“Have you ever been?”
“No, not really.” Kevin shifted in his seat. “Although I’m not sure that wasn’t a mistake on my part.”
Obviously Slater had decided that Kevin and Samantha were more than friends. Who was mistaken, Slater or Kevin? She eyed the man before her. How naive was he?
“You should talk to her,” Kevin said. “Maybe she could help somehow. She’s not a cop.”
“Sure.” Jennifer dismissed the suggestion even as she spoke. She had no interest in consulting some rookie at this stage. All she needed was one more gunslinger on the case. “How long have you known her?”
“We grew up together here in Long Beach.”
She made a note and changed the subject. “So actually Slater called you three times yesterday. Once on your cell phone, once at home here, and once on a cell phone he left for you? The third call just to make sure the phone worked.”
“I guess. Yes, three times.”
“We have three minutes, three calls, three rules, a riddle with three parts, three months. You think our guy likes threes?”
“Three months?”
She had to tell him. “You ever hear about the Riddle Killer?”
“The guy from Sacramento.”
“Yes. We have reason to believe this is him. He killed his last victim three months ago.”
“I heard that on the news.” Kevin closed his eyes. “You really think it’s him?”
“Yes, I do. But he’s never let anyone live that we know of. I’m not trying to be crass—there’s just no other way to deal with this. We have a chance, an excellent chance, of stopping him before he goes further.”
He opened his eyes. “How?”
“He wants to play. It’s not the killing that drives him; it’s the game. We play.”
“Play?” He stared at her desperately and then lowered his head. She wanted to put an arm around him, to comfort him, to hold this poor soul and tell him that everything was going to be okay. But that would be both untrue and unprofessional.
“You ever play chess?”
“A game or two.”
“Think of this as a chess match. He’s black and you’re white. He’s made his first move and you’ve made yours. You lost a pawn. As long as he’s interested in the game, he’ll play. Your job is to keep him playing long enough for us to find him. It’s the only way to beat him.”
Kevin ran both hands through his hair. “And what if he’s listening right now?”
“We always assume he’s listening. He’s undoubtedly got the technology to hear what he wants to hear. But for him to hear what I just told you is music to his ears. He’s back in some hole right now, rubbing his hands in anticipation of the game. The longer the better. He might not be sane, but he’s brilliant. Probably a genius. He’ll never toss a match and run scared just because some two-bit FBI agent’s on to him.”
I hope you are listening, you snake. She clenched her jaw.
Kevin offered an anemic smile. Apparently he understood, but he wasn’t in a place to like anything about Slater’s game. “The threes could be coincidental,” he said. “Maybe.”
“Nothing is coincidental with this guy. His mind works on a whole different plane than most. Can I see the cell phone he gave you?”
He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to her. She flipped it open and scrolled through the activity log. One call at 4:50 yesterday afternoon, as reported.
“Okay, keep this with you. Don’t give it to the police, and don’t tell them I told you not to give it to them.”
That earned her a soft grin, and she couldn’t resist returning it. They’d take a crack at tracking Slater’s number and triangulating his position, but she wasn’t optimistic. There were too many ways to beat the system.
“We’ll bug the phone—”
“He said no cops.”
“I mean we, the FBI. We’ll use a local device that will attach to the cell. I doubt a conventional listening device will do us any good—too easy to scramble and limited on range. The recording device will be noticeable, a small box we’ll fix to the back here.” She drew her finger through an inch square on the back of the silver phone. “It’ll contain a small chip we can remove for analysis later. Not exactly real-time surveillance, but it may be all that we get next time.”
He took the phone back. “So I do what he says? Play his game?”
She nodded. “I don’t think we have a choice. We’ll take him at his word. He calls you; the second you hang up, you call me. He’ll probably know about it, and then I guess we’ll know what he means by no cops.”
Kevin stood and paced to the kitchen counter and back. “Detective Milton grilled me on motivation. Without motivation you have nothing. I can understand that. I think I have an idea.”
“Go ahead.”
“Hate.”
“Hate. That’s pretty broad.”
“Slater hates me. I can hear it in his voice. Raw contempt. There are few things left in this world that are pure, from my observation. The hate in this man’s voice is one of them.”
She looked up at him. “You’re observant. The question is why. Why does Slater hate you?”
“Maybe not me, but my type,” Kevin said. “People tend to react to other people in wholesale rather than detail, right? He’s a minister, so I hate him. She’s beautiful, so I like her. One month later you wake up and realize you have nothing in common with the woman.”
“Do you have firsthand experience on the subject or are you just spinning this from a sociology text?”
Kevin blinked, caught off guard. Unless her intuition was misfiring, he had very little experience with women.
“Well . . .” He ran his hand over his head. “Both, sorta.”
“This may qualify as new knowledge, Kevin, but there are men who judge a woman by more than her appearance.” She wasn’t sure why she felt obligated to say as much; she’d found no offense in his remark.
He didn’t bat an eye. “Of course. I see you and you’re beautiful, but my attraction to you is based on your caring. I can tell that you really do care about me.” He broke eye contact again. “I mean, not in the way it sounds. As your case is what I mean. Not as a man—”
“I understand. Thank you. That was a nice thing to say.”
The short exchange felt absurd. Kevin sat back down and for a moment neither spoke.
“But your point is valid,” Jennifer said. “Most serial offenders choose victims based on what they represent, not on personal offenses. It’s the meticulous thought that Slater has put into this case that makes me wonder if we aren’t dealing with personal motivation here. Obsession comes to mind. He’s taken a very personal interest in you.”
Kevin looked away. “Could be that he’s just a very meticulous person.” He seemed particularly interested in depersonalizing the motive.
“You’re a profiler—what is my profile?” Kevin asked. “Based on what you know, what is there about me that might set off someone?”
“I don’t have enough to offer—”
“No, but based on what you do know?”
“My first blush? Okay. You’re a seminary student. You take life seriously and have a higher intelligence than most. You’re caring and kind and gentle. You live alone and have very few friends. You’re attractive and carry yourself with confidence, notwithstanding a couple nervous habits.” It occurred to Jennifer as she ran down the list that Kevin was an unusually good person, not merely innocent. “But it’s your genuine innocence that stands out. If Slater has no personal stake in you, he hates you for your innocence.”
There was more to Kevin than she could see at first glance, much more. How could anyone dislike, much less hate, Kevin Parson?
“You remind me of my brother,” she said. Then she wished she hadn’t.
What if the Riddle Killer wanted Jennifer to see the similarities between Roy and Kevin? What if he’d chosen Kevin because he intended to make Jennifer live through the hell once again?
Pure speculation.
Jennifer rose. “I have to get back to the lab. The police will be here shortly. If there’s anything you need, or if you think of anything else, call. I’ll have one of our men watch the house. Promise me you will never leave alone. This guy likes to drop his little bombs when they’re least expected.”