I Can See You (23 page)

Hunter made an annoyed sound in his throat. “Now
what?”

“Now we watch Eve like a hawk,” Noah said. “Eve, you
don’t go anywhere by yourself until we know exactly who and what we’re dealing
with.”

“Told you so,” Hunter muttered and Noah knew a small
moment of relief. If nothing else, these two behaved like brother and sister.

She rose, briskly. “David made coffee. Do you want
some to go?”

He realized for her, none of this had changed anything
personal. “No thanks. I’ve had enough coffee tonight. Don’t go anywhere alone.”

“She won’t,” Hunter said flatly, then softened his
tone. “Thank you for coming.”

“Yes,” Eve said, not meeting Noah’s eyes. “Thank you.
I’m tired. David, can you see Detective Webster out?” Without waiting for an
answer she went back to her room.

Hunter puffed out his cheeks. “Well.”

Noah frowned. “Well? Well what? What’s that supposed
to mean?”

“That you’re under her skin.” He walked him to the
door. “Give her time.”

“I have lots of that,” Noah murmured, then narrowed
his eyes. “Why pink?”

“It was a baby shower present. Do you know a Detective
Sutherland?”

Noah was surprised at the sudden topic change.
“Olivia? Damn fine cop. Why?”

“Her sister Mia’s one of my best friends,” he said.
“Another damn fine cop. Olivia and I were both in Mia’s wedding. When you see
her, tell her I said hi.”

“I will. And, I meant it. That was good thinking. You
may have saved Eve’s life.”

Hunter’s eyes hardened. “This guy knows Eve’s
involved. How does he know?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Noah said grimly.
“Keep me on speed dial.”

“I will. Don’t forget your hat.”

“I’ll leave it here for a while.” If it was here, he
had an excuse to return. “Thanks.”

Tuesday, February 23, 2:25 a.m.

Lindsay never would have wanted her to see this side
of humanity.
Too late, sis
, Liza thought dully, as she waited for a bus
to the next neighborhood. She’d been searching for three hours and she was
already ready to give up. Most of the prostitutes hung out in bars and hotels
this time of year. The bars wouldn’t let her in because she wasn’t twenty-one.
And nobody in the hotels had seen Lindsay.

A well-intentioned bouncer had let her into one of the
bars long enough to get warm. A waitress gave her a coffee. Neither had seen
Lindsay. In her pocket was the napkin on which the bouncer had written
directions to another place she might look. She had enough change for bus fare
there and bus fare home.

And if you find nothing? Then what?

I don’t know
.

Numbly she watched as a girl came out of the bar she’d
just left, picking her way over the ice in five-inch stiletto heels. The girl’s
legs were bare, her short skirt barely covering her butt, her wig teased big.
She pranced to the end of the block and leaned against a light pole. A minute
later a black SUV slid to a stop, rolled down its window.

“Don’t do it,” Liza murmured, as if words could help.
The girl climbed up into the SUV and it did a U-turn in the street, headed back
the way it had come.

Tuesday, February 23, 3:25 a.m.

He drew a deep breath, the climax shuddering through
him. Slowly he released the hooker’s throat. He relaxed, lowering his body to
sit on the body he straddled, his seed glistening on her skin. Under her wig
she’d had short dark hair and a long neck and as he’d choked the life out of
her, he’d imagined her face was Eve Wilson’s.

It should be Eve lying here, on this disgusting,
foul-smelling bed. Dead, her open eyes staring at nothing at all. It was
supposed to have been Eve. But it wasn’t.

But the words he’d whispered in the hooker’s ear as
she’d slid into her little ketamine stupor would drive terror into Eve’s heart
when she finally lay here beneath him on this bed.
Twine around your throat,
pulling tighter, you can’t breathe. You’re going to die.

The hooker had awakened, gasping for air, thinking she
was being strangled. Then, she really was. He did love it when fantasy met
reality with such perfection.

