Sex, Lies, and Online Dating (22 page)

Quinn leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Thank you, Jesus.” They finally had a strong link between Breathless and the murders. Whoever had written the letters to Lucy had been in the Patterson truck. And whoever had written that last letter had seen Quinn and Lucy together and knew he was a cop. Breathless was starting to make mistakes.

Quinn looked at Kurt, and they both knew this was big. They were finally getting the break they needed, and Quinn wasn’t going to have to use Lucy. At least not yet. She could stay tucked safely in his house. Her and Millie.

“We’ve interviewed her, Kurt,” he said, referring to Breathless.

“You’re probably right,” the other detective said as he looked over a copy of the last letter.

Quinn opened his notebook and flipped to the suspect list. “We’ve cleared half, so—Son of a bitch!” He flipped to a Xerox with the vics’ photos on it, then his attention snapped to the print technician, who was still in the room, as he pointed to the page in his notebook. “I need you to process this. If our luck holds, we can get a matching print off it.”

“We must have shown that to twenty or thirty people,” Kurt reminded him.

“And half of those have been cleared.”

The fingerprint technician pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and removed the Xerox from Quinn’s notebook. He left, and Quinn went into his office to cool his heels and wait. He called the crime lab, but there was nothing new regarding hair and fibers found at the scenes. He checked in with the victims’ families and informed them of the fingerprint evidence. Then he called Lucy on his home phone.

“McIntyre residence,” she said. “Home of Quinn, crack detective and sexy man.”

At the sound of her voice, he felt an overwhelming potentcy squeeze his chest. “What if this call had been from my mother?”

“I looked at your caller ID before I picked up.”

He didn’t feel it in his whole chest, just the left side, near his heart. Like he had a blockage. “Are you bored?”

“No. I’m trying to get some work done.”

“You’re writing?” Last night he’d let her look over his files on the Breathless case. He hadn’t known she wore gold-framed reading glasses until she’d put them on the bridge of her nose. She’d looked hot. Of course, he thought she looked hot in everything or nothing at all.

“Trying to write. It’s not going well, but I’m hoping something will shake loose.” In the background, Millie started barking, like someone was busting into the house.

“What’s wrong with Millie?”

“Just a second.” There was a pause, and then, “She sees a cat on your lawn.”

“Ah, she’s protecting you from the neighborhood felines.”

Lucy laughed. A soft little sound that settled next to his clogged heart. “She doesn’t seem to be much of a guard dog, Quinn. If a burglar breaks in, she’ll show them where you keep your good stuff.”

Quinn chuckled. Lucy was his good stuff. “Maybe, but she’ll bark a lot while she points the way.” He pulled back his cuff and looked at his watch. It had been over an hour. “We got a print off the latest envelope,” he told her, but he didn’t have to mention how important it was. They talked about the case, and they talked about what they were going to do that night and what to have for dinner, like an old married couple. “When I get off work,” he said, “I’ll go feed your bag of fur.”

“His name is Mr. Snookums.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Her long-suffering sigh carried across the phone line. “I want to go with you because I have to look for a very important folder. I misplaced it somewhere in my house.”

“I’ll help you search for it,” he offered as the fingerprint technician entered his office. By the guy’s smile, Quinn knew they had another hit. “I need to go,” he said and hung up the telephone. “Well?”

“We have a matching index finger taken off the bottom of the vic paper.”

For a week Quinn had stared at the prints taken from the truck. He wanted to kick his own ass, but he didn’t have time. He stood and shoved his arms into his blazer, covering the pistol hooked to his belt. The list had just been culled down to a dozen suspects, and he knew the first place to look.

It wasn’t happening.

She blew out a breath and leaned back in the chair. If she had the critique from Maddie, she would at least have something to do. And hopefully, reworking a few chapters would kick-start the rest. She stood and walked into the living room. Millie followed close on her heels, and Lucy picked up the television remote and turned it on. She flipped to the twenty-four-hour news stations to see what had been happening in the world since her life had gotten so out of control. There was nothing on but depressing news, and she turned it to City Confidential and vegged out on the tube. What she’d told Quinn that morning was the truth. She wasn’t as scared as she was angry. She felt an impotent rage at the woman who’d pushed her into the worst writer’s block of her career.

