Profiled (3 page)

Why hadn’t the police acknowledged he’d returned? Why hadn’t her boss? Because they didn’t want to scare the town? In Lexie’s opinion, the town needed to be scared. Very, very scared.

She snatched the last of the printout, added it to the rest of her notes and stormed the short distance to Paul Kingsley’s office. A glass window formed the top half of his outer wall allowing him to view employees with a quick glance. Not that he did. Too busy to play overseer, Paul Kingsley instead played the king of multi-tasking. Right now, in fact, he had his phone trapped in the crook between cheek and shoulder, one hand scribbling on a yellow steno pad and the other using the Bible method, seek-and-find, on the keyboard, while his glance darted to the television screens on one wall, where WGXA’s current broadcast played, along with several additional stations, and where CNN announced the latest headline news. Lexie knew his inbox held her report, but she was certain he hadn’t opened it yet, so she held the hard copy. He
would
read it, one way or another.

She knocked on the door, watched his head bob—yet another task added to the mix—then entered. He sat tall in the chair, his starched white shirt smooth except for one thick crease near the right shoulder. A red power tie had been knotted at his neck when he began the day; now it hung an inch below the top button of his shirt. His skin had a golfer’s tan and crinkle lines at his eyes and mouth to go with it. Mid-forties, Lexie would guess, though without the salt-and-pepper hair—heavy on the salt—he could pass for late-thirties.

He ceased keyboarding and waved her to a chair, but kept his right hand writing on the page. “Right, Tucker. I’ve got it. Yeah. So what time is the first meeting?” He looked up at Lexie then frowned as he scribbled numbers at the bottom of the page and circled them. “I’ll send her over.”

Lexie straightened in her chair. Tucker. So he
had
been talking to Tucker about the story.

Paul finished the call and hung up the phone. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?” She watched his pencil continue to circle the numbers at the bottom of the yellow page. A time. 6:00.

“Okay, what did you need?” His chair creaked as he leaned forward, steepled his fingers beneath his chin and examined her with steel gray eyes. “Coming to beg for the story?”

“If you’re airing it, then I deserve it. I don’t beg.”

He smirked and shook his head, causing a wavy silver lock to shift against his right temple.

Lexie waited for his response. A word, a nod, any sign of affirmation. She received none. But their relationship was peculiar at most, odd at best. Boss-employee for Lexie, but he wanted more, had made it no secret he wanted more. However, Lexie didn’t feel nervous around Paul Kingsley. As a matter of fact, she didn’t feel anything. A good-looking man, Paul had divorced three years ago and was ready to move on, but he was her boss, plain and simple. She didn’t need complications in her life when she was so close to getting the story she’d always wanted, the killer she’d always wanted. Going out with Paul Kingsley qualified as a complication.

She’d left her ex-husband and his wife of ten years in Atlanta, but the three of them had an amicable relationship. In fact, she and Phil had always gotten along in areas involving Phillip, Jr. Their marriage lasted eleven years on paper, even if they hadn’t had a real marriage beyond the first three years. In spite of the son they created and her desire for Phillip, Jr. to have a “real home,” she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t give Phil her heart, her soul. The memories hurt too much. The nightmares cut too deep.

Even knowing about Lexie’s past, Phil never understood her distance, and when he met Ginger, he fell for her. Lexie attempted to save the marriage, but she couldn’t correct a problem that she didn’t understand. And why
hadn’t
she been able to love, to trust?

Because of what happened back then
.

Now, with Phillip, Jr. in college and with Lexie financially secure and having passed her thirty-sixth birthday, her life was settled and her lifetime goal close to complete
if
Paul gave her this assignment.

“I know you don’t beg.” Leaning back and clasping his hands behind his head, he took his attention from CNN and focused on Lexie. “I don’t either. But I have with you, haven’t I?”

Lexie took a deep breath, gathered her composure and prepared a rebuttal.

“No, save it.” He shook his head. “You don’t have to humor me. Besides, this ended up not
being my call.”

Her eyes widened, pulse skittered. “What ended up not being your call?”

“The request for you to cover the story.” His gray-eyed stare penetrated her like piercing daggers from across the desk.

“Who requested me?”

“Tucker.”

“Detective Tucker?” She knew the answer. This case called for Macon’s top guy in homicide and tainted reputation or not, that meant John Tucker. And Tucker got what he wanted regarding his cases. This time, he wanted Lexie to air the story. Her stomach quivered. John Tucker requested her, the most recent hire at the station, rather than one of the hometown favorites. Why? Because of her previous history covering the Atlanta series? Maybe, but Lexie couldn’t fight the gnawing reporter’s instinct that told her it was more.

“Tucker, that’s the one. Seems he was so impressed with the way the two of you worked together that he wants you involved with the task force.”

“Task force?” She swallowed. Lexie had been prepared to argue her right to the story, but what did Tucker mean, involved with the task force? And why couldn’t she control the excited surge of adrenaline that raced through her at the possibilities?

“The cops seem to be under the same impression as you, McCain. And if it is true, if the Sunrise Killer has returned, then we all know what’s going to happen on Sunday. The police department has formed a task force to try to stop him from succeeding, to try to catch him once and for all.”

“They had a task force last time.” She’d read all about the group and about the profiler they’d brought in from the FBI. She wondered who they’d send this time. Though she suspected—hoped—that she knew.

“Yeah, but they’re trying it again. In 2006, they didn’t get the force organized until after the fifth murder. Not a lot of time left by then. This time, they’re grabbing hold from the get-go. According to Tucker, they don’t intend to let the guy make it through another killing spree. And if at all possible, they don’t want him to accomplish the next kill.”

“On Easter.”

“Right. So that gives them two days to warn all women who fit the killer’s criteria.”

“They want me to warn them?”