He climbed off the girl, yanked on the concrete slab,
and winced. The girl from Sunday wasn’t quite done yet. He stared into the pit
for a moment, troubled. Two days. He’d never gone only two days between kills.

He had to be more careful, he thought as he dragged
the hooker’s body from the bed, rolling her into the pit. He’d never gone to
the same street twice, but he had tonight. It was like he’d been on autopilot
as he’d driven away from Eve’s.

It was the stress. When this was over and he was done,
he’d go back to his old way. Things would be normal again. He donned his
protective gear, performed his duties, tossing the girl’s clothing in after
her. When he was finished, he pulled the slab closed and picked up the girl’s
cheap stilettos, carefully placing them heel out on the shelf next to Christy
Lewis’s very expensive Manolos.

He stood back, surveyed his collection. It was a
veritable time capsule of women’s shoe fashions spanning nearly thirty years.
Most were, of course, on the most flamboyant fringe of fashion, the shoes no
respectable woman would be caught dead wearing. Most were small sizes, as his
victims had been. It was a more efficient use of his energy that way. Smaller
victims were more easily overpowered. More easily transported. Leaving all his
energy for what happened in this room, as it should be.

There were exceptions. His eyes lowered to the bottom
shelf, far left. Next to the worn pair of work boots he’d removed from the man
who’d dug his pit were a pair of scuffed pumps, black, size eleven. They were
plain. Ugly. Matronly, even. They’d been out of style thirty years ago. Which
was why they’d been relegated to the church charity bin.

He remembered her digging them from the bin along with
the articles of clothing that had been too worn to make decent rags. A few
dresses for herself. Trousers for her sons that would be too short for the
older, and far too large for the younger. But she didn’t care. Didn’t care that
everyone knew every stitch she wore was fished from the charity bin. Didn’t
care that her sons were laughingstocks of the entire town.

She’d had no pride. No shame. Nothing but a selfish,
unquenchable thirst. He carefully took one of the pumps from the shelf, studied
it, remembering. They were scuffed because she’d fallen down all the time.

She’d fallen down all the time because she was drunk.
As were the constant stream of paramours she entertained to earn her next
bottle. Except a few of them hadn’t been as drunk as she. And a few of them had
come with a different price in mind for that next bottle.

His hand clenched into a fist and he abruptly relaxed
it. No point in damaging the most valuable of his souvenirs. He remembered the
day he’d taken these shoes from her feet, minutes after he’d taken his hands
from her throat.

Seconds after he’d taken her miserable life.

He remembered the sight of her swinging from the tree
outside the rusted-out trailer she’d had the nerve to call their home. No
pride. No shame. Now, no life.

He’d chosen the branch carefully. She’d been a tall
woman. That she hadn’t passed those genes to him had often struck her as funny.

He’d laughed about it himself as he’d hoisted her up,
left her feet dangling. It had taken more energy than he’d expected, but it had
been worth it. Of course tying the noose had been no problem. He’d had months
to practice the technique. There hadn’t been much else to do, in juvenile
detention. Not much more to do than watch his own back and dream of his hands
around her throat.

He’d expected the moral satisfaction, even the thrill
as she drew her last breath. What he hadn’t expected was the pure, sexual
release. It had caught him off-guard, that first time. He lifted his eyes,
surveyed his collection. He’d known to expect it every time that followed.

He looked back at the shoe in his hand. He’d strung
her up and left her swinging. No one had questioned that she’d killed herself.
Everyone had been relieved that she was finally gone. His only regret was that
she’d been dressed in the cast-off Sunday dress she’d pulled from the church
charity bin and not like the whore she was. And that he hadn’t had his pit
then. He would have enjoyed walking over her any time he chose.

He placed the shoe back on the shelf, straightened it
neatly. The next pair of shoes he placed on the shelf would be Rachel Ward’s,
victim five of his six, who’d already agreed to meet him tomorrow night.
Tonight, he amended.