She turned off the television and tossed the remote on the coffee table. She thought about Quinn and what he’d said yesterday about their elationship starting out under stress. She had to admit that it had started out a little less than orthodox. Okay,
a lot
less than orthodox. They’d both lied to each other and dated under false pretenses. But there had been no pretending when it had come to the sexual pull that they’d both felt from that first night in Starbucks. The way he’d looked at her hadn’t been a lie. Not then and not now. There was something a little overwhelming about it. Overwhelming and intoxicating at the same time.

He hadn’t told her he loved her, she reminded herself. But to be fair, she hadn’t told him either. He’d moved her into his house to keep her safe, and he’d taken the tapes out of the evidence room.
Taken
was a nice word for
stolen
. He’d done it for her. No, he hadn’t told her he loved her, but no man had ever risked so much to be with her.

Her cell phone rang, and she jumped a little.

“Hello.”

“Hello. Am I speaking to Lucy Rothschild?”

“Yes.”

“I found a folder that I believe belongs to you.”

Jan Bright looked at Quinn, then shifted her gaze to the shelf of books over his left shoulder. She didn’t speak.

“Do you know anything about those letters?”

She shook her head, and her long, wavy hair swayed across her shoulders.

“Would you be willing to come down to the station to be interviewed?”

“When?”

“Right now.”

“I suppose.” She glanced at Quinn, then returned her gaze somewhere behind him. “If I can help Lucy Rothschild, I’d be happy to do it. I’m very supportive of our local authors.”

“I’m sure Ms. Rothschild will appreciate it.”

The ride to the station took ten minutes, and once he had Jan in an interrogation room and the camera was rolling, he handed her a cup of water. Quinn smiled and once again endeavored to put her at ease. He asked her questions about the Women of Mystery and if she knew if any of them had a grudge against Lucy.

“Oh, no. They’re very supportive.” She polished off her water, and he offered to get her more. He picked up the cup by the handle and passed it to the fingerprint technician waiting outside the door. He left Jan alone for a few moments, and when he returned he had more water.

“Here you go,” he said and set the glass on the table.

“I had a cup before.” She met his gaze and held it.

“I accidentally dropped the cup.”

She frowned as if she didn’t believe him. Then she looked somewhere above his head. “I suppose you are having it analyzed for fingerprints.”

She was smarter than he’d thought. But then, Breathless was no idiot. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I am in a police interrogation room and you just switched cups on me. I’m in a mystery writer’s critique group, and I also read a lot of detective novels.”

No use in bullshitting her. Her prints were either going to match or they weren’t. “Where were you the night of April twenty-third?”

Her brows scrunched together. “The twenty-third?”

“During the day you were at the Women of Mystery meeting in Barnes and Noble. I saw you there. When you left, where did you go?”

“Some of the ladies and I went to Macaroni Grill. I had a few too many glasses of wine and got a little loose. I called my oldest son, and he came and got me.”

He couldn’t imagine Jan Bright loose. She was so uptight she could crap diamonds. “How old is your son?”

“Sixteen.”

The door opened a crack, and the lab technician stood on the other side shaking his head.
Damn
. For all her bizarre behavior, Jan Bright was not a murderer.

“Tell me about the people you work with. Any of them date customers they meet in the bookstore?”

“A few, maybe. I think it’s disgusting.”

“How about Cynthia Pool?”

Jan shook her head. “Oh, no. Cynthia would never date men who come into the bookstore.”

Quinn looked down at the notebook on the table in front of him. His gaze skimmed the next few names on his list. “Why’s that?”

“She thinks men are dirty.”

Quinn looked up. “‘Dirty’? Are those your words or hers?”

“Hers.”

“Do you think she hates men enough to kill them?”

