Sex, Lies, and Online Dating (17 page)

Somewhere in the house, Quinn could hear the water turn on as he unfolded the paper and read:

What’s to be done, now? I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. I’m so upset with you. You’ve plunged a knife into my back.

Shall I return the favor?

The hair on the back of his neck stood up, which didn’t happen to him very often anymore. He slid the letter and envelope in a clear evidence bag, sealed it shut, then pulled the gloves from his hands. He tossed them on the coffee table and skimmed the letter once more. He was going to have to tell Lucy about this one. He couldn’t keep it from her. She had to know that Breathless was clearly threatening her.

When Lucy had called with this last letter, Quinn had known the stakes had changed: He just hadn’t known to what degree. Now he did. Lucy was going to have to relocate for a while or agree to have two undercover cops move in for around-the-clock protection. Those were the options—he just hoped she’d agree to one of them.

He opened his notebook and booted up his laptop. Breathless had seen him and Lucy together. She knew Quinn was a cop. Either she’d seen him on the news at a press conference, or he’d interviewed her. Quinn had a gut feeling it was the latter.

First, he wrote down all the places where he and Lucy had been together. The list started with Starbucks and included restaurants and Barnes and Noble. The list ended with the last time he’d been in her house.

Next, he flipped to his notes and wrote the names of everyone he had interviewed since the first killing. He pulled the Women of Mystery writers profile and membership roster from the notebook and circled the three members who worked at Barnes and Noble and possibly could have met the victims. Then he circled the four Peacock chapters that met in bookstores and the presidents of the group he’d already interviewed. He checked the three employees and Peacock members against the victims’ phone records and e-mails. He came up with a big fat zero.

Across the house, the water shut off, and he took out the xerox copies of the other letters and laid them side by side on the coffee table, checking to see if there was anything he’d missed. There wasn’t, and frustration tightened his forehead. Finding a clear connection would have been too damn easy. And nothing about the case had been easy. He flipped pages in his notebook until he turned to the interviews he’d done with employees at bookstores where all four victims had purchased books.

Bookstore receipts were just one link connecting all four victims. There were others, but the receipts were looking to be a bigger piece of the puzzle than Quinn had originally thought. If Breathless wasn’t communicating with men online, then she was probably meeting them in the bookstores. Trolling the aisles for victims.

Quinn didn’t have all the personal profiles from the Peacock ladies, and he didn’t know which, if any, worked in bookstores. A week ago he’d seen several of them in the Barnes and Noble where Lucy had been speaking to the mystery writers group. It was possible they knew he was a cop. Even if none of the Peacocks worked at bookstores, they were readers who hung out there and could not be excluded.

“Christ,” he cursed and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He was going around and around in circles. Each break in the case added as many questions as it answered. Each time he crossed off one suspect, it seemed like ten more were added. Breathless was on one of those lists, though. He knew it. If he kept whittling away, he’d find her. He had leads and suspects. It would take time to get through them all. Unfortunately, time was one thing he didn’t have. Once he turned over the latest letter, the sergeant would be more determined than ever to use Lucy as bait.

Hell, if this were happening to anyone but Lucy, Quinn would be the first person to want to use her to establish more communication with Breathless. Use the media to anger Breathless into doing something stupid like showing up at a staged event, or baiting her into a physical confrontation. But this wasn’t happening to anyone else, and the last thing he wanted to do was place Lucy in even more danger.

The thought of something happening to her twisted his insides into knots and burned a hole in his gut. He thought of Merry and the pink roses in his car. It was the thirtieth. He always put flowers on Merry’s grave on April thirtieth.

There was no way he was going to have the death of two women on his soul. No way in hell that he would let anything happen to Lucy. He didn’t care if he had to hog-tie her and shove her in a closet. His closet. The one in his bedroom was big enough.

