Sex, Lies, and Online Dating (14 page)

Well, I have to go.

So many men. So little time. So much to do.

Lucy reached for the next letter and opened it. This time she pulled out a front-page news clipping along with a letter. A photo of a house blocked off with yellow crime scene tape dominated half the page. The headline read DAVE ANDERSON, SECOND MAN TO DIE IN HOME WITHIN THE PAST MONTH.

This letter was shorter and more vehement.

Flattered?

Lucy might be a little slow on the uptake sometimes, like when it came to realizing that everything Quinn had ever uttered had been a damn lie, but not this time. She knew what this was. She’d done too much research, delved into too many twisted minds, written too many books, not to recognize bragging when she read it.

Breathless wanted her to know exactly what she’d done. She was showing off. Like when Mr. Snookums killed a mouse and left it on the back porch for her to discover and admire. A killer wanted Lucy to see and admire her work.

Lucy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her cat jumped off a kitchen chair, and she jumped out of her skin. Her heart pounded, and she raised a hand to her throat. “Holy Jesus,” she whispered. She set the letter on the news clipping and stared at the third envelope. She didn’t really want to open it, but she had to. This time she was more careful. She retrieved her pink Playtex gloves from beneath the sink and pulled them on. Her hands shook as she grabbed a steak knife and sliced the top of the envelope open. She tipped it upside down, and another article and letter fell into her palm. The newspaper had run a photo of the victim, as well as a picture of the crime scene. Lawrence Craig, the man Lucy knew as luvstick, looked out from the paper, a slight smile tilting up the corners of his mouth. Her scalp got tight, and tension pulled at her brows. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

When I first started, I thought it would be difficult to find dirty men who are willing to be handcuffed to a bed. For the most part, it has been easy. Men will do just about anything if they think they might get sex. But you’re an intelligent woman, and I’m sure this doesn’t surprise you. I’m sure we have a lot in common and could spend hours swapping dating horror stories.

Women want love. Men don’t care about love. They just want sex.

What’s a girl to do with throwbacks and bottom feeders?

Lucy set the letter and news clipping with the rest and slipped the gloves from her hands. She felt like the world had fallen out from under her feet. It was as if she was being pulled down into someone else’s sick reality. The telephone rang, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She looked at the caller ID and didn’t recognize the number. No way in hell was she going to pick up. She had the sensation of being watched, and she ran around her house, room to room, shutting all the curtains and blinds.

In the living room she sank onto her couch and stared across the room at her chinoiserie entertainment armoire, at the black lacquer paint and gold pavilion scenes. Her pulse pounded in her throat and she swallowed past the dry knot of fear choking her.

Why? Why had a psycho decided to contact her? She didn’t live her books. They were fiction. She wrote fictions; not road maps to murder. She didn’t want to be involved in this. It was sick and twisted and made her feel as if someone with cold, evil hands was playing with her life. She wished she’d never gone to her PO box. She wished she could close her eyes and it would all just go away.

Lucy didn’t know how long she sat there thinking, trying to figure out what to do, when in reality she’d known what to do the whole time.

She reached for her phone and dialed.

“Are you sure you can’t think of anyone who might’ve written those letters?” Kurt asked Lucy. He sat in front of her chair with his notebook open on his lap.

She shook her head. “It could be anyone.”

Quinn tucked the ends of his blue-and-green silk tie between two buttons on the front of his green dress shirt and planted his palms next to the evidence spread out in front of him. If he had to guess, he’d say Breathless had used Microsoft Word to construct the letters; he hoped the printer was more distinctive.

Without lifting his head, he raised his gaze to Lucy. She was pale but every bit as beautiful as when he’d seen her three days ago. She wore a pink shirt that laced up the front and a pair of jeans. The second he’d entered the house, he’d recognized the look in her blue eyes. No matter how much she tried to hide it behind anger, she was scared shitless.

“Do you have any fans whose appreciation for your work seems out of proportion?”

She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Well, yeah. To me it seems out of proportion much like Trekkies seem out of proportion, but nothing as crazy as this.” She’d pulled her blonde hair into a ponytail high on her head, and she looked young and very vulnerable. A slight purple bruise marked her collarbone. It was hardly noticeable really, but Quinn had noticed within seconds of seeing her. Maybe because he’d put it there.

Quinn had spent the past three days interviewing Robert Patterson’s friends and relatives, going over phone records and credit card receipts. He’d discovered that, like the other victims, Robert had dated heavily online. Quinn had gathered a list of names from Robert’s e-mail program; many of them he’d already crossed off the suspect list. Quinn had spent a lot of time rethinking the direction of the investigation, too. Perhaps Breathless wasn’t meeting men online. And he’d spent a lot of time thinking about Lucy. Maybe he could have done some things differently where she’d been concerned.