“No. Cynthia is a very kind person. She had a really difficult marriage and divorce. Her husband was abusive and cheated on her, but she is not a murderess.” Jan laughed, a kind of strained sound, before she added, “And I’m sure she would never write upsetting letters to Lucy Rothschild. She’s her biggest fan.”

“Come on in and I’ll get it.”

Cynthia’s house was near the Boise Towne Square Mall and about a mile from the police station and Quinn’s office. On her drive across town, Lucy had called and left a message for him on his voice mail. She’d hoped he wouldn’t be upset that she’d had to borrow his Jeep, and she hadn’t wanted him to worry if he phoned home again and she wasn’t there.

Lucy stepped from the bright afternoon sun and inside Cynthia’s house. The curtains were all drawn, and Lucy reached for her sunglasses as she shut the door behind her. Shoving the glasses into the purse hanging from her shoulder, she glanced about the interior. A corner lamp lit the living room, and Lucy was instantly struck by the Disney knickknacks covering every conceivable space. Every character from Mickey Mouse to Cruella De Vil stared at her through thousands of painted eyes.

“Wow. I didn’t know you were a collector.”

“Oh yes. I’ve been collecting Disney memorabilia for most of my life. Ever since my father bought me my first Mickey gum ball machine. I still have it.”

Lucy wasn’t much of a collector and didn’t know what to say except, “Wow.”

Cynthia smiled and clasped her hands together. “Have a seat and I’ll get that folder for you.”

Lucy moved aside a pillow featuring Donald Duck in short pants and a sailor’s cap and sat on the couch. She couldn’t wait to get that folder and hopefully get back to work. But even more, she couldn’t wait for Quinn to get home and tell her about the latest evidence.

Cynthia returned with the folder in hand, but instead of giving it to Lucy, she moved across the room and sat in a chair. “I’m so glad you’re here. It will give us a chance to talk about writing.”

Lucy groaned inwardly. “Can I help you with something?”

“Actually. No.” She held up the folder. “I read your chapters.”

Lucy felt her brows rise up her forehead. The only person she ever let read her rough drafts was Maddie. “Really?”

“Don’t look so alarmed.” Cynthia tilted her head to one side and smiled. “They were wonderful as always.”

It was on the tip of Lucy’s tongue to ask,
What the hell?
Instead she forced a smile and said, “Thank you.”

“I really liked the part where the killer stalks her victims for a while after she meets them and before she kills them. It’s kind of like a honeymoon period. That’s a nice touch. Very thrilling.”

Okay. So Cynthia had read a few rough chapters. She’d been curious and taken a peek. No big deal. Or rather, Lucy wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“I noticed there were comments written in the margins. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of adding my critique.”

Oh my God
. The blood drained from Lucy’s head, and all she could manage was a stunned, “Oh.”

“I noticed a few comma errors, and you really need to watch for run-on sentences.”

Be nice, Lucy.
“Well, it is a rough draft,” she heard herself say. She stood. She needed to get out of there before she said something rude and condescending.

“That’s why I didn’t comment on your overuse of -ly adverbs. In the future, that might be something you should watch for, too.”

Lucy moved across the room and stopped in front of the chair. “I’ll remember to do that.”

Cynthia remained seated, looking up at Lucy through light green eyes. “And whoever wrote on your manuscript doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Now that took cojones. Cojones Lucy would never have thought Cynthia possessed. “I’ll let Madeline Dupree know you think so.”

“Madeline Dupree? The true crimes writer?” Cynthia’s brow wrinkled as if she were confronting the impossible. Then she shook her head and said, “No. Madeline is wrong.”

Lucy was going to have to tell Maddie and watch her laugh her behind off. In fact, they would probably laugh themselves into comas, but at the moment there was nothing funny about it. She lifted a hand for the folder. “Thank you for your input, but I really need to get home.” She smiled but was afraid it fell a little flat. She wanted to get the hell out of Cynthia’s house, and at this point she didn’t particularly care if it showed. “Gotta book to write.”

“Ocular petechiae are not always present at a death by suffocation.”

Lucy knew that and was sure Maddie did, too.

