“No, but we know how she’s doing it.” He rose to his full height and kept his gaze pinned to Lucy’s. She obviously didn’t like him. He didn’t really blame her, but it didn’t matter. He had a job to do. This time he was going to do it by the book. “She’s cuffing them to a bed and placing a dry-cleaning bag over their heads. Sound familiar?”
If it were possible, Lucy’s face turned a shade whiter, and even though Quinn didn’t want to give a damn, he felt like a real asshole for scaring her more than she was already scared.
She stared at him for several long moments, then said as if she had a choice, “I don’t want to be involved in this. It’s sick.”
“Too late.” He untucked his tie and pointed to the letters. “She’s involved you. I don’t want to scare you, but this is serious. A psychopath has chosen to reach out to you because she feels a connection to you through your work.”
“I realize that, but can’t you just take the letters and leave me out of it?”
He wished he could. More than she could know. Normally he would be ecstatic that a serial killer was finally talking, and he would be looking at every angle and planning the next move in his head. Not this time.
“We can leave you out of the investigation as much as possible,” Kurt said as he played the “good cop,” patting her hand and trying to pacify her nerves. “But I don’t believe you’ve heard the last from her. She will contact you again. You were really smart to put on gloves to open the third letter.”
Quinn slid the envelopes toward her. “Have you noticed the postmarks?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “She mailed the letters three to four days after each murder.”
“Meaning I should get another letter today or tomorrow.”
“Exactly. I take it you haven’t checked your PO box today.”
“No.”
“If you give us the key, we can check it.”
She shook her head and stood. “No, I get important business mail in that box. I’ll go.”
“You just said you wanted to be left out of the investigation.” Which was impossible. She just didn’t know it yet.
“I know, but I can’t let just anyone rummage through my mail.”
It was easier not to argue with her, and Quinn shoved the collection kit into his larger evidence duffle and zipped it closed. “I’ll take you.”
“No thank you.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion, Lucy.” She opened her mouth to argue, and he cut her off. “Or I can get a warrant and seize everything in the box.”
“But we don’t want to do that,” Kurt hurried to explain, trying to soothe her.
She grabbed her purse off a kitchen chair, and Quinn’s gaze slid from her face, over the laces of her pink shirt, and down her jeans to her feet. She wore brown sandals that looped over her big toes. Her toenails were painted red. “Fine, but I’m driving,” she said and turned to march out the back door.
“Maybe I should go,” Kurt offered. “Soften her up so she’ll work with us. She’s not real fond of you.”
Quinn lifted his gaze to her behind. “She’ll get over it,” he said, then turned his attention to the other detective.
Kurt gathered the evidence sealed in clear plastic bags and slipped them into his notebook. “What happened between the two of you that I don’t know about?”
“Nothing much,” Quinn lied. Only he and Lucy knew what had happened between the two of them in the hallway of his house, and he sure as hell wasn’t talking.
“You’re looking at her like something happened.”
“I’m not looking at her like anything.” Quinn grabbed the small evidence collection kit back out of the duffle. He hoped Kurt would let the subject drop, but Quinn knew better.
“Yeah you are. You look like you’re kinda hungry and she’s a snack tray.” Kurt shook his head. “Too bad she looks at you like you stomped that fat cat of hers.”
Kurt was full of shit, but Quinn didn’t have time to stand around and argue. “Remember to photocopy those before we turn them into the lab. See you back at the office,” he said and walked outside as Lucy backed her silver BMW out of the small garage. He opened the car door and sank into red leather upholstery and palpable animosity.
“Nice car,” he said as he reached over his right shoulder for his seat belt.
“I like it.” She put the car in first gear and practically laid rubber in the alley.
He looked over at her and snapped the belt in place. “Where’s the fire?”
“You didn’t have to come along.”
“Sunshine, you’re wrong about that.”
She stopped the car at the end of the alley, then pulled onto the street. “Don’t call me Sunshine. My name is Lucy. Ms. Rothschild to you.”
He chuckled. “How long are you going to be mad at me, Mizz Rothschild?”
“I’m not mad.” She shifted into third gear and shot down Fifteenth Street at least ten miles over the limit. A squirrel darted into the road, skidded to a halt, then ran back to the sidewalk instead of taking his chances.
“Right.” Yeah, he’d lied to her, but it wasn’t as if he’d had a choice. And yeah, he’d taken things a little far, but she hadn’t exactly complained. She’d gotten off. He hadn’t. If anyone should be pissed off it was him. “You always this good a driver, Mario?”
“If you don’t like it, get out.” She stopped at a light on Bannock and about put him through the windshield.
He smiled and reminded himself that his job would be a lot easier with her cooperation. He’d talked confessions out of hardened criminals; he could handle Lucy. “It’s good that you called me about the letters.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said as she continued to look straight ahead. She refused to look at him, but that was okay with Quinn, as it gave him the chance to look at her all he wanted. Kurt was right. She did look like a snack tray. “I didn’t call you. I called someone who transferred me to you.”
“It doesn’t matter.” His gaze took in her high cheeks, straight nose, and her full mouth. The first night he’d seen her, he’d thought she had a great mouth. “The result is the same. I’m going to be in your life for a while longer.”
“Lucky me.” She tapped her red fingernails on the black leather steering wheel. “I guess your name really is Quinn.”
“Yep.” His gaze moved from her chin to the long white column of her throat. He liked her neck. It smelled great and tasted better.
“Is there really a Millie?”
“Yes.”
Tap tap tap. “Your wife? Girlfriend?”
“My dog.”
Her head slowly turned toward him like she was in The Exorcist, and her eyes got all squinty. “Your dog? You made me feel sorry for you because your wife died, and the whole time Millie was really your dog?”
“I was doing my job, Mizz Rothschild.”
“Your job sucks.”
“Sometimes.” The light turned green, and she sped through the intersection.
“So who was the redhead in the photographs?”
“What photographs?”
“The ones on your mantel.”
“Oh, that’s Anita. She works in the tech department.” He could practically see the mental wheels spinning in her head. “The photographs were planted there to make me think she was your dead wife Millie.”
“Something like that.” He hoped to God she never found out about the video and audio tape. “Listen, I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry you got caught up in it. I’m sorry I had to lie to you.”
She made a scoffing sound. “Probably not as sorry as I am.”
“The others didn’t take it so hard.”
Her head whipped around to look at him. “Others? While you dated me, there were others? You told me I…jerk.”
Maybe he should have kept that one to himself. “Watch the road.”