I Can See You

Minneapolis, Saturday, February
13, 9:10 p.m.
She was shy. Nervous. Mousy. Midforties and
dowdy, even though she’d obviously dressed for the occasion in an ugly brown
suit. She shouldn’t have bothered.

Martha Brisbane was just as he’d expected. He’d been
watching her from across the crowded coffee shop for close to an hour now.
Every time the door opened, she’d straighten, her eyes growing bright if a man
entered. But the man would always sit elsewhere, ignoring her, and each time,
her eyes grew a little less bright. Still she waited, watching the door. After
an hour, the anticipation in her eyes had become desperation. He wondered how
much longer her bottom-of-the-barrel self-esteem would keep her waiting.
Hoping.

He’d found bursting their bubbles simply added to his
fun.

Finally she glanced at her watch with a sigh and began
to gather her purse and coat. One hour, six minutes, and forty-two seconds. Not
bad. Not bad at all.

The barista behind the counter aimed her a sympathetic
look from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. “It’s snowing outside. Maybe he got
tied up.”

Martha shook her head, defeat in the gesture. “I’m
sure that’s it.”

The barista flashed an earnest smile. “You be careful
driving home.”

“I will.”

It was his cue to exit, stage left. He slipped out of
the side door in time to see Martha Brisbane huddled against the wind as she
made her way to her beat-up old Ford Escort, mincing her steps in the two-inch
heels that looked as if they pinched her fat feet. She managed to get to her
car before the waterworks began, but once started, Martha didn’t stop crying,
not when she pulled out of her parking place, not when she got on the highway.
It was a wonder she didn’t run off the road and kill herself.

Drive carefully, Martha. I need you to arrive home in
one piece.

By the time she parked in front of her apartment, her
tears had ceased and she was sniffling, her face red and puffy and chapped from
the wind. She stumbled up the stairs to her apartment building, grappling with
the heavy bags of cat food and litter she’d purchased at the pet store before
arriving at the coffee shop.

There was a security camera in the building’s lobby,
but it was broken. He’d made sure of that days ago. He swept up the stairs and
opened the door for her.

“Your hands are full. Can I help you?”

She shook her head, but managed a teary smile. “No,
I’m fine. But thank you.”

He smiled back. “The pleasure is mine.” Which would
soon be very true.

Wearily she trudged up three flights of stairs to her
apartment, teetering on the two-inch heels as she balanced the heavy bags. She wasn’t
paying attention. She didn’t know he stood behind her, waiting for her to put
the key in her lock.

She set the bags down, fumbled for her key.
For
God’s sake, woman. I don’t have all night. Hurry up.
Finally she opened her
door, picked up the bags, and pushed the door open with her shoulder.

Now
. He
leapt forward, clamping his hand over her mouth and twisting her around into
the apartment with a fluid motion. She struggled, swinging her heavy bags as he
closed her door and leaned back against it, dragging her against him. A pistol
against her temple had her struggles magically ceasing.

“Hold still, Martha,” he murmured, “and I just might
let you live.” As if that was going to happen.
Not.
“Now put down the
bags.”

Her bags dropped to the floor.

“Better,” he murmured. She was shaking in terror, just
the way he liked it.

Her words, muffled against his hand, sounded like a
terrified “Please, please.” That’s what his victims always said. He liked a
polite victim.

He looked around with a sneer. Her apartment was a
disgusting mess, books and magazines stacked everywhere. The surface of her
desk was obscured by the cups of coagulated coffee, Post-it notes, and
newspapers that she’d packed around her state-of-the-art computer.

Her clothes were pure nineties, but her computer was
brand new. It figured. Nothing but the best for her forays into fantasyland.

He pressed the gun to her temple harder and felt her
flinch against him. “I’m going to move my hand. If you scream, I will kill
you.”

Sometimes they screamed. Always he killed them.

He slid his hand from her mouth to her throat. “Don’t
hurt me,” she whimpered. “Please. I’ll give you my valuables. Take what you
want.”

“Oh, I will,” he said quietly. “Desiree.”

She stiffened. “How did you know that?”

“Because I know everything about you, Martha. What you
really do for a living. What you love. And what you fear the very most.” Still
pressing the gun to her temple, he reached into his coat pocket for the
syringe. “I see all. I know all. Up to and including the moment you will die.
Which would be tonight.”

Minneapolis,
Sunday, February 21, 6:35 p.m.

Homicide
detective Noah Webster stared up into the wide, lifeless eyes of Martha
Brisbane with a sigh that hung in the freezing air, just as she did. Within him
was deep sadness, cold rage, and an awful dread that had his heart plodding
hard in his chest.

It should have been an unremarkable crime scene.
Martha Brisbane had hung herself in the conventional way. She’d looped a rope
over a hook in her bedroom ceiling and tied a very traditional noose. She’d
climbed up on an upholstered stool, which she’d then kicked aside. The only
thing remotely untraditional was the bedroom window she’d left open and the thermostats
she’d turned off. The Minnesota winter had served to preserve her body well.
Establishing time of death would be a bitch.

Like many hangers, she was dressed for the occasion,
makeup applied with a heavy hand. Her red dress plunged daringly, the skirt
frozen around her dangling legs. She’d worn her sexiest five-inch red
stilettos, which now lay on the carpet at her feet. One red shoe had fallen on
its side while the other stood upright, the heel stuck into the carpet.