“Can you think of anyone better, given your past experience with that serial rapist in Atlanta?”

“No. No, I can’t.” And although Paul didn’t realize it, Lexie had more “past experience” with this killer than anyone.

“Good. The task force is meeting at the Macon P.D. at 6:00. I expect they’ll meet again tomorrow and Sunday, so this will be a full weekend assignment.”

“That’s fine.”

“Tucker said he’d like to talk to you before the others, since you’ll be the newest member on the team. He wants you up to speed.” Paul tapped his pen against the paper as he spoke.

“Did he say when?”

“Whenever you can get there.” He circled the numbers on his pad again, taking those gray eyes from hers. “I can extend your deadline until 4:00 a.m. for tomorrow’s morning news segment. That should give you the time you need to provide the most up-to-date story. We’ll intersperse breaking news pieces throughout the day then air an update at the evening 6:00 and 10:00. Does that work for you?”

“That’s fine. And Paul?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll do a good job.”

“Never questioned it.” He tore the top sheet of paper off and handed it to her. “Here’s the information you’ll need for the meeting.” He paused for a moment when she touched the page, looked at her and swallowed hard enough for her to see his throat pulse against his collar. His mouth flattened, then he released his hold on the paper and exhaled.

“Thanks.” Lexie stood and turned to leave, but stopped when he cleared his throat. “Is there something else?”

“For what it’s worth, McCain, I never doubted you were the best reporter to cover the story. And I never doubted your theory about the killer’s return.”

“Then why didn’t you give it to me the first time I asked?”

His jaw stiffened. “Because I agree with you. I think it’s him. And I don’t want you having anything to do with that monster. He killed twenty-eight women, and he won’t appreciate the one who airs his dirty laundry on TV. The guy’s not right, Lexie.”

The back of her neck tingled. She’d never heard her first name from Paul Kingsley’s lips. A waterfall of goose bumps trickled down her arms. Grateful for the long sleeves of her pantsuit, she forced a smile. “I don’t fit the criteria.”

“You’re blonde and you’re single.”

She held up two fingers. “Two out of three. And I don’t plan on becoming pregnant anytime in the near future.”

At his audible groan, she added, “Don’t worry. I’m a big girl, and I promise I can take care of myself.”

“I’m going to hold you to that. But if you sense anything, anything at all that doesn’t feel right, I want you to let me know.”

“Deal.”

Vickie Jones stepped into the afternoon sun and shielded her face from the blinding glare. Her eyes were ultra sensitive today and burned the same way they did after they’d been dilated by an optometrist, because she’d been crying for the past hour.

But she hadn’t visited the eye doctor today. And the doctor she had visited couldn’t prescribe a pair of contacts to fix her problem. Matter of fact, there wasn’t a doctor in Macon who could prescribe anything at all to fix the problem of having her ex-husband’s baby growing inside of her. Vickie didn’t want to do anything to harm her child, even if that child was his.

She’d gotten a raw deal from the divorce, but she could handle that. Her new life in Macon, away from Florida and her ex, was going okay. And the new job at the Waffle House helped pay the bills for her tiny apartment, but she didn’t know what she’d do when the baby came. Her weekly check and tips couldn’t support her and pay for a good daycare, and she wouldn’t put her baby in just any ol’ place.

Digging through her canvas tote, a big cream bag stamped with the Waffle House logo, she located her sunglasses, slipped them on and walked the short distance from Dr. Weatherly’s office to the city bus stop. Typically, at least one other person sat on the wrought iron bench and waited for the next pass of the green trolley-like shuttle. Today, however, bare black metal awaited her arrival, and Vickie plopped her body, and her troubles, on the cool seat.

Things would be much better if her mother were still alive. No doubt Omadee Cutter would’ve been thrilled about a grandbaby to love. She’d have been happy watching the baby while Vickie went to work each day, and Mama would’ve given the child more love than it could handle. Too bad the cancer took her last year. Vickie could sure use her Mama now.

She sniffed, slid her fingertips beneath the big round lens of her cheap sunglasses and wiped her tears away. “Suck it up, Vickie. Crying isn’t good for the baby.”

A cloud passed over the sun, and the instant shift in temperature made her shiver. A soft rain misted through the thick Georgia air and added the final punctuation to her miserable day. She released another full dose of pity tears.

“Super.” Pulling her sweater together, she arched her shoulders in an attempt to keep the front of her body dry. Her pants were already a tad tight, due to the eight pounds she gained after her wedding day. She’d need maternity clothes soon. How would she afford them?

“Here.”

Vickie raised her head toward the deep male voice. She hadn’t even heard him approach. Then again, she’d been lost in her misery. In spite of the rain, the afternoon glare and her sunglasses cast his face in shadow, but she viewed the item in the hand he’d extended. A black umbrella.

“Just press the silver button. It’ll open on its own. I believe you need it more than I.”

She smiled. So there were some people in the world who’d help her after all. Things could get better, couldn’t they? “Thanks.”

“I saw you leaving the doctor’s place over there.” He pointed toward Dr. Weatherly’s office.

Vickie nodded, popped the umbrella open then lifted it above her head. “Do you want under here too?” The proximity required the two of them to fit under the dome-shaped shelter, but he’d given her his only protection from the increasing rain.

“No thanks. I like the rain.” He sat on the other end of the bench and tilted his head heavenward as if emphasizing the truth of his statement. Then he looked at her and smiled, his face wet and his eyes friendly. “Not many people at the park today.” He nodded toward the city park nearby. “I guess the weather kept them away.”

“I guess so.” She wished the trolley would hurry.

“Dr. Weatherly is a baby doctor, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.”

“You got a little one on the way?”

Vickie nodded, sniffed and managed a half-smile. In truth, she’d always wanted a child, even if she wasn’t happy about the entire picture.