a motive there. And the killer’s inability to get victim number two, a female, to accept his sexual advances was most likely the reason he killed her. This final murder, Senator Roy Beechum, who was well-liked in his community, is clearly another example of the killer’s impotence. The man we’re hunting wasn’t able to succeed in his career, or with women, so he’s taking his frustration out on others who
are
successful.”

“So you believe he’s acting out of some kind of inferiority complex?”

“Yes. That, or he’s crazy. Delusions of grandeur, probably.” Inwardly, Holt winced at using such a nontechnical term as
crazy.

“What can citizens do to avoid becoming a victim?”

They cued the videotape and showed the obscure image of Toxin getting into Beechum’s Mercedes, then fast-forwarded to him exiting the car a few minutes after Beechum got in.

“Be aware of your surroundings,” Holt said. “Don’t walk blindly into potentially dangerous areas. This guy is too cowardly to strike by the light of day. He attacks at night, or when a place is deserted. And if you know of anyone suspicious, or the man in this video clip looks familiar, please contact our tip hotline at 1-800-555-JUST. Together, we’ll find justice for these poor victims.”

Steve wrapped up the interview with some parting comments. The interview had gone according to plan. Holt had appeared pompous and described the killer as an impotent, pitiful, sexually frustrated animal. Only Holt, Max and the local CPD knew the truth—that there were no clear ties that linked these victims other than the way they’d died.

Steve sent the show to commercial break and Holt stepped into the wings.

“There’s a call for you,” Shannon said. “CPD just transferred it from the hotline to your cell phone.”

Just like clockwork.

* * *

Toxin did a hundred push-ups before calling the stupid hotline. Whoever this Patterson guy was, he was in serious need of straightening out. But Toxin had to be smart. He couldn’t rush in, half-cocked and full boil. He’d take a quick breath or two to focus. Thus, the push-ups. Toxin did fifty more just to show he was in control.

Animal.
Impotence.
The worst of all was his
innocent
victims.
Like hell.

He jabbed the numbers into his throwaway cell phone. He wasn’t stupid. Calls could be traced. He’d have to replace the phone, but it would be worth it to set the record straight. Besides, it was high time the authorities had an idea who they were dealing with.

“CPD Tip Hotline. Do you have a tip to share?” The perky woman’s voice grated on him, but he forced himself to smile and match her hopeful tone.

“Sure do,” Toxin said. “But I’ll only talk to the good doctor himself.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Holt Patterson.”

“I’m afraid that’s—”

“Nothing’s impossible, sweetheart. I know because I’ve taken those lives he’s so intent on glorifying. Be a dear and patch me through.”

“Just a moment.” Her perky attitude had popped and deflated like a balloon.

Several minutes later, Toxin was about to drop and do another hundred push-ups to keep his cool when someone finally came on the line.

“This is Dr. Holt Patterson. With whom am I speaking?”

With whom
... Pretentious fuck. “This is Toxin.”

Patterson had the gall to laugh. “Wow, your parents must have hated you.”

“It’s the name I chose for myself.
I’m
in control of my destiny...and those of many people who aren’t nearly as innocent as you indicated.”

“And you use poison to kill people. I get it.”