Dark in Death (In Death 46)

“Will you?”

She heard the world of suspicion in his voice.

“It won’t be pizza. But this is the last time it won’t be pizza.”

“What will it be then?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

Easing back, he rubbed his hands down her arms. “A hard one?”

“I’ll tell you about it over that big drink.”

“That sounds exactly right. I won’t be long.”

She turned back to her board, conceded she’d done little to narrow the field. Then again, the weather—“bloody vicious” nailed it—lowered the chances of her potential victims braving it for a club night. It seemed to her the killer would conclude the same.

They should all have a little more time, she decided, and went into the kitchen to consider dinner choices.

By the time he came back in black pants and a blue sweater, she had the meal under warming domes and a bottle of wine opened.

“Now this is our version of cozy on a cold and filthy night. I’m grateful for it,” he added as he took the wine.

“Why Chicago?”

“Hmm? Ah, we’ve just finished up a major rehab to one of the hotels, and I’d scheduled the visit, some media and so forth, before this front moved in.”

“You could’ve stayed in the major rehab overnight.”

He danced those clever fingers down her arm. “Then I wouldn’t have my cop and my cat. Unless you’re starved, why don’t we just sit in front of that very nice fire for a bit?”

“I was worried,” she confessed. “I didn’t know I was worried until I wasn’t, but I was.”

“Well, I’m sorry for that. I’m not late home,” he added as they sat on the sofa.

“The weather, I guess. The day.” She shrugged it off.

“And what was the day?”

“It was the Day of the Skanks and the Strange Interlude of the Crafts.”

“Obviously, I want to hear about the skanks, at the very least.”

“What perv wouldn’t?”

So she told him, punched in what she’d learned at the craft store, from the bartender, and ended with the morbid artist.

“But it’s not about them—the possible victims. Not as much about them as the rocker guy. The motive. The killer’s obsessive love—and it’s not really love—is what drives her.”

“Which is why you have all those new faces on the board.”

“The trouble is, they’re not much different from one another. Physical appearance, sure, but they’re a type. The image, the lifestyle. In the book, she kills the obstacle while he’s present. But that’s just one of the ways she went wrong, so I don’t think that’s going to be a factor for Strongbow. Unless …”

“Unless some part of her maintains enough reality to know the obsession ends for her after the murder. The murder is the goal.”

“Yeah. Trying to think like her gives me a damn headache. Add the fact that she’s certainly laid the groundwork for the book after this one, so she has to shift those realities. From this obsessed skanky fan type to the saintly, obedient son—who’s really a greedy bastard—who kills his wealthy mother and pins it on his screwup of a sister. And how does she pull that off anyway?”

“It’s no wonder it gives you a headache.”