Sex, Lies, and Online Dating (2 page)

There it was. He trolled the chat rooms. She’d been right. There was something wrong with him. Something that hid behind those dark eyes and long black lashes and smooth, masculine voice. “I read in your bio that your wife died. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” He took off his hat and combed his fingers through the thick black strands of his hair. The ends curled up around his knuckles. “She died six months ago.”

Which seemed a relatively short time to seek a replacement, Lucy thought. It could mean he was lonely. Or a callous bastard. “How’d she die?”

“Car accident. It was our tenth wedding anniversary and she’d run to the store for a bottle of champagne. I waited at home with two dozen daisies, but she never returned.”

Daisies? Was he a cheap callous bastard?

He laughed uncomfortably and pulled his hat back on his head. “Daisies were her favorite flowers.”

Okay, that made her feel a little mean. It was
possible
he was telling the truth. Or it was just as possible he was a scammer. A scammer with a body that scrambled a sensible woman’s brain. “You must miss her terribly.”

“More than I ever thought possible. She was everything to me.” He looked down at the table, and she wasn’t able to see the emotion in his dark eyes for the brim of his hat. “Sometimes the pain is so bad…” He paused for several heartbeats before he continued, “Sometimes it’s hard to breathe.”

Oh my God,
Lucy thought. She should write this down for Clare. Clare wrote romance novels, and this was heartbreaking stuff. Lucy had to admit that it was even working on her—a hard-core romance cynic.

“She had soft red hair, and it used to fan out across her pillow while she slept. Sometimes I stayed awake just to watch her dream.”

Lucy pulled her brows together as Aerosmith played in her head. That was either the loveliest thing she’d ever heard, or he was poaching song lyrics. If the latter was the case, he was really cheesy. “What was her name?”

“Millie. We started dating our senior year in high school.”

“You were high school sweethearts?”

“Yeah, but we broke up briefly once because I was a dumb ass.” He shrugged his big shoulders, but he didn’t look up. “I was twenty-three and thought I needed to date other women. That lasted a month before I realized Millie was everything I would ever want in a woman.” He cleared his throat and said as if he were having a difficult time getting the words out, “She was the other half of my soul.”

Again, that was either really romantic or really cheesy. Lucy leaned toward cheesy because there had to be something wrong with a guy who was physical perfection yet trolled the chat rooms for a date. Some hidden personality disorder. “Perhaps it’s too soon for you to date?”

“No.” He looked up, and his brown eyes met hers. “I have to try and get on with my life. I’m not looking to replace my wife, but some nights I just need to get out of the house. Sometimes sitting at home watching
Cold Case Files
with just a dog for company gets old.”

He watched
Cold Case Files
?
Cold Case Files
was her favorite show, and if she was forced to miss an episode, she taped it. “
Cold Case Files
on CBS or A&E?”

“A&E. I like the real cases.”

“Me too! Did you see it last night?”

“Where they discovered the torso in a gym bag?” He sat back, and the shoulder seams in his jacket popped as he folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah, I saw it.”

“They caught some lucky breaks with that one.”

Quinn slid down a little in his chair and brought his gaze level with hers. “Science finally caught up with the criminal.”

“That’s true. Makes you wonder how anyone can get away with anything these days.” Lucy took a sip of her coffee and gave up on trying to pick him apart to discover his flaws. Since she would never see him again, it didn’t matter really. “But then people do get away with crime every day. They just have to be smart about it.”

His thick brows lowered in thought. “Do you think there’s such a thing as the perfect crime?”

Did she? In her books, the mystery was always solved by the last page; the perpetrators brought to justice. But was that true in life? “I think if you’re smart and do a little research, you could commit the perfect crime. And even if it’s not so perfect, you could still get away with it.”

He looked at her for several heartbeats, then asked, “How’s that?”

“Most criminals are caught because they have to talk about what they’ve done. Except serial killers. Serial killers get away with their crimes because they don’t usually talk about what they’ve done.”

“Why do you think?” he asked.

“Probably because they don’t have a conscience. Most people with a conscience tell someone about their crime. It’s like a sneeze. It’s got to come out to relieve the pressure.”

“You don’t think serial killers need to relieve the pressure?”

“Sure. But for them, the killing relieves the pressure.” Talking crime was one of her favorite pastimes. When she got together with her friends and they talked about writing, it was more about the process. Each wrote in a different genre, so they didn’t really get into specifics. Well, except for Maddie. She’d get into the gruesome specifics, usually over lunch, and they’d all have to tell her to stop. It was kinda nice talking murder with someone who didn’t look like he was going to get excited about liver temperature.

“Did you catch the show the other night about that woman who poisoned five husbands?” Quinn asked.

