Insidious (FBI Thriller 20)

“Cam, he isn’t the serial killer. He’s my stalker. It’s Blinker.”

And that’s why he doesn’t have a knife or goggles. Cam wanted to yell and curse and weep. She’d been so close to killing him, and he wasn’t the Serial. She stared at him a moment in the dim moonlight—he was pale and skinny, his light-colored hair already thin on top. He looked terrified. “If you weren’t sneaking into the window to kill Missy, what were you planning to do?”

He blinked. “I told you, I wanted to see her one more time, it’s been so long. There’s a movie playing down the street I knew she’d like. Maybe she’d like to have dinner after at Mama Mia in Santa Monica.”

Missy hissed. “Go to the movies with you? Are you nuts? Let me cut out his tongue, Cam.”

“Just a moment, Missy. Your name is Bayley, right?”

“Yes, my friends call me Blinker, but my clients call me John, John Bayley. I’m a bond trader.”

“Mr. Bayley, you violated your restraining order, you were breaking and entering, you assaulted a federal officer. Apart from those charges that could put you away for a decade, I could have easily shot you.”

He licked his tongue over his lips. “Don’t let her stick me with that knife or I’ll sue both of you. Why didn’t the cops take that knife away from you?”

“They did. I bought another one.”

A bubble of laughter rose in Cam’s throat, nearly burst out of her mouth. Amazing. She’d gone from believing she’d caught the Serial killer to dealing with this lame idiot. “Sue her? Highly doubtful since you’d be in jail.”

He looked up at the two women, one with a gun, and Missy with her knife, long bare legs on both of them. He wheezed out, “Look, there’s no reason to make a big deal out of this. There was no harm done. I’m a respectable bond trader, as I told you. Everyone knows me. I have trouble sleeping and I usually go out and walk. I liked the looks of this house. I thought it was vacant.”

Missy kicked him again. “So now you coming into my house is a misunderstanding? There’s a freaking car parked in the driveway, how could you think it was vacant? You came to ogle me, you pathetic putz.”

Cam said, “I guess you forgot about the restraining order.”

He was still rubbing his throat. Cam let him sit up, both women standing over him. “Look, Agent, ma’am, Missy, I’ve got money. I can make it worth your while if you’ll let this go.”

Cam leaned close to his face. “So now you’re saying if you pay us money Missy should let you stare at her?”

“Well, not really, but if I had managed to get a look at her, well, why not? Maybe she’d wake up and like what she saw and we could go to the movies, like I said. Agent, ma’am, can’t we let this go?”

“I strongly suggest you shut up now, Mr. Bayley, or I’ll let Missy carve you up.”

He looked up at Missy and stopped talking.

“Missy, please get me my handcuffs. They’re in my jeans pocket, in the closet. And my cell is on the table beside the bed. We’ll let Daniel deal with Blinker. He’s got jail cells that smell like sweaty underwear.”

When Missy walked back out the front door with Cam’s handcuffs and cell, Cam rolled Blinker onto his stomach, jerked his hands back and handcuffed him. “Sit up and stay there, don’t move.”

Neither woman helped him. Finally, panting, he managed to pull himself up.

Cam punched in Daniel’s number. Two rings, then, “Cam? What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“Both Missy and I are fine.”

He said, his voice sharp, “Missy’s okay, you’re sure?”

“Yes, Daniel, she’s fine.”

“That’s good. Okay. You woke me up from a wonderful dream. I just won the Daytona. There were so many cheers, and I was about to be crowned— Okay, what happened exactly?”

“Detective Montoya. Missy, who’s fine as am I—and thank you for asking—will give you a big congratulatory kiss if you come over to her cottage. We have a surprise for you.”

“At two o’clock in the frigging morning?”

“Don’t whine, Daniel,” Missy called out. “Get your very fine butt over here. Cam’s got my stalker for you.”

44

* * *

THE CAPITAL GRILLE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THURSDAY AFTERNOON

Griffin waited until the waiter left and Delsey had eaten three bites of her spaghetti bolognaise, smothered in Parmesan cheese. He watched a moment, knew her brain was elsewhere and imagined he knew very well where. “Dels, listen to me. I need you to turn your brain back on and pay attention. I don’t enjoy telling you this, but it has to be said. I saw the look on your face when you met Rob Rasmussen Tuesday at the Hoover Building. And I know you saw him again yesterday. I really don’t want to know exactly what happened.” But it was easy to tell exactly what had happened. She glowed, and he knew why. “You didn’t get home until very late, I might add.”

Delsey blinked at him. “How do you know about yesterday?”

“A neighbor saw you, wondered who the guy was who dropped you off, described him to me. This could be a problem for you, Dels.”

“I can’t imagine why it could be. I might add that it’s none of your business, Griffin.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Dels. Rob Rasmussen is a suspect in the murder attempts on his grandmother’s life. You knew this, yet you had lunch with him Tuesday and saw him again Wednesday afternoon and evening.”

Delsey wiped her napkin over her mouth. “Listen, Griffin, Rob’s a suspect only because he happened to have come into Mrs. Rasmussen’s life at the wrong time. Rob, a suspect? That’s nuts and you know it. He loves his grandmother. He told me about how he’d missed her for the ten years they hadn’t seen each other, how much she did for him when he screwed up. He loves her; no way would he try to kill her.

“Don’t give me that understanding-older-brother look. I know my history. So I sometimes pick the wrong guys, but not this time, Griffin. Rob is open and honest. He’s special. He has nothing to do with this. There’s no reason to warn me off him.”

“Savich has known Rob Rasmussen nearly all his life. He likes him, too. But here’s the deal, Dels. Forget he’s a suspect for a moment. Savich told me he and Sherlock met Rob’s girlfriend at the Rasmussen mansion Tuesday night. He said Rob and Marsia were tight. He and Sherlock interviewed her at her studio in Maryland yesterday while you were out with her boyfriend. It doesn’t sound to me like he’s all that honest and open. I’m sorry, Delsey, but it’s clear he’s a hound dog.”