Hunter shook his head. “And that’s it. We didn’t hear him or see him.”
Noah met Hunter’s grim eyes. “Good thinking. And fast action.”
Hunter shook his head again. “I should have gone out after him.”
Noah watched Eve roll her eyes, but she said nothing. “We don’t know if this guy is armed,” Noah said. “We’ve got three dead. We can’t be taking chances.”
“Told you so,” Eve muttered.
Hunter made an annoyed sound in his throat. “Now what?”
“Now we watch Eve like a hawk,” Noah said. “Eve, you don’t go anywhere by yourself until we know exactly who and what we’re dealing with.”
“Told you so,” Hunter muttered and Noah knew a small moment of relief. If nothing else, these two behaved like brother and sister.
She rose, briskly. “David made coffee. Do you want some to go?”
He realized for her, none of this had changed anything personal. “No thanks. I’ve had enough coffee tonight. Don’t go anywhere alone.”
“She won’t,” Hunter said flatly, then softened his tone. “Thank you for coming.”
“Yes,” Eve said, not meeting Noah’s eyes. “Thank you. I’m tired. David, can you see Detective Webster out?” Without waiting for an answer she went back to her room.
Hunter puffed out his cheeks. “Well.”
Noah frowned. “Well? Well what? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you’re under her skin.” He walked him to the door. “Give her time.”
“I have lots of that,” Noah murmured, then narrowed his eyes. “Why pink?”
“It was a baby shower present. Do you know a Detective Sutherland?”
Noah was surprised at the sudden topic change. “Olivia? Damn fine cop. Why?”
“Her sister Mia’s one of my best friends,” he said. “Another damn fine cop. Olivia and I were both in Mia’s wedding. When you see her, tell her I said hi.”
“I will. And, I meant it. That was good thinking. You may have saved Eve’s life.”
Hunter’s eyes hardened. “This guy knows Eve’s involved. How does he know?”
“I was wondering the same thing,” Noah said grimly. “Keep me on speed dial.”
“I will. Don’t forget your hat.”
“I’ll leave it here for a while.” If it was here, he had an excuse to return. “Thanks.”
Tuesday, February 23, 2:25 a.m.
Lindsay never would have wanted her to see this side of humanity. Too late, sis, Liza thought dully, as she waited for a bus to the next neighborhood. She’d been searching for three hours and she was already ready to give up. Most of the prostitutes hung out in bars and hotels this time of year. The bars wouldn’t let her in because she wasn’t twenty-one. And nobody in the hotels had seen Lindsay.
A well-intentioned bouncer had let her into one of the bars long enough to get warm. A waitress gave her a coffee. Neither had seen Lindsay. In her pocket was the napkin on which the bouncer had written directions to another place she might look. She had enough change for bus fare there and bus fare home.
And if you find nothing? Then what?
I don’t know.
Numbly she watched as a girl came out of the bar she’d just left, picking her way over the ice in five-inch stiletto heels. The girl’s legs were bare, her short skirt barely covering her butt, her wig teased big. She pranced to the end of the block and leaned against a light pole. A minute later a black SUV slid to a stop, rolled down its window.
“Don’t do it,” Liza murmured, as if words could help. The girl climbed up into the SUV and it did a U-turn in the street, headed back the way it had come.
Tuesday, February 23, 3:25 a.m.
He drew a deep breath, the climax shuddering through him. Slowly he released the hooker’s throat. He relaxed, lowering his body to sit on the body he straddled, his seed glistening on her skin. Under her wig she’d had short dark hair and a long neck and as he’d choked the life out of her, he’d imagined her face was Eve Wilson’s.
It should be Eve lying here, on this disgusting, foul-smelling bed. Dead, her open eyes staring at nothing at all. It was supposed to have been Eve. But it wasn’t.
But the words he’d whispered in the hooker’s ear as she’d slid into her little ketamine stupor would drive terror into Eve’s heart when she finally lay here beneath him on this bed. Twine around your throat, pulling tighter, you can’t breathe. You’re going to die.
The hooker had awakened, gasping for air, thinking she was being strangled. Then, she really was. He did love it when fantasy met reality with such perfection.
He climbed off the girl, yanked on the concrete slab, and winced. The girl from Sunday wasn’t quite done yet. He stared into the pit for a moment, troubled. Two days. He’d never gone only two days between kills.
He had to be more careful, he thought as he dragged the hooker’s body from the bed, rolling her into the pit. He’d never gone to the same street twice, but he had tonight. It was like he’d been on autopilot as he’d driven away from Eve’s.
It was the stress. When this was over and he was done, he’d go back to his old way. Things would be normal again. He donned his protective gear, performed his duties, tossing the girl’s clothing in after her. When he was finished, he pulled the slab closed and picked up the girl’s cheap stilettos, carefully placing them heel out on the shelf next to Christy Lewis’s very expensive Manolos.
He stood back, surveyed his collection. It was a veritable time capsule of women’s shoe fashions spanning nearly thirty years. Most were, of course, on the most flamboyant fringe of fashion, the shoes no respectable woman would be caught dead wearing. Most were small sizes, as his victims had been. It was a more efficient use of his energy that way. Smaller victims were more easily overpowered. More easily transported. Leaving all his energy for what happened in this room, as it should be.
There were exceptions. His eyes lowered to the bottom shelf, far left. Next to the worn pair of work boots he’d removed from the man who’d dug his pit were a pair of scuffed pumps, black, size eleven. They were plain. Ugly. Matronly, even. They’d been out of style thirty years ago. Which was why they’d been relegated to the church charity bin.
He remembered her digging them from the bin along with the articles of clothing that had been too worn to make decent rags. A few dresses for herself. Trousers for her sons that would be too short for the older, and far too large for the younger. But she didn’t care. Didn’t care that everyone knew every stitch she wore was fished from the charity bin. Didn’t care that her sons were laughingstocks of the entire town.
She’d had no pride. No shame. Nothing but a selfish, unquenchable thirst. He carefully took one of the pumps from the shelf, studied it, remembering. They were scuffed because she’d fallen down all the time.
She’d fallen down all the time because she was drunk. As were the constant stream of paramours she entertained to earn her next bottle. Except a few of them hadn’t been as drunk as she. And a few of them had come with a different price in mind for that next bottle.
His hand clenched into a fist and he abruptly relaxed it. No point in damaging the most valuable of his souvenirs. He remembered the day he’d taken these shoes from her feet, minutes after he’d taken his hands from her throat.
Seconds after he’d taken her miserable life.
He remembered the sight of her swinging from the tree outside the rusted-out trailer she’d had the nerve to call their home. No pride. No shame. Now, no life.
He’d chosen the branch carefully. She’d been a tall woman. That she hadn’t passed those genes to him had often struck her as funny.
He’d laughed about it himself as he’d hoisted her up, left her feet dangling. It had taken more energy than he’d expected, but it had been worth it. Of course tying the noose had been no problem. He’d had months to practice the technique. There hadn’t been much else to do, in juvenile detention. Not much more to do than watch his own back and dream of his hands around her throat.
He’d expected the moral satisfaction, even the thrill as she drew her last breath. What he hadn’t expected was the pure, sexual release. It had caught him off-guard, that first time. He lifted his eyes, surveyed his collection. He’d known to expect it every time that followed.