“Bonnie Sweet? Yeah, I saw it.” Bonnie had been the inspiration for Lucy’s fourth book,
Tea By Proxy
. Like Lucy’s murdering protagonist, Bonnie had boiled lilies of the valley into a toxic tea and served it in Wedgwood. “That woman just loved to garden.” The fact that Lucy was having this conversation on a coffee date might seem strange, but it beat the hell out of listening to him bitch about an ex, talk about his motorcycle, or relive his hunting trip to Alaska. She was never going to see Quinn after she left Starbucks, so what did it matter what they discussed? “You gotta give Bonnie points for style.”

Quinn gazed into her eyes as if he were trying to determine whether she was a psycho nutcase or spent too much time alone with her television. The truth was that she was a writer with page upon page of research in her head. Everything from lace to lividity.

He straightened and leaned forward to place his arms on the table. “It takes one coldhearted woman to slowly poison someone she supposedly loves. Or did at one time.”

Which was absolutely the truth. Female serial killers were coldhearted bitches. Every last one of them. They were also neater. Smarter. Cleaner and, as far as Lucy was concerned, far more interesting than their male counterparts. “Yes, but that’s what makes them ultimately fascinating.”

“Fascinating?” He shook his head and laughed without humor. “Thank God there aren’t many of those ‘fascinating’ women around.”

“Maybe they are around and we just don’t know it?” Lucy smiled and tilted her head to one side. “Maybe female killers are just smarter than men and don’t get caught.”

“Maybe.” His intense gaze stared into hers, and she got the feeling that he was watching for something. For what, she had no idea. Quinn opened his mouth to say more, but a gagging sound caught his attention. Lucy looked to her left at Mike and his blonde date. Mike’s hands clutched the sides of the table and his face and neck were turning a deep red.

“Oh my God!” Lucy stood so fast her chair fell backward. “Klondikemike is choking. Somebody do something.”

“Shouldn’t you do something?”

She looked at Quinn as he rose also. “Me?”

“Aren’t you a nurse?”

Nurse?
“What?” Oh crap. That’s right. She’d lied about that in her bio. Since no one else seemed to be doing anything, she quickly moved the short distance. She didn’t know the Heimlich maneuver, so she did the next best thing: She thumped Mike between the shoulder blades. Nothing happened, and she thumped him harder.

Mike’s date screamed. Someone across the coffee shop yelled, “Call 911! A man’s choking to death.”

The noise inside Starbucks went from a low steady hum to a wave of shouting and scraping chairs.

“Jesus H. Macy,” Quinn swore. He grabbed Lucy by the arms, picked her up, and moved her out of the way. He hauled Mike up from behind, and with one abrupt squeeze, a coffee bean flew out and hit Mike’s date between her stunned eyes. Mike took a deep, gasping breath. “Thanks,” he wheezed.

Quinn nodded. “No problem.”

The cacophony of raised voices grew even louder as people crowded around Mike to make sure he was all right. Quinn stood with his weight on one leg and his hands on his hips. A frown pulled at the corners of his lips as he watched the commotion in front of him. The gap between the zipper of his jacket widened across his hard chest, and Lucy thought she heard him mutter something that sounded a lot like “Nurse my ass.”

What he hadn’t known was that her eyes were deeper blue than they were in either her driver’s license picture or in the publicity photo on the inside dust jacket of her books. Her hair had shiny streaks of gold, and her lips were much fuller. Walking into Starbucks tonight, he’d known he was going to encounter a striking woman, but he hadn’t been prepared for the full feminine assault. From photos, there’s no way he could have known that everything about her, from the touch of her soft hand in his to the gentle sound of her voice, was in opposition to a woman who wrote about serial killers and might be one herself.

Quinn walked beneath pools of artificial light, heedless of the puddles splashing his boots. As he approached the van, the window slowly lowered.

“Did you get all that?” he asked as he reached behind him and pulled his T-shirt from the back of his jeans.

“Yeah.” Detective Kurt Weber’s round face appeared in the window. “Did you get the cup?”

“She took it with her.”

“Shit.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“What was all that commotion toward the end?”

“Some guy was choking on a coffee bean.” He paused to pull at the transmitter taped to the middle of his back. “I think it’s pretty safe to say that Lucy Rothschild not only lied about being a nurse; she doesn’t even have a passing knowledge of CPR.”

“All that serial killer stuff was interesting,” law enforcement technician Anita Landers commented from where she sat in the back of the van beside the receiving equipment.

Quinn had thought so, too. He wouldn’t be surprised if by morning Lucy was the prime suspect in the “Breathless” case, the name they’d given to the woman who met men online and suffocated them in their own homes. An ultrathin wire ran up his side to a tiny flat microphone taped to his right pec. “Shit,” he swore as he ripped the microphone from the bare patch on his chest.