But the next body into the pit would be Eve’s.
Eventually, he’d have her here. She’d be silenced, her worst fear realized.
She’d almost died twice. Third time was a charm.

Tuesday, February 23, 4:30 a.m.

Harvey Farmer sat drumming his fingers on his kitchen
table when Dell returned, looking cold and tired. “Where have you been?” Harvey
snapped.

“Following Jack Phelps, just like we agreed.” There
was attitude in his son’s voice that Harvey did not like and he smelled like
perfume. Again.

“And what did Phelps do?”

“Went to a bar, then sat outside for a few hours
waiting for some guys to come out.”

Harvey’s brows lifted, sniffing a break. “Guys?
Really?”

“No, not like that. Phelps is very much into women. He
was waiting for these guys to come out so he could write down their license
plates. I guess they’re suspects.” Dell dragged his palms down his face. “This
plan of yours isn’t working.”

“It will. Be patient.” He jumped when Dell’s hand
slammed down on the table.

“I’m done being patient. How long have you followed
them, hoping they stumble?”

Harvey cocked his jaw. “Since I put your brother in
the ground.”

“And so far? Nothin’.”

“Not nothing. Pages of notes on what they’ve done, who
they’ve seen… You’ve been at this three weeks.”
Fired by the article that
made my son’s murderers look like gods
. Harvey had welcomed Dell’s rage.
Now he needed to harness it before Dell did something wild. “They’re on a big
case. They’ll be under pressure to make an arrest.”

Dell scoffed. “They couldn’t find a crook if they
tripped over him.”

“Exactly. When they can’t arrest somebody, they’ll
find a scapegoat.”

“Like VJ,” Dell murmured.

“Like VJ,” Harvey repeated. “Here are the pictures I
took of Webster tonight.” He handed the memory card from his camera to Dell.
“Group them with the ones you took of Phelps and print them out. We’ll regroup
in the morning.”

Tuesday, February 23, 6:45 a.m.

“You’re here early,” Jack said, dropping into his
chair.

“I had a busy night. Somebody tried to break into
Eve’s place last night.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I tried. Left you a message on your cell. Figured you
were just sound asleep. If the unis had found anything, I’d have called your
home phone and woke you up.”

Jack frowned at his cell phone. “There is no call from
you in my log.”

Noah wanted to tell him to cut the bullshit, but
didn’t have the energy. “Maybe you need a new phone,” he said wearily. “I asked
Micki to check the area around Eve’s apartment this morning. We’ll see what she
finds. Is one of those for me?”

Jack had two full cups from his favorite coffee house.
“They were both for me, but you look like you need it more.” He slid a cup
across their desks. “What’s that?”

“Eve’s test participants. I’m comparing them against
the suicide reports.”

“She gave you the list?”

“I didn’t have to ask twice. So far, no matches.
That’s the good news.”

“Bad news is you’ve got a long list and we don’t know
who he’s targeting next.”

“It’s not that bad. Eve separated out the heavy users.
If he’s luring them to meet him somewhere, it stands to reason that he’d have a
better chance of encountering them in the virtual world the more frequently
they play.”

“Makes sense to me.”

Noah sat back, pushing the list away for a little
while. “So why are you here early?”

“I found Taylor Kobrecki’s pals at a bar last night.
The bar was the first number on Kobrecki’s grandmother’s LUDs. She called the
minute you left her yesterday.”

“I bet his pals say they haven’t seen him in weeks and
Taylor would never hurt a fly.”

“Almost word for word. When I asked their names, they
gave me every crank-call name in the book, so I waited for them to leave and
copied down license plates. I’ll run their addresses. One of them could be
hiding him.” Jack tossed his hat to his desk. “Although if Kobrecki’s IQ is
anywhere near his Neanderthal pals’, there’s no way in hell he’s smart enough
to have pulled this off.”

“Did you talk to any of the women who filed complaints
about him?”