“And finding willing victims is incredibly easy.” Cynthia finally stood. “Even when the police are on television warning men not to engage in bondage.”

“Umm, yeah.” Lucy glanced down at the folder in Cynthia’s hand and wondered if she should just count to three, grab it, and run.

“They do it anyway. Every Friday and Saturday night, they come in and circle the aisle like sharks. After a few of them swim by, you can see they’re just bottom feeders.”

Lucy looked up as her brain skidded to a halt. “What?”

“You ruined it,” Cynthia said. “You ruined everything.”

Lucy felt her scalp get tight. She must have heard wrong. “What are you talking about?”

“In the beginning, I wrote to you because I wanted you to know how good I am at what I do. Just like you’re good at what you do. Your books have always brought such joy to my life, and I wanted to give you something as a thank you,” she said, looking for all the world as if they were discussing which brand of laundry soap worked best on stains. But they weren’t, and there was no doubt in Lucy’s mind that she was staring at a serial killer. “At first I thought I might send you some cookie recipes, but I didn’t know if you liked to bake.”

“Baking’s good.” Lucy took a few steps back and slid her hand into her purse. There was also no doubt in her mind that Cynthia wasn’t going to allow her to leave. She felt her wallet and cell phone, her sunglasses and lipstick.

“After I sent you the first letters, and you didn’t take them to the police, I thought you understood that dirty men had to be punished. I was so happy because I’d felt so alone for so long. I thought we were friends. Then I saw you with him and I knew it was all a lie. You lied to me.”

“I’m sorry you felt lied to,” Lucy reasoned as she edged toward the door. She felt her business card case and a pack of Breath Savers.

“No, you’re not. I will not be pacified.”

“I’m sorry.” Anger welled up within Lucy, and she had to fight an inner battle to keep a calm head. Cynthia didn’t look like she had a weapon, and Lucy was so mad that she thought she could probably beat her ass if it came to a fight.

“It’s not that easy.” Cynthia moved with her and slid sideways to block the door. “From reading your books, I knew to wear gloves and wigs and to set up false clues. I wore red and turquoise to the motel on Chinden, parading around as a member of the Peacock Society because I knew someone would see me.” She stuck her chin up and set the folder on a shelf, scattering Snow White and her Seven Dwarfs. “I was brilliant.”

Lucy felt a pen, but it wasn’t her stun pen. She stared into Cynthia’s eyes, still calm as could be, and forced herself to say, “That is brilliant.”

“I walked into those houses and that motel room and left nothing of myself behind. As if I’d never been there. I learned it all from you.”

“My books are fiction.” Lucy felt the cool metal of her brass knuckles and slid them on her fingers. “They aren’t how-to manuals.”

“You told me to kill those men. You can’t walk away from me now. I’m not going to let you.”

“You’re going to get caught,” Lucy said and wrapped her hand around her stun pen. She would have preferred the mace. “You left your fingerprints in Robert Patterson’s car.”

Cynthia’s nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. “That’s another lie. I was careful not to touch anything.” She reached behind her and pulled a kitchen knife out of somewhere.

Shit.
“The police know I’m here,” Lucy bluffed as she took several steps back, keeping her gaze on the five-inch blade.

Cynthia shook her head and took a step toward Lucy. “You might be a good writer, but you’re a bad liar. I’m too smart for them and I’m too smart for you.”

“You left a fingerprint on the envelope you dropped in my mailbox.”

That stopped Cynthia, and again her brow creased as if she were forced to confront an impossibility. “Stop lying!” She lunged forward, and Lucy pulled her hand out of her purse and swung. Her brass knuckles connected with Cynthia’s forehead, and the other woman went down. Lucy sprang for the door without waiting to see if she’d knocked Cynthia out, but she only managed a few steps before Cynthia grabbed her ankle. Lucy fell on her side.

Cynthia was on top of Lucy before she could move. “I thought I’d feel bad killing you.”

Lucy rolled onto her back, jammed the stun pen into Cynthia’s boney thigh, and pressed the button. Nothing happened. “Shit!”