It should have been an unremarkable crime scene.

But it wasn’t. And as he stared up into the victim’s
empty eyes, a chill that had nothing to do with the near-zero temps in Martha
Brisbane’s bedroom went sliding down his spine. They were supposed to believe
she’d hung herself. They were supposed to chalk it up to one more depressed,
middle-aged single woman. They were supposed to close the case and walk away,
without a second thought.

At least that’s what the one who’d hung her here had
intended. And why not? That’s exactly what had happened before.

“The neighbor found her,” the first responding officer
said. “CSU is on the way. So are the ME techs. Do you need anything else?”

Anything else to close it quickly, was the
implication. Noah forced his eyes from the body to look at the officer. “The
window, Officer Pratt. Was it open when you got here?”

Pratt frowned slightly. “Yes. Nobody touched
anything.”

“The neighbor who called it in,” Noah pressed. “She
didn’t open the window?”

“She didn’t enter the apartment. She tried knocking on
the door but the victim didn’t answer, so she went around back, planning to
bang on the window. She thought the victim would be asleep since she works
nights. Instead, she saw this. Why?”

Because I’ve seen this scene before
, he thought, déjà vu squeezing his chest so hard he
could barely breathe. The body, the stool, the open window. Her dress and
shoes, one standing up, one lying on its side.
And her eyes
.

Noah hadn’t been able to forget the last victim’s
eyes, lids glued open, cruelly forced to remain wide and empty. This was going
to be very bad. Very bad indeed.

“See if you can find the building manager,” he said.
“I’ll wait for CSU and the ME.”

Officer Pratt gave him a sharp look. “And Detective GQ?”

Noah winced. That Jack Phelps wasn’t here yet was not,
unfortunately, unusual. His partner had been distracted recently. Which was the
polite way of saying he’d dropped the ball more than a few times.

“Detective Phelps is on his way,” he said, with more
confidence than he felt.

Pratt grunted as he left in search of the manager and
Noah felt a twinge of sympathy for Jack. Officers who’d never met Jack
disrespected him.
Thanks to that magazine
. A recent article on the
homicide squad had portrayed them as supermen. But Jack had borne the brunt,
his face adorning the damn cover.

But Jack’s rep as a party-loving lightweight started
long before the magazine hit the stands three weeks before and it was a shame.
Focused, Jack Phelps was a good cop. Noah knew his partner had a quick mind,
seeing connections others passed over.

Noah looked up into Martha Brisbane’s empty eyes. They
were going to need all the quick minds they could get.

His cell buzzed.
Jack
. But it was his cousin
Brock, from whose dinner table Noah had been called. Brock and his wife, Trina,
were cops, they’d taken it in stride. In a family of cops, it was a rare Sunday
dinner when one of them wasn’t called away.

“I’m tied up,” Noah answered, bypassing greeting.

“So is your partner,” Brock responded. Brock had been
headed to Sal’s Bar to watch the game. Which meant that Jack was at Sal’s, too.
Damn him
.

“I’ve called him
twice
,” Noah gritted. Both
calls had gone to Jack’s voicemail.

“He’s having drinks with his newest blonde. You want
me to talk to him?”

Noah looked up at Martha Brisbane’s lifeless eyes and
his anger bubbled tightly. It wasn’t the first time Jack had blown off his
duty, but by God, it would be his last. “No. I’m going to get the first
responder back in here and come down there myself.”

Sunday, February 21, 6:55 p.m.

“Come on, Eve, it’s just a little magazine quiz.”

Eve Wilson glanced across the bar at her friend with
an exasperated shake of her head before returning her eyes to the beer tap. “I
get enough quizzes at school.”

“But this one is fun,” Callie insisted, “unlike that
psycho research project that has you tied up in knots. Don’t worry. You always
get the best grade in class. Just one question.”

If only it was the grade
. A few months ago, getting A’s was at the top of Eve’s
mind. A few months ago the participants in her thesis research had been
nameless, faceless numbers on a page. The mug filled, she replaced it with the
next. The bar was busy tonight. She’d hoped to numb her mind with work, but the
worry was always there.

Because a few months ago Eve never would have
entertained the possibility of breaking university rules, of compromising her
own ethics. But she’d done both of those things. Because now the test subjects
were more than numbers on a page. Desiree and Gwenivere and the others were
real people, in serious trouble.

Desiree had been missing for more than a week.
I
should do something. But what?
She wasn’t supposed to know that Desiree
existed, much less that she was Martha Brisbane in real life. Test subjects
were assured their privacy.

But Eve did know, because she’d broken the rules.
And
I’ll have to pay for that
.

Across the bar, Callie cleared her throat
dramatically, taking Eve’s silence for assent. “Question one. Have you ever
gone on a romantic dinner to—”

“I’m busy,” Eve interrupted. For the next few hours
there was nothing she could do about Martha and her other test subjects, but
Callie’s quiz was not welcome respite.
Do you believe in love at first
sight, my ass. I hate those quizzes
. Which, of course, was the reason
Callie insisted on reading them. “Look, Cal, I took your shift so you could
party.”

Callie shrugged the shoulders her cocktail dress left
bare. “Nice try. I had somebody to cover for me. You should be studying, but
you’re here, procrastinating.”