“What was your first reaction to her?” Anita asked.

Quinn handed the transmitter through the window and glanced past Kurt to Anita’s dark outline in the back of the van. The second he’d spotted Lucy sitting across the crowded café, his first reaction had been purely male and purely physical. The kind of reaction a man got when he focused on a beautiful woman. The kind that reminded him how long it had been since he’d had sex. “When I first sat down with her, I thought she was picking me apart, looking for flaws.”

“Maybe she was picking you for her next victim,” Anita suggested.

He’d thought of that too. “Yeah, maybe.” As hardluvnman, he’d been on seven online, five chat room, and three personal ad dates in the past two weeks. Kurt, aka hounddog, had been on about the same number while Quinn had sat in the Econoline, listening to every word. The two detectives’ active caseloads had been shifted around so they could devote most of their time to this case.

Lucy had been Quinn’s second coffee date that evening, and he was exhausted from trying to remember which lines to feed which woman. “I’ll see you two tomorrow,” he said as he zipped up his jacket. By morning, the Lucy Rothschild tape would be analyzed just like all the others. There was no point in standing around, freezing his ass off and talking it to death.

He moved to the silver Jeep parked a few slots from the van and opened the door.

“Hey, McIntyre,” Kurt called out to him as he fired up the Econoline.

Quinn looked over the roof of the Jeep. “Yeah?”

“Is that Lucy woman as hot in person as she is in her photos?”

“She’s better looking in person.” Which didn’t eliminate the possibility that she could be a killer, but it did bring up some interesting questions. Like why would a woman who looked like Lucy and made the kind of money she did seek men online?

“That ought to make your job easier.”

Getting distracted by a pair of blue eyes and soft red lips did not make his job easier. No, it would be easier if Breathless turned out to be his first date of the night, Maureen. But even as he thought it, he recoiled. “See ya in the morning,” Quinn said as he got in the Jeep and shut the door.

Maureen Dempsey, aka bignsassy, was one of the stupidest females he’d ever met. She’d rattled on about her scrapbooks and doll collection as if he’d truly given a shit. She’d kept calling him “Quint” and had topped it off by telling him that she’d read “somewhere” that aliens had landed in the Sawtooth Wilderness Area just outside of Sun Valley and were impersonating humans. Thinking she’d surely been joking, he’d made a joke and managed a laugh. She’d been serious, and he’d felt his IQ drop ten points just sitting across from her. But the truly funny thing was, Maureen worked for the state at the Idaho Industrial Commission.

He fired up the Jeep and headed out of the parking lot. A cold blast of air hit his chest from the vents. The heat hadn’t kicked on yet, so he turned off the vents. His fingers fiddled with the radio, then he turned it off, too. Within two minutes of meeting Maureen, Quinn had pretty much mentally crossed her off the suspect list. It didn’t matter to him that she held a regular job. Plenty of stupid people worked for the government, but a woman who was capable of killing three men without leaving a trace of herself behind wouldn’t honestly believe space aliens were living in northern Idaho. Quinn tended to agree with the FBI profiler’s report that Breathless was highly organized and had above average intelligence. Quinn just didn’t believe Maureen’s stupidity was an act. No one was that good an actress.

According to the criminal profile, Breathless was between the ages of thirty-two and forty-eight. Because of the lack of physical evidence, the profiler believed she had knowledge of forensics and police procedure. She had an interest in criminal investigations and believed she was smarter than the police. She wouldn’t be caught by conventional methods and could probably pass a polygraph and withstand an interrogation without breaking down.

After reading the report, everyone in the department agreed that the best way to catch a predator like Breathless was with bait. Man bait. While Quinn could see the wisdom of the plan, he didn’t like it. He had a bad feeling he was going to have to take things really far before they had enough evidence for an arrest. He wasn’t afraid he’d be another victim. No, he wasn’t thrilled about the thought of dangling his Schwanz in front of a psycho.

Quinn turned off Fairview and merged onto the connector. Streetlights lit up the section of highway leading into downtown like a white ribbon. He tried the heater once more, and warm air blasted through the vents as he headed toward Broadway and home.

All of the women the detectives had set up these past two weeks had several things in common that had landed them on the suspect list. They were all dating online and had been contacted by all three of the victims within days of their deaths. They all used the same chain of dry cleaners, and they all lived alone.

All three male victims had had several things in common that had landed them on the perpetrator’s list. All had been actively dating, as if they’d been on some mission from God. All had had a long list of women they’d been juggling, going on as many as five or six dates in a week—usually with different women, whom they’d met through online dating services, chat rooms, and personal ads. Judging by the number of books they’d charged at Barnes and Noble, Borders, and Hastings Books and Music, they’d been voracious readers. The first victim had been divorced, the second a widower, and the third married but posing as a widower. All three had died handcuffed to their beds.