“I’m not going to feel bad at all.” Cynthia raised the knife, and Lucy’s mind raced. She wasn’t going to die like this. No way. She kept her eyes on the five-inch blade, waiting for Cynthia to bring the knife down. When she did, Lucy knew what she would do. She’d knock Cynthia’s arm with one hand and swing with the other. The only problem was that she’d have to let Cynthia get close enough so that she could punch her brass knuckles in the psychotic bitch’s nose.

“You’re just like the others,” Cynthia said. “They underestimated me, too.”

From outside the house, Lucy heard a shout a split second before the door burst open and sunlight flooded the living room. Within the path of golden rays, Cynthia looked up as a 9mm bullet drilled the pale flesh between her shocked eyes. Her head fell back, and Lucy pushed and scrambled from beneath her. She got to her feet and stumbled into a solid chest and waiting arms. She didn’t have to look up to know it was Quinn who held her so tight she could hardly breathe. “She was trying to kill me,” she gasped.

“I know.”

“I hit her with my brass knuckles.”

“Good girl.”

“My stun pen didn’t work.” She turned her head to look behind her shoulder, but Quinn’s hand brought her face back around.

“You don’t want to see that,” he said.

Kurt Weber brushed past, and Lucy glanced over Quinn’s shoulder to the white car on the lawn and the red light swirling from the visor.

“Is she dead?” Lucy asked.

“Before she hit the floor,” Kurt answered.

Lucy started to shake. “She’s the one, Qu-Quinn.”

“I know.” He kept one arm around her as he re-holstered his gun. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head as her knees began to knock.

Quinn took Lucy outside into the afternoon sunlight and moved with her to the driver side of the cruiser. The door was open, and he reached inside for a handheld microphone clipped to the radio. He stood, stringing the black cord along with him. Lucy grasped the top of the door frame as he called in the code. She lifted her face to the warm sun, felt the rays on her cheeks and forehead, and shook as if she were coming apart. She couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs. Her mouth was dry and her throat hurt. She was afraid she just might hyperventilate.

Quinn tossed the mic onto the seat and got a blanket out of the trunk. He wrapped it around Lucy, then looked into her eyes. “Lucy, you’re going to pass out if you don’t try to take calm breaths.” He ran his hands over the wool blanket on her shoulders. “We don’t have much time before this place is crawling with cops, so I need you awake and coherent for what I’m going to tell you.”

Concentrating on Quinn’s face, she managed a deep breath. “Okay.”

“An ambulance is on the way to check you out. If you’re transported to the hospital, you’ll be interviewed there. If you’re okay and don’t need to be transported, someone is going to take you to the office and interview you. I don’t know who, but you’ll be all right. Tell them everything you know.”

“You won’t b-be there?” she stuttered. If she concentrated, she could control her breathing, but no amount of willpower could stop the shakes.

“I’ll be there, but I can’t be there with you. I’m sorry.”

Sirens cut through the sound in the distance. “I’ll get through it. Do you have some wa-water?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.” He rubbed the side of his face with one hand. “I was en route when I got your voice mail. I think my heart stopped and hasn’t started up again.”

“It never even o-occurred to me that Cynthia Pool was Breath—less.” She hugged herself inside the blanket. “She was so…bl-bland. Even when she was telling me who she w-was and all the horrible things she’d d-done. She was just so calm about it. Well, until the moment she came completely un-unhinged.”

The sirens got closer, and Quinn hugged her to his chest. “You’re safe now,” he said next to her ear. “It’s over and you’re going to be okay.”

Three police cruisers and an unmarked car screeched to a halt in the middle of the street, their sirens blaring and lights flashing. A moment later, an ambulance pulled in front of Quinn’s Jeep parked at the curb.

Lucy was quickly hustled to the ambulance, and it wasn’t until she was sitting in back with a blood pressure cuff on her arm and an oxygen mask on her face that she calmed down enough for everything to soak in. She could be the one dead right now. Not Cynthia. Stabbed to death by a deranged psycho.