As Kurt pressed Lucy about her friends and fans, Quinn’s gaze moved to her full, pink mouth. He’d been working undercover to stop a killer. He’d worked within the legal guidelines, which allowed him to do or say anything as long as it didn’t taint evidence. Yeah, he’d lied, deceived, and talked dirty to Lucy. He’d kissed and touched her, and the whole time he’d stayed within the rules. He’d just been doing his job. At least that’s what he told himself.

Too bad he wasn’t a better liar.

“My friends wouldn’t do anything like this,” she told Kurt, and Quinn’s gaze slid once again down the side of her throat to the little mark on her collarbone. Yeah, he could tell himself and everyone else that he’d just been doing his job, but the fact was that he’d enjoyed it a little too much. He’d enjoyed hearing her laughter and seeing her smile. He’d enjoyed the hell out of kissing and touching and hearing her little moans. He’d enjoyed looking at her in his mirror as he’d touched her breasts and played with her through the thin lace of her bra. He’d enjoyed seeing the desire reflected in her blue eyes and the soft intake of her breath.

He’d picked her up to carry her to his bedroom, but he’d only made it as far as the hall. He’d like to tell himself he’d only stopped to catch his breath, but that wasn’t true. He’d stopped because he’d wanted to get her naked away from the prying eyes and ears of the audio and video equipment. Like a jealous lover, he’d wanted her all to himself.

He’d kissed her bare breasts and touched between her legs, and he couldn’t remember when he’d enjoyed himself so much. He’d felt like a kid again, touching and rubbing and tearing at each other’s clothes. He’d enjoyed the hell out of making her come and the touch of her soft hand inside his pants, wrapped around him. And while they’d been getting hot and sweating, he’d never forgotten his job. Not for one second. He just hadn’t cared. The way she’d looked at him, touched him, whispered his name, had made him want her with a ferocity that had trumped his self-control and made her more dangerous than a pack of serial killers armed with flexi-cuffs.

“What do you know of The Peacock Society?” Kurt asked.

“Peacock Society? You mean those women who wear colorful hats with feathers sticking out?” She shrugged. “Not much, other than I think you have to be over fifty, loving life, and loving to clash.”

“You’ve never spoken at any of their chapter meetings?”

She shook her head. “No. Why would I? I write mysteries. Not rah-rah sisterhood stuff.”

There were twenty-two chapters of The Peacock Society in Boise alone, and Quinn had contacted all of them and requested member profiles and rosters. He was also waiting for a membership roster and profiles from the Women of Mystery and the latest toxicology report from the coroner’s office.

“What about the Women of Mystery?” Quinn asked her.

Lucy turned her head slightly and looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. If he’d had any doubt about her feelings for him, the daggers in the depth of those dark blues would have cleared up all confusion.

Her voice was perfectly bland when she asked, “What about them?”

“They seemed to know the plot of the book you’re currently working on.”

“So?”

“Has it occurred to you that your book has a lot in common with the way Breathless operates?”

She turned to look at him fully. “Not really. I know she’s suffocating her victims, but it could be a coincidence. If you want to control someone’s breathing, there’s several different ways to do it.” She pointed to the evidence on the table all neatly bagged. “That person doesn’t say how she’s killing these men.”

“No, but we know how she’s doing it.” He rose to his full height and kept his gaze pinned to Lucy’s. She obviously didn’t like him. He didn’t really blame her, but it didn’t matter. He had a job to do. This time he was going to do it by the book. “She’s cuffing them to a bed and placing a dry-cleaning bag over their heads. Sound familiar?”

If it were possible, Lucy’s face turned a shade whiter, and even though Quinn didn’t want to give a damn, he felt like a real asshole for scaring her more than she was already scared.

She stared at him for several long moments, then said as if she had a choice, “I don’t want to be involved in this. It’s sick.”

“Too late.” He untucked his tie and pointed to the letters. “She’s involved you. I don’t want to scare you, but this is serious. A psychopath has chosen to reach out to you because she feels a connection to you through your work.”

“I realize that, but can’t you just take the letters and leave me out of it?”

He wished he could. More than she could know. Normally he would be ecstatic that a serial killer was finally talking, and he would be looking at every angle and planning the next move in his head. Not this time.

“We can leave you out of the investigation as much as possible,” Kurt said as he played the “good cop,” patting her hand and trying to pacify her nerves. “But I don’t believe you’ve heard the last from her. She will contact you again. You were really smart to put on gloves to open the third letter.”

Quinn slid the envelopes toward her. “Have you noticed the postmarks?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “She mailed the letters three to four days after each murder.”

“Meaning I should get another letter today or tomorrow.”

“Exactly. I take it you haven’t checked your PO box today.”

“No.”

“If you give us the key, we can check it.”

She shook her head and stood. “No, I get important business mail in that box. I’ll go.”