Of course that was out of the question. Mitchell would have a fit. Besides, having her in his house would drive Quinn insane. He couldn’t have her, and he couldn’t keep his hands off her. Oh, he would have every intention of keeping his hands to himself, but something would happen and she’d be in his arms again, pressed up against him, and he’d be feeling for bra straps. Getting all hot and bothered and thinking about all the places on her body he wanted to put his mouth. At the same time knowing her feelings for him and that it was never going to happen.

He was thirty-six. A grown man. If he really put his mind to it, he could control his hands. The bigger problem was that he couldn’t seem to control his body, and the last thing he wanted was to walk around his own damn house with a constant hard-on.

Frankly, he just wasn’t up for that kind of abuse.

No, she wasn’t reading too much into his every gesture and action this time. She wasn’t going to read anything into the way he’d held her after she’d opened her front door earlier and flown into his arms. Nor in the way he’d touched her or pressed his lips to the side of her head. And she certainly wasn’t going to read anything into his offer to make her lunch or stay while she showered. He’d been doing his job, and reading more into it was a dangerous slope she wasn’t about to slide down any further.

Once her hair was dry, she walked into her bedroom and pulled on her white bra and blue-and-white-polka-dot panties. She dressed in jeans and a white blouse. She shoved her feet into her penguin footies, then made her way through the kitchen to the living room. She peeked around the corner and found Quinn sitting on the couch. His forearms rested on his thighs, and his hands hung between his knees. A notebook and papers were spread out across the coffee table and couch, and he was staring into the screen of his laptop.

He should have looked out of place, a big man parked on her sofa with his crap spread out on her antique coffee table. He didn’t. He looked like a secure place to land in a suddenly insecure world. Like he alone could keep her safe. Her heart swelled a little at the sight of him, letting her know that he was anything but safe. Not for her.

Quinn turned his head as if he suddenly sensed her, and his dark gaze met hers. He straightened, and a lock of his dark hair fell over his forehead. “Do you feel better?”

“Yes,” she answered and moved into the room.

His gaze followed her. “You look good.”

She reminded herself that Quinn had hurt and humiliated her, and if a wack job hadn’t decided to send her letters, he wouldn’t be sitting in her house now. Acting like he cared. He’d be off pretending interest in the next suspect. Kissing and touching her in the name of his job. She moved to the window and looked outside. On the sidewalk beyond, two girls rode past on pink bicycles with baby dolls shoved in the baskets. Today was Saturday. Her night to stay at her mother’s.

“Lucy?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “What?”

Quinn looked across the room at her for several long moments before he said, “We have to talk about the letter that came today. I know you said you didn’t want to read what’s in it, but you need to.”

She turned. “Is it bad?”

His dark gaze continued to stare into hers, and he held up a letter encased in clear plastic. “I think so.”

Lucy walked across the room and took the letter from his hand. As she read, she moved around the coffee table and sat on the couch. When she finished, she was glad she’d sat down. Her stomach pitched and got light at the same time. She was afraid she might get sick.

“Who has your home address?” Quinn asked as he looked at her across his broad shoulder.

“I don’t know. It’s not listed anywhere.” She thought for a moment and came up with several possibilities. “Maybe someone at the DMV or post office. It’s printed on my checks, so…who knows?” Lucy set the letter on her coffee table and rubbed her temples.

“How about bookstores?”

Bookstores
? “Amazon does. I have books sent here all the time.”

He shook his head. “Local bookstores.”

“I don’t know.” She thought of all the bookstores and why they might have her address. “I have a Hastings card. I had to fill out an application, so I’m sure they have my address.”

He reached for a pen. “Which one?” She told him, and he wrote it down in bold capital letters. “Let’s talk about the Women of Mystery.”

“I told Detective Weber everything I know.”

“You probably know more than you think.” He picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to her. It was a Women of Mystery roster. “Does anyone on the roster stick out in your mind as behaving odd or perhaps being an over-the-top fan?”

“Well, several of these women are odd.” She pointed to a name on the list. “Betty has been writing and rewriting the same scene about killing off her father since I’ve known her, but I don’t think she’s a killer in real life.”

