“Valentine wanted her out here for a reason,” Harley said, his voice rough. “And she insisted on coming.”
Dane was starting to think the woman had a death wish.
But the captain was right. The call to Katherine had been deliberate, and Valentine would have been too smart to use the victim’s phone—knowing they could trace both the victim’s identity and the phone’s location through that call—unless he wanted us here.
The bastard was jerking them around.
Because he wanted to watch.
“The men need to fan out more.” His gaze left the closer buildings and drifted farther away, then rose. “Get uniforms up there.” He motioned to the buildings on the far right. “He set the scene, and he lured his players out here. I’m betting he stayed to watch.”
Valentine liked to think he was in control of the game. A twisted game in which he was the only one having any fun.
Harley sent the uniforms scrambling. They rushed toward the first building that Dane had indicated, a four-story warehouse that would have given the killer a perfect view of the cop cars as they arrived.
“He saw us coming,” Dane said. “He watched us every step of the way.”
Katherine touched his arm—a light, hesitant touch. “She was dead?”
He nodded. The ME’s van was already there. Ronnie would be heading in soon to check the body. “She was still warm.”
Katherine’s breath shuddered out.
His gaze shot over her head and landed on the marshal. “Take her back to the station,” he told Ross. He couldn’t leave the scene yet or he’d have been the one to take her. But Dane didn’t like having her out here. She was too exposed. Whatever game Valentine thought he was playing, he needs to think again.
Ross nodded, even as his gaze drifted to the buildings on the right.
“Keep her safe,” Dane added. The last thing he wanted to see was Katherine tied to a table. With duct tape over her mouth. And blood dripping down her arms.
The woman in there, with her dark hair and pale skin, could have been a substitute for Katherine. Would the killer be coming for her soon?
Dane glared up at the buildings. You can’t have her.
– 7 –
Cops guarded the front door of Katherine’s house. A patrol car was stationed at the end of her driveway. If she’d had any neighbors to scare, the poor folks would have been terrified.
But she didn’t have neighbors. Because she didn’t want them to get too close. She didn’t want anyone to get too close.
“Do you know anything about the victim?” Katherine asked as her fingers curled around the cup of coffee in front of her. It was nearing eight p.m., and she probably shouldn’t have been drinking coffee so late, but there were plenty of things she shouldn’t have done in her life.
Coffee wouldn’t be what killed her. Valentine? He just might be.
Ross gave a slow shake of his head. He’d been her shadow all day, a shadow she was grateful to have. “Her name is Amy Evans. She’s divorced. Thirty-one.” He expelled his breath in a rush. “I learned that, then got—”
“Sentenced to babysitting duty with me,” she finished, shoulders hunching.
The kitchen chair groaned beneath him as he shifted his weight. She looked up and saw that his gaze had hardened. “Do you still have the gun?” Ross asked.
He was always Ross to her. Never Anthony, never Tony. He’d been her handler for three years. Given her two new identities in that time. But she always called him Ross because she wanted to keep distance between them.
Because she didn’t trust him.
I don’t trust anyone.
Not even the men with badges.
“Katherine.”
She blinked.
“Do you still have the gun?”
He’d given her the gun the day he got her out of Boston. She didn’t know if it was standard procedure to give a witness a gun. She doubted it, but there had been shadows in Ross’s eyes. A story she hadn’t been brave enough to ask about. He’d given her the gun and said, “If the bastard ever finds you, don’t waste a breath talking to him. Just shoot.”
Her fingers curled tighter around the mug. “I still have the gun,” she said. She most certainly still had it, and she spent ten hours a week at the firing range making sure she knew exactly how to use it.
In the years since her horrible discovery in that basement, she’d taken steps to make herself stronger. She’d become a damn good shot, and she’d spent countless hours hitting the mat in self-defense classes.
She wouldn’t be caught unprepared if she faced a killer again.
“Is it loaded?”
She shook her head.
“Load the damn thing, Kat—Katherine. Keep that gun close, and if you need to…shoot. He came all the way down to New Orleans, didn’t he?”
“He…he never tried to hurt me before—”
“He’s a f**king psychotic killer. Just because he didn’t before, that sure as hell doesn’t mean he won’t come at you with his knife this time.”
Some of the hot coffee spilled over onto her hand. The burn lanced her skin, but she ignored the flash of pain. “He never wanted me to find out what he did. He told me that in the basement.” So why would he be calling her now? Trying to lure her to crime scenes? Maybe Ross was right. Maybe she’d become one of his targets now.
“Keep the gun close,” Ross told her again, his voice dropping, “and don’t forget for an instant what he is.”
Her gaze held his. “I can never forget.”
There was a beat of silence, and then she heard voices. Cops on her porch, talking to Dane. She pushed aside the coffee and hurried into the den just as he entered the house.
The faint lines near his mouth looked deeper, and there were shadows under his eyes. She knew from just one look at his face that he hadn’t found the killer.
“He sent you a package after the last kill,” Dane said.
The bloodred roses and the photograph to immortalize his kill. To show his masterpiece. Valentine had taken photos of his victims in Boston, too. The cops had tried tracking him down based on the paper and ink he used, but they hadn’t found him.
“If the killer is sticking to his routine, he’ll send you another package.”
Her hand was starting to throb a bit now. She pressed her fingers against her jean-clad thigh.
“I’ll be here if he comes. If anyone comes with any kind of package.”