“You just said you wanted to be left out of the investigation.” Which was impossible. She just didn’t know it yet.

“I know, but I can’t let just anyone rummage through my mail.”

It was easier not to argue with her, and Quinn shoved the collection kit into his larger evidence duffle and zipped it closed. “I’ll take you.”

“No thank you.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion, Lucy.” She opened her mouth to argue, and he cut her off. “Or I can get a warrant and seize everything in the box.”

“But we don’t want to do that,” Kurt hurried to explain, trying to soothe her.

She grabbed her purse off a kitchen chair, and Quinn’s gaze slid from her face, over the laces of her pink shirt, and down her jeans to her feet. She wore brown sandals that looped over her big toes. Her toenails were painted red. “Fine, but I’m driving,” she said and turned to march out the back door.

“Maybe I should go,” Kurt offered. “Soften her up so she’ll work with us. She’s not real fond of you.”

Quinn lifted his gaze to her behind. “She’ll get over it,” he said, then turned his attention to the other detective.

Kurt gathered the evidence sealed in clear plastic bags and slipped them into his notebook. “What happened between the two of you that I don’t know about?”

“Nothing much,” Quinn lied. Only he and Lucy knew what had happened between the two of them in the hallway of his house, and he sure as hell wasn’t talking.

“You’re looking at her like something happened.”

“I’m not looking at her like anything.” Quinn grabbed the small evidence collection kit back out of the duffle. He hoped Kurt would let the subject drop, but Quinn knew better.

“Yeah you are. You look like you’re kinda hungry and she’s a snack tray.” Kurt shook his head. “Too bad she looks at you like you stomped that fat cat of hers.”

Kurt was full of shit, but Quinn didn’t have time to stand around and argue. “Remember to photocopy those before we turn them into the lab. See you back at the office,” he said and walked outside as Lucy backed her silver BMW out of the small garage. He opened the car door and sank into red leather upholstery and palpable animosity.

“Nice car,” he said as he reached over his right shoulder for his seat belt.

“I like it.” She put the car in first gear and practically laid rubber in the alley.

He looked over at her and snapped the belt in place. “Where’s the fire?”

“You didn’t have to come along.”

“Sunshine, you’re wrong about that.”

She stopped the car at the end of the alley, then pulled onto the street. “Don’t call me Sunshine. My name is Lucy. Ms. Rothschild to you.”

He chuckled. “How long are you going to be mad at me, Mizz Rothschild?”

“I’m not mad.” She shifted into third gear and shot down Fifteenth Street at least ten miles over the limit. A squirrel darted into the road, skidded to a halt, then ran back to the sidewalk instead of taking his chances.

“Right.” Yeah, he’d lied to her, but it wasn’t as if he’d had a choice. And yeah, he’d taken things a little far, but she hadn’t exactly complained. She’d gotten off. He hadn’t. If anyone should be pissed off it was him. “You always this good a driver, Mario?”

“If you don’t like it, get out.” She stopped at a light on Bannock and about put him through the windshield.

He smiled and reminded himself that his job would be a lot easier with her cooperation. He’d talked confessions out of hardened criminals; he could handle Lucy. “It’s good that you called me about the letters.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said as she continued to look straight ahead. She refused to look at him, but that was okay with Quinn, as it gave him the chance to look at her all he wanted. Kurt was right. She did look like a snack tray. “I didn’t call you. I called someone who transferred me to you.”

“It doesn’t matter.” His gaze took in her high cheeks, straight nose, and her full mouth. The first night he’d seen her, he’d thought she had a great mouth. “The result is the same. I’m going to be in your life for a while longer.”

“Lucky me.” She tapped her red fingernails on the black leather steering wheel. “I guess your name really is Quinn.”

“Yep.” His gaze moved from her chin to the long white column of her throat. He liked her neck. It smelled great and tasted better.

“Is there really a Millie?”

“Yes.”

Tap tap tap. “Your wife? Girlfriend?”

“My dog.”

Her head slowly turned toward him like she was in
The Exorcist
, and her eyes got all squinty. “Your
dog?
You made me feel sorry for you because your wife died, and the whole time Millie was really your
dog?
”

“I was doing my job, Mizz Rothschild.”

“Your job sucks.”

“Sometimes.” The light turned green, and she sped through the intersection.

“So who was the redhead in the photographs?”

“What photographs?”

“The ones on your mantel.”

“Oh, that’s Anita. She works in the tech department.” He could practically see the mental wheels spinning in her head. “The photographs were planted there to make me think she was your dead wife Millie.”

“Something like that.” He hoped to God she never found out about the video and audio tape. “Listen, I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry you got caught up in it. I’m sorry I had to lie to you.”

She made a scoffing sound. “Probably not as sorry as I am.”

“The others didn’t take it so hard.”