“Was she the woman with white hair and glasses who was at the meeting at Barnes and Noble on the twenty-third?”

Damn, the man remembered everything. Then again, he was a cop. “That was her.”

“Tell me about Cynthia Pool and Jan Bright.”

Lucy shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. Jan’s the current president of the Women of Mystery, and she’s the events person at Barnes and Noble. I know Cynthia is a member of Women of Mystery, but I don’t know how serious either woman is about her writing or whether they’re just dabblers. All I really know about them is that they are both very supportive of local writers.”

“How supportive?”

“They make sure our books are always in stock. Stuff like that.”

“What’s a dabbler?”

“A person who talks about writing but never actually finishes more than a few chapters.”

He turned and looked into her eyes as he said, “We know from the Breathless letters to you that she is a wannabe writer. She reads mystery novels, especially yours.” He reached for the second letter and placed it on top. “What does this line mean, ‘You know what they say: write what you know’? Who is ‘they’?”

“‘They’ could be anyone. Could be anyone in publishing, or she could have read it in a book on writing. It’s just standard industry advice.”

“Jan knew that you’re writing about a female serial killer who finds her victims online.” He flipped a few pages in his notebook and leaned forward, searching for something. The back of his shirt came untucked from his jeans and showed a glimpse of his blue-and-white-striped boxers.

Lucy leaned forward and set the paper on the table. Her shoulder accidentally brushed against Quinn’s, and his hands stilled in the act of turning pages. Traitorous little tingles spread down her arm and across her chest, and for an instant, she thought of something besides the psycho sending her letters. She recognized those tingles; each held a little spark of desire and longing and a hot zap to her heart. He’d given them to her before, when they’d both been pretending to be someone they weren’t. She sat back against the couch, away from the danger to her heart. “I must have mentioned what I was writing in one of their meetings. Or in a live online chat.”

“What do you mean?” He continued to flip pages as if he’d felt nothing. “What kind of online chat?”

“Groups ask me to be their guest speaker online,” she answered, pushing her feelings for Quinn aside, where she could deal with them later. Or not. “It’s really diverse. One night it could be a group that loves mystery novels, and the next a businesswomen’s group.” She brushed her hair from her face and held it at the back of her neck. “I’m asked all the time what I’m working on and when it will come out. It’s always one of the questions people ask. I’m sure I’ve mentioned erotic asphyxiation and the fact that I’m writing about a female serial killer hunting online dozens of times and just don’t remember. Believe me, I wish I knew who this woman could be.” She dropped her hands to her lap, and her gaze landed on the latest letter. “It’s clear she’s seen us together and knows who you are.”

“Yeah. I’ve probably interviewed her.”

“Or she could recognize you from a press conference.”

“I thought of that, but it’s less likely she would recall my face from a press conference than a one-on-one interview.”

“Not if she has something invested in the press conference, which she does.” Lucy took a deep breath and asked the one question she’d been dreading. “Do you think she’s going to come after me?”

Quinn turned to look at her, his brown gaze direct and his mouth a grim line. “I wish I could tell you no, but I can’t. I think there’s a real possibility.”

That’s what Lucy had feared. For the past five days, she’d tried to control the fear eating at her stomach. Now there was no controlling it. It spread up into her throat and into her head, and she couldn’t think past it. The backs of her eyes stung, and she had a hard time drawing air into her lungs. She stood and quickly moved from behind the coffee table to walk across the room. She stared out her big picture window at the black shadows of bare tree limbs creeping up her sidewalk. What was she going to do now? She couldn’t subject her friends and family to danger that was growing worse.

“What am I going to do?” She lifted a hand to grasp her burgundy silk drapes as her mind raced with possible solutions. “I guess I can go to a hotel. I could take my laptop and try to work.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. A hotel room sounded confining. Safe, but confining. “Or I could go get a gun. I don’t know how to shoot a gun, but how hard can it be? You just point and squeeze.” Her voice shook when she added, “Right? Or…or I can board Snookie and head for Cancun.”

