“We talked about this at my apartment…”
“Our techs know what they’re doing. They could have examined it and gotten it back to you within twenty-four hours.”
“Big Brother equipped? No way. Besides, how am I supposed to work?”
He ignored the spying accusation. “You have to have a laptop. A backup computer.”
“In an apartment too small to do jumping jacks in? Why would I need one?”
“Well, with what you do…”
“I had a laptop,” she admitted grudgingly. “It had a run-in with a golf club.”
Startled, he glanced at her. “Excuse me?”
“Watch the road. I locked down the hard drive so it might survive a fender-bender. But I’m not sure I would if it comes flying into the back of my head.”
He hid his amusement. And the indignation over the insult to his driving. “Golf club?”
“Long story.”
Damn, she was stubborn. “No backup, huh? What do you do if it breaks down?”
“I have a local computer repair shop on speed dial, and the owner makes house calls. That thing is all I’ve got, and my life is in it. So forget about taking it out of my sight.”
Her words sounded a little too vehement. He suspected they were true, especially judging by what he’d seen of Sam Dalton’s life.
What the hell was he thinking, dragging this woman, who lived like a self-protective hermit, into the middle of a serial-murder investigation? “Look,” he said, realizing there was another option. Maybe not the best one, given how smart the Professor was, but it was at least a possibility. “You can still get out of this altogether. Take a vacation. You give us your passwords, fly to the Caribbean for a week or two, and we’ll take it from there.” They could study her wording, make the messages sound like they were coming from Sam the Spaminator.
“Sorry, no way.” She glanced out the window, not meeting his gaze, and her voice lowered. “I’ve had a man speak for me. I won’t let it happen again.”
He suddenly suspected she was talking about her ex-husband. Though he sympathized, sensing the divorce had been a bad one, he couldn’t let it go, really liking the idea of getting her out of town altogether. “So what if you’re sitting there typing? We’re going to be telling you what to say, aren’t we?”
“Maybe. But I still maintain some kind of control. I have a say, a choice.”
Again, that hint of emotion told him he had hit a nerve. Unable to help it, he murmured, “And it wasn’t always that way?”
She eyed him warily, but finally admitted, “No, it wasn’t.”
His curiosity got the better of him. “So why the Mrs.?”
“What?”
He’d done it now; there was no backing out. “When we met yesterday, why did you insist I call you Mrs. Dalton? You mentioned an ex. So did your loud friend who called.”
She groaned audibly.
“Sorry,” he said, remembering exactly what else her loud friend had said. “Forget I said anything.”
“Will you forget you heard it?”
“Done. But back to the point: Your ex-Mr. doesn’t sound like much of a prize.”
“Shh. Nobody’s told him that yet,” she said, rubbing a hand over her eyes.
“How long?”
“A year.”
“Married a year, or divorced a year?”
“Married four, divorced one. I guess I haven’t gotten used to being a Ms. or a Miss. Besides, though I’m not what anybody would consider a celebrity, I am in the public eye. I’d rather people not know my marital status or anything personal about me, which is why I try to keep any of that stuff off my Web site or my bio.”
He didn’t tell her how easily he could have found out her personal info if he’d been ass enough to do more than professional research on her.
“I know, I know,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “I’m not a teacher who doesn’t understand the subject matter. Someone who wants to know all there is to know about me could probably find it. I put up the basic walls, but there’s still a trail out there for anybody who cares to look.” She glanced out the window again. “Including my divorce decree.”
Her tone ended that line of conversation, and Alec respected her wishes. Driving in silence, he maneuvered through the late-morning traffic. They’d finally exited the downtown area and had a clear shot to the highway. Baltimore and D.C. weren’t separated by much land, but when you factored in all the cars, they might as well have been on different continents.
“So where’s your partner?” she eventually asked.
“Back at the office working on the IP addresses from Darwin ’s comments.”
“If it were that easy, you would have caught him after he killed that help-wanted victim he pushed into the machine, wouldn’t you?”
The victim hadn’t been pushed, though he didn’t correct Sam, not wanting to speak of it. Because that poor woman had been led like a mouse through a maze, drugged, deafened by loud machinery, blinded by darkness and what must have been extreme terror. And in her panic to escape the person who had locked her in the manufacturing warehouse where she was found, she’d stepped through a gate the Professor had left open and had fallen right into an enormous industrial hopper.
He couldn’t imagine an uglier death.
“No, it probably won’t be easy. But there’s a slim chance. He couldn’t possibly suspect we’d be reading your site first thing this morning, or that we’d recognize his posts so quickly. He might not have been as careful as he is when corresponding with his victims, whose communications will, he knows, be carefully examined.”
She tilted her head back against the headrest. “I still can’t believe Ryan was killed. Lured by a scam I warned about on my site a dozen times.”
“Well, like you said yesterday, most people think those warnings and cautionary tales are meant for others. They know the danger, but proceed right into it, figuring they’re the exception; they can’t possibly be gullible enough to be a victim.”
“I know. Which, Jimmy says, is what makes his job so easy.”
“Who?” he asked, surprised. Was she involved with someone? He wouldn’t have guessed it, based on how she lived, but it made sense given her obvious attractiveness.
He tried to ignore the sudden rolling in his stomach at the thought.
“James-Jimmy-Flynt. The con man I told you about on the phone.” Sounding almost bitter, she added, “I think he was amused by my sad efforts to save his future victims. The man has no conscience, despite lots of efforts to prove otherwise.”
Alec shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not wanting to overreact the way he had the previous morning, even though he didn’t like hearing Sam call the scumbag by such a chummy first name. He also was loath to point out the obvious. Though she hadn’t connected it, her observation about Flynt sounded a lot like the current situation. The Professor might very well be feeling the same way: amused by Sam’s efforts to save his victims from their fate. It was one explanation for his reaching out to her on her blog.
His own personal amusement.
He only hoped that amusement led the unsub to make a mistake. They needed only one break, one moment of carelessness. Then, with any luck, they’d nail the bastard.
Alec had called ahead to get things rolling, so, to Sam’s surprise, she wasn’t put through the Spanish Inquisition to get into the Hoover Building. Could have been because Agent Lambert’s boss, a handsome fortyish man introduced as Supervisory Special Agent Blackstone, was waiting for them when they arrived. With quiet determination, he pushed the guards to get her through as quickly as possible, something she doubted they often did for civilians.
As she rode in the elevator with Alec and his boss, she couldn’t help comparing them. Alec’s brown hair was lighter, with golden streaks, and his eyes a soft, glittering green. A few lines beside them said he was capable of laughter. She’d gotten a glimpse or two of his smile and suspected the full throttle would be devastating.