The first victim, Charles Wilson, aka chuckles, had been found in his home off Overland, hands secured with flexi-cuffs and a Westco dry cleaner’s garment bag over his head. The case had been classified a homicide, but to what degree had been uncertain. Considering the presentation of the body, it appeared the victim had been playing a fatal game of erotic asphyxiation with a rather kinky participant. The perpetrator had fled the scene leaving little evidence behind, and it was Quinn’s job to determine if the kink had accidently gone bad or the death had been premeditated.

They’d interviewed Mr. Wilson’s family and friends, who’d all claimed that he hadn’t been seriously dating anyone for over a year. His former wife had remarried and lived out of state. Quinn had combed through his credit card receipts and his telephone records. He’d just about eliminated everyone Charles had been in contact with by phone or e-mail when the second victim had been discovered. Two bodies wasn’t coincidence. The men’s deaths hadn’t been accidental, and by the time the third body turned up, they’d known they had a serial killer on their hands.

Charles Wilson had been murdered a month and a half ago, and if the detectives didn’t move fast, there would be a fourth victim.

Soon.

Nobody wanted that. And nobody wanted the Crimes of Violence detectives to catch a break more than Quinn did. He had no qualms about lying to women, and trapping a killer was part of his job. It had been several years since he’d worked undercover, and there had been times when he’d missed it. No, what he absolutely hated was reciting the mushy lines Kurt had written for him.

Quinn pulled his Jeep into his driveway and cut the headlights as he rolled into the garage. He parked next to his white unmarked police car and turned off the engine. Like always, Millie heard him and was waiting for him when he opened the back door. She was one female who was faithful, if a bit overly affectionate sometimes. He flipped on the light as he walked into the kitchen. Her big brown eyes looked up at him with adoration, and the light shone in her silky red hair.

“Hey girl.” She licked his hand, and he went down on one knee. “You’re a good dog.” He scratched beneath her long ears, and her tongue flopped out of the side of her mouth in ecstasy. Her tail thumped the hardwood floor as Quinn’s gaze took in the blinking light on his answering machine and the explosion of feathers scattered about the room.

A frown pulled at his mouth as he stood. Beneath the table were the shredded remains of his pillow. He hadn’t been able to take Millie out for a run or to retrieve decoys in a while. She was bored, but at least she’d stayed out of the garbage this time. Not that there was anything in it now.

That was the problem with leaving a two-year-old Irish setter alone for too long a period of time. They tended to find trouble, but at least she’d only shredded his pillow.

He hung his jacket on a kitchen chair, then moved across the kitchen. The last female he’d left alone had been his fiancée, Amanda, and she’d shredded his life. While he’d been out making a living, making the world safe from bad guys, she’d been screwing Shawn, his best buddy since high school.

Quinn pulled an empty garbage can from beneath the sink and carried it across the room. As long as he lived, he didn’t think he’d ever forget the afternoon he’d found them naked in his bed. He’d never forget the look on their faces or the accusations spilling from the mouth of a woman he’d loved.

“I’m always alone,” Amanda had said as she’d pulled up the bedsheet to cover her bare breasts. “You’re always working, and I’m always here by myself.”

He’d pointed to Shawn, who’d jumped out of bed and begun pulling on his pants. “You’re obviously not always alone.” The handle of Quinn’s H&K 9mm had pressed into his waist as rage had pounded through his chest with every beat of his heart, clawing at his stomach until he’d thought he might get sick.

“We didn’t mean for this to happen,” Shawn had said as he’d grabbed his shirt.

“You didn’t mean to shove your dick in my fiancée?” In that moment, Quinn had understood the crime of passion; he’d understood the blind fog and consuming fury that made a man lose control and seek vengeance.

“What did you expect?” Two pretty little tears had slid from Amanda’s eyes even as she’d placed the blame squarely on him. “This is your fault. You’re cold and unfeeling.”

He’d laughed, a raucous mix of anger and incredulity. “Get the fuck out of my house,” he’d said. His hard, flat voice had filled the room as hate and anger had raced through his body. Years of experience and control had curled his hands into fists before he’d been able to do anything stupid. “Both of you.” Something in his eyes, or in the tone of his voice, must have shown just how close he’d been to violence, because they’d both grabbed up their clothes and run.

Quinn didn’t believe he would have used his pistol on Amanda and Shawn that night, but he couldn’t say that if they’d stuck around he wouldn’t have beaten Shawn to within an inch of his life just on principle. He doubted it, though, because deep down in the pit of his soul, he knew that there’d been some truth to Amanda’s accusation.