Quinn placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her back against his chest. “You don’t need a gun or to head off to Mexico.” He felt so solid. Warm and safe, and she stood there because it was better than falling apart. “You have me.”

She wished that were true. “What are you going to do?” She laughed without humor. “Move into my guest room?” She was being facetious, although she had to admit that having a big bad cop in the house sounded like heaven.

“No, I can help you relocate for a while.” He slid his hands down her arms and grasped her waist.

“Where?”

“My house.”

She turned and gazed into his dark brown eyes. He didn’t look crazy. He looked serious. “What are you smoking?”

“I think it’s the perfect solution.” She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grasp. “I have an extra bedroom. You can stay in it.”

“Isn’t there some cop rule against that?”

“No. You’re not a suspect anymore, and besides, no one has to know where you are. In fact, for your safety, it would be best if no one knew.”

The offer sounded tempting, but living in the same house as Quinn was totally out of the question. Not after the last time when she’d somehow ended up naked with his hands in very interesting places. Not when, after everything, she was tempted to let him finish what he’d started that night. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You’re wrong about that.”

She folded her arms beneath her breasts and didn’t answer. Her silence spoke for her.

He tilted his head back and looked down at her. “Ah. You’re worried about what might happen if you’re alone in my house again. You don’t think you’ll be able to control yourself.”

“You
are
high.” She knocked his hands from her waist and took several steps back. “I can control myself. I can control myself just fine. You’re the one who started pulling my clothes off.”

“You weren’t complaining.”

“I couldn’t. You had your tongue down my throat.”

He smiled. “Before or after you shoved your hands down my pants?”

Her gaze narrowed, and she thought her head might spin around.

“I don’t know why you’re so mad,” he added and folded his big arms across his wide chest. “It wasn’t that big a deal.”

She lifted her hand and stabbed the air in front of his nose with her finger. “You thought I was a serial killer!”
And you told me you wanted a relationship with me when you didn’t
. Stab. Stab. “If I’d known the real you, that night never would have happened.”
And you made me fall in love with you and you were just doing your job
.

He tilted his head back again and pushed her hand aside. “If that’s true, now that you know the real me, you shouldn’t have any problem staying at my house through the weekend until we can get security in place. Don’t turn down my offer out of anger. It’s the best solution all around. You’ll feel safer, and I’ll worry less knowing you’re safe.”

Lucy dropped her hand to her side. While she didn’t care if he worried or not, she had to admit that he had a point. She would feel safer at his house, and she wouldn’t have to endanger her friends or her poor old mother. She would probably want to kill Quinn before this was over, but anger beat scared shitless any day of the week. “Okay, I’ll stay with you, but you have to keep your hands to yourself.”

He laughed as if he found what she’d said really funny. “Just my hands?”

“All body parts.”

“That’s no fun.” His mouth curved into an upside-down smile. “But I think I can control myself. Can you?”

“I can control myself.” She walked around him and added, “I can control myself just fine.” She moved upstairs to her office and packed up her laptop and a few things she would need. She threw some clothes into a suitcase and left Mr. Snookums a bowl of food.

When she was ready to leave, Quinn carried her things to his car and put them in the back-seat. She was probably making a big mistake. One that would make it more difficult for her poor heart to mend. But Quinn made her feel safe. She didn’t know why, but he did. He made her feel as if he was the only solid thing standing between her and a psychotic killer.

On the drive across town to his house, Lucy’s attention was drawn to the gadgets in the car, to the siren and police radio in the control panel. She looked up at the red-and-white lights hooked to the passenger visor, and she was dying to know what everything did. She’d relentlessly researched this sort of thing, but she’d never actually been inside a cop car. Then her gaze fell on the pink roses lying on the seat next to her, and she forgot about research and gadgets.