“I don’t think he’d like to hear that.” But he agreed, she could tell.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t. But I can see it in his eyes, every time he hits on me when he fetches your tonic water for you.”
His hands tightened on the wheel. “You want me to tell him to stop hitting on you?”
End this right now, Eve. Don’t hurt him. “It doesn’t really matter, the result would be the same. I’m not… available. For anyone.” It was as kind as she could make it.
He blew out a long breath. “I see.”
She could see he did. “I’m sorry, Noah,” she said softly. And she was. Very much so.
He kneaded the steering wheel. “I never would have said anything to you.”
“I know. And I’m flattered, but I didn’t want you wondering. You’re too nice for that.”
His smile was grim. “Sometimes,” he said cryptically. “I’m ready to ask my question.”
She studied his profile, clinically, she told herself. But it wasn’t true. Normally she clenched her hands to keep from touching her own scar, but at this moment she did so to keep from touching his face. Just a few feet away. His cheeks were stubbled and she wondered how that would feel. Against her fingertips. Against her own cheek.
That she’d never find out was a bitter pill to swallow. “So ask.”
He turned to look at her, his eyes intense. “Why are you not available for anyone?”
Her chest hurt, but she kept her face impassive. “If I told you that was too personal?”
“Then I’d accept that. I understand about keeping secrets to yourself.”
But he’d told her a secret and she felt compelled to do the same. “I lied,” she said simply. “I am broken. Therefore, unavailable.”
A muscle twitched in his taut jaw. “I don’t believe that.”
Her throat grew tight. “You don’t know me.”
He was quiet for a beat. “That’s fair. But that can change. Let me know you.”
“Do you know how much I wish that was possible?” she said, very quietly. Her voice trembled and she firmed it. “But it’s not. I’d appreciate if you would accept that. I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can with this case. But it has to end there. I’m sorry.”
She watched him swallow, his jaw clench. “All right,” he said finally, harshly. “Then tell me about the women in your study who become addicted to this virtual world.”
“Why?”
“Because your study is the link, Eve. Whoever killed at least two of these women hunted them in your game. He understands them, or that part of them at least. To catch him, I have to think like him. So help me see the victims the way he does.”
She almost smiled. In helping him understand his victims, she’d be sharing a great deal of herself. And she was certain he knew that. “All right. That I can do.”
Monday, February 22, 10:00 p.m.
Bitch. He backed away from the blinged-out, bleached-blonde bimbo avatar, tempted for a brief moment to abandon his plan and take her out next, wherever she lived.
Drop dead, she’d said. Women were rude when they thought they were anonymous. He hadn’t wanted to buy her a drink. It was just his way of keeping his avatar moving. In Ninth Circle, the avatar that stopped got attention. He did not want attention.
He was furious that he’d missed Eve, more furious that he’d been forced to run. He’d logged in to Shadowland before he’d properly calmed down. That was a good way to make a mistake. He couldn’t afford any mistakes.
The cops knew Eve, so they knew about Shadowland. Right now there wasn’t much they could do about that. No one knew he was here and if they did, no one knew who he was. Importantly, no one knew who he’d target next.
The blonde bitch wasn’t on his list. He made his way through the crowd, searching for the one he’d come to see. Rachel Ward. He’d been looking forward to this one.
Rachel married young, but never reached her fifth anniversary. She’d botched it all, having affairs while her husband drove a truck to support them. The husband found out and, appropriately angry, had set fire to the motel in which Rachel met her lovers.
Her lover was killed. Rachel had nearly died of smoke inhalation. Now, five years later, Rachel’s husband sat in prison and she had a very understandable fear of fire.
Rachel worked hard all day. But at night, she played-in the virtual world. She was Delilah, a cabaret dancer performing four times a week at the Casino Royale. Tonight she was off, which meant he’d find her here, in Ninth Circle. She’d go “home” with whoever was first to buy her a drink. He’d been first a few times.
She’d fallen for the sweet virtual pillow talk afterward. He was shy, he’d told her, with women in general. It was why he’d never had a real date, why he worked all the time, on the road five nights a week, filling his lonely nights in cheap motel rooms with virtual dancing and virtual sex. She’d pitied him. She was lonely, too, she said. And needy.
He guessed so. Five years was a long time to be celibate when she’d been such a whore, and virtual sex had to pale in comparison to the real thing.
If you’re ever near Minneapolis, give me a shout, she’d said. We’ll have a drink. Maybe do some real dancing. Tonight he’d give her that shout. He’d tell her he was coming to the Twin Cities on business, but for only one night. Tomorrow night.
That would give him time to pull everything he needed together.
She set the virtual dance floor on fire, but tomorrow it was Rachel who would burn.
He glanced up, startled by the beam of headlights. He closed his laptop, hoping the driver had not seen the glow of his screen. It was Noah Webster. Driving Eve home.
He glanced at his clock, surprised by how much time had passed. He’d thought he had been in the game for only a few minutes, but the software ran slower, took longer when he used his wireless card. I shouldn’t have been searching for Rachel. I should have been watching for Eve.
With that man still in her apartment, his only chance to grab Eve would have been at the downstairs door as she went inside. Now she was already home, and, as expected, she was not alone. Unfortunately, he doubted Webster would just drop her off and drive away. Webster was too much the white knight, he thought bitterly.
There would be no opportunity tonight, unless he shot her from where he sat, but he’d have to take out Webster first. He hated to do that. Not that he was averse to killing a cop, of course. But if Webster dies now, his death will overshadow my case. The press would be sympathetic to a cop killed in the line of duty and all the wonderful outrage he was about to whip up would be gone before it started.
There wasn’t much choice. To get to Eve tonight, he had to go through Webster.
Unless he waited. He had her keys. He could return to her apartment once the guy with the pickup truck left. He frowned. If he left. Hunter might sleep over. He might be Eve’s boyfriend. So be it. If Hunter didn’t leave, he’d kill them both. He’d wait until Hunter was asleep. Horizontal. Once Hunter was out of the way, transporting Eve to his basement would be much easier.
He liked that idea better. Better to save cop killings for the end, when the public would think they’d gotten what they deserved. He slid his laptop into its case, put his SUV in gear, and drove away. He’d be back later.
Monday, February 22, 10:00 p.m.
Harvey Farmer stopped his car a block behind Webster’s. The detectives had split up, so he and Dell had as well. Dell was following Phelps. Harvey wasn’t sure that was always such a good idea. The boy had a hair-trigger temper. He hoped his surviving son had grown enough sense not to kill Phelps before they had the information to ruin them.
Harvey wanted Phelps ruined, then dead. No martyred cops on my watch.
He’d followed Webster from the station to the crime scene and now here, the home of the woman who’d been searching the scene for her keys, which she had not found. He wondered how she fit. It was the second time today he’d seen her with Webster.