He fired up the Jeep and headed out of the parking lot. A cold blast of air hit his chest from the vents. The heat hadn’t kicked on yet, so he turned off the vents. His fingers fiddled with the radio, then he turned it off, too. Within two minutes of meeting Maureen, Quinn had pretty much mentally crossed her off the suspect list. It didn’t matter to him that she held a regular job. Plenty of stupid people worked for the government, but a woman who was capable of killing three men without leaving a trace of herself behind wouldn’t honestly believe space aliens were living in northern Idaho. Quinn tended to agree with the FBI profiler’s report that Breathless was highly organized and had above average intelligence. Quinn just didn’t believe Maureen’s stupidity was an act. No one was that good an actress.
According to the criminal profile, Breathless was between the ages of thirty-two and forty-eight. Because of the lack of physical evidence, the profiler believed she had knowledge of forensics and police procedure. She had an interest in criminal investigations and believed she was smarter than the police. She wouldn’t be caught by conventional methods and could probably pass a polygraph and withstand an interrogation without breaking down.
After reading the report, everyone in the department agreed that the best way to catch a predator like Breathless was with bait. Man bait. While Quinn could see the wisdom of the plan, he didn’t like it. He had a bad feeling he was going to have to take things really far before they had enough evidence for an arrest. He wasn’t afraid he’d be another victim. No, he wasn’t thrilled about the thought of dangling his Schwanz in front of a psycho.
Quinn turned off Fairview and merged onto the connector. Streetlights lit up the section of highway leading into downtown like a white ribbon. He tried the heater once more, and warm air blasted through the vents as he headed toward Broadway and home.
All of the women the detectives had set up these past two weeks had several things in common that had landed them on the suspect list. They were all dating online and had been contacted by all three of the victims within days of their deaths. They all used the same chain of dry cleaners, and they all lived alone.
All three male victims had had several things in common that had landed them on the perpetrator’s list. All had been actively dating, as if they’d been on some mission from God. All had had a long list of women they’d been juggling, going on as many as five or six dates in a week-usually with different women, whom they’d met through online dating services, chat rooms, and personal ads. Judging by the number of books they’d charged at Barnes and Noble, Borders, and Hastings Books and Music, they’d been voracious readers. The first victim had been divorced, the second a widower, and the third married but posing as a widower. All three had died handcuffed to their beds.
The first victim, Charles Wilson, aka chuckles, had been found in his home off Overland, hands secured with flexi-cuffs and a Westco dry cleaner’s garment bag over his head. The case had been classified a homicide, but to what degree had been uncertain. Considering the presentation of the body, it appeared the victim had been playing a fatal game of erotic asphyxiation with a rather kinky participant. The perpetrator had fled the scene leaving little evidence behind, and it was Quinn’s job to determine if the kink had accidently gone bad or the death had been premeditated.
They’d interviewed Mr. Wilson’s family and friends, who’d all claimed that he hadn’t been seriously dating anyone for over a year. His former wife had remarried and lived out of state. Quinn had combed through his credit card receipts and his telephone records. He’d just about eliminated everyone Charles had been in contact with by phone or e-mail when the second victim had been discovered. Two bodies wasn’t coincidence. The men’s deaths hadn’t been accidental, and by the time the third body turned up, they’d known they had a serial killer on their hands.
Charles Wilson had been murdered a month and a half ago, and if the detectives didn’t move fast, there would be a fourth victim.
Soon.
Nobody wanted that. And nobody wanted the Crimes of Violence detectives to catch a break more than Quinn did. He had no qualms about lying to women, and trapping a killer was part of his job. It had been several years since he’d worked undercover, and there had been times when he’d missed it. No, what he absolutely hated was reciting the mushy lines Kurt had written for him.
Quinn pulled his Jeep into his driveway and cut the headlights as he rolled into the garage. He parked next to his white unmarked police car and turned off the engine. Like always, Millie heard him and was waiting for him when he opened the back door. She was one female who was faithful, if a bit overly affectionate sometimes. He flipped on the light as he walked into the kitchen. Her big brown eyes looked up at him with adoration, and the light shone in her silky red hair.
“Hey girl.” She licked his hand, and he went down on one knee. “You’re a good dog.” He scratched beneath her long ears, and her tongue flopped out of the side of her mouth in ecstasy. Her tail thumped the hardwood floor as Quinn’s gaze took in the blinking light on his answering machine and the explosion of feathers scattered about the room.
A frown pulled at his mouth as he stood. Beneath the table were the shredded remains of his pillow. He hadn’t been able to take Millie out for a run or to retrieve decoys in a while. She was bored, but at least she’d stayed out of the garbage this time. Not that there was anything in it now.
That was the problem with leaving a two-year-old Irish setter alone for too long a period of time. They tended to find trouble, but at least she’d only shredded his pillow.
He hung his jacket on a kitchen chair, then moved across the kitchen. The last female he’d left alone had been his fiancée, Amanda, and she’d shredded his life. While he’d been out making a living, making the world safe from bad guys, she’d been screwing Shawn, his best buddy since high school.
Quinn pulled an empty garbage can from beneath the sink and carried it across the room. As long as he lived, he didn’t think he’d ever forget the afternoon he’d found them naked in his bed. He’d never forget the look on their faces or the accusations spilling from the mouth of a woman he’d loved.
“I’m always alone,” Amanda had said as she’d pulled up the bedsheet to cover her bare breasts. “You’re always working, and I’m always here by myself.”
He’d pointed to Shawn, who’d jumped out of bed and begun pulling on his pants. “You’re obviously not always alone.” The handle of Quinn’s H &K 9mm had pressed into his waist as rage had pounded through his chest with every beat of his heart, clawing at his stomach until he’d thought he might get sick.
“We didn’t mean for this to happen,” Shawn had said as he’d grabbed his shirt.
“You didn’t mean to shove your dick in my fiancée?” In that moment, Quinn had understood the crime of passion; he’d understood the blind fog and consuming fury that made a man lose control and seek vengeance.
“What did you expect?” Two pretty little tears had slid from Amanda’s eyes even as she’d placed the blame squarely on him. “This is your fault. You’re cold and unfeeling.”
He’d laughed, a raucous mix of anger and incredulity. “Get the fuck out of my house,” he’d said. His hard, flat voice had filled the room as hate and anger had raced through his body. Years of experience and control had curled his hands into fists before he’d been able to do anything stupid. “Both of you.” Something in his eyes, or in the tone of his voice, must have shown just how close he’d been to violence, because they’d both grabbed up their clothes and run.