Chapter Eighteen
December 26, Chicago, IL
Griff glared at his friend with a smoldering impatience.
He’d met Nikki in college. She’d been a fellow computer geek, and equally uninterested in the typical activities that consumed most of their fellow students. Parties. Spring break. More parties.
They’d bonded over writing computer code, and once she’d told him that she intended to head to Quantico after she graduated, he’d realized that they were soul mates.
Or at least they should have been.
She was perfect for him. The only problem was that they were too much alike. Both quiet, introverted, obstinate. And there was the fact that there hadn’t been a physical spark between them.
They’d ended up more like brother and sister than lovers.
Which was why their relationship had lasted even after they’d graduated and moved on to their separate careers.
At this moment, however, he wasn’t feeling very friendly. In fact, he was wishing that he’d demanded to know exactly why Nikki had insisted they come to Chicago.
If it was just to harass Carmen, he intended to walk out the door.
As if sensing she’d been even more insensitive than usual, Nikki dropped her pen and sat back in her seat with a rueful grimace.
“After you sent me the envelope with the pictures, I put out the word I was interested in any women who’d been killed by a blow to their right temple.”
Griff felt Carmen stiffen beneath his arm. “You got a call?” she asked.
Nikki gave a nod. “Christmas morning a young man in rural Kansas was enjoying a ride on his new four-wheeler when he stopped at an old farmhouse to get out of a sudden snowstorm.”
Griff studied Nikki’s pale, perfect face. He’d always thought it ironic that she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever known, but she cared the least about attracting the attention of the opposite sex. Right now, he was more concerned with the tension etched on her delicate features.
A bad feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.
He’d gone to a great effort to convince himself the Polaroids that had been sent to Carmen were some sort of elaborate hoax.
It fit the evidence, right? The name on the invoice for the flowers in Kansas City. The rumor that there was a missing three-million-dollar insurance payout. The safe that had been stolen from her grandparents’ home.
And, if he was being honest with himself, he would have to admit that he’d latched onto the suspicion with more haste than common sense.
He understood how to battle against a greedy businessman.
A few hours with his computer and he could prove that Lawrence was a thief. From there it would be a simple matter to pressure the man into admitting he’d been harassing Carmen. And to force a promise he would never trouble his niece again.
Simple.
But a serial killer. Griff shook his head. He had software that had been specifically created to help the authorities track the patterns of a killer, and where he might strike next. But it could take months, or even years, to actually capture the lunatic.
How the hell could he keep Carmen safe?
But as much as he wanted to cling to his hope that this was all a hoax, he wasn’t stubborn enough to stick his head in the sand. If Carmen was being stalked by a killer, he had to take action to protect her.
“How many?”
Nikki’s lips tightened. “All five.”
Griff ’s breath hissed through his clenched teeth. “Have you compared the photos to the bodies?”
“I got the images faxed to me this morning from the medical examiner’s office,” Nikki told him. “It’s not official, but they looked like a match to me.”
Carmen made a small sound of distress, her fingers lifting to press against her lips.
“So they were real,” she breathed.
Nikki nodded. “Yeah.”
“God.” Carmen shook her head, her face pale and her eyes wide. “I’d just convinced myself that the pictures had been faked.”
Griff tightened his arm around her shoulders. He needed to feel the delicate warmth of her body. To reassure himself that she was safe.
At least for now.
“That was my mistake,” he admitted.
Nikki glanced from Carmen to Griff, easily sensing the tension that prickled in the air.
“What mistake?”
“I traced the invoice from the flower delivery,” he told his friend.
She held up a hand. “Again, don’t tell me how.”
Griff didn’t need the warning. He had no intention of revealing that he’d hacked into the accounts of the flower shop.
It was strange. He’d always been a law-abiding citizen. Not only because his mother was a cop, but the computer software he created along with Rylan was capable of great harm if used without restraint.
As he’d told Carmen when they were in Kansas City, power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. He could do immeasurable damage if he didn’t possess rock-solid ethics.
But his determination to discover who was stalking Carmen overrode even his deepest-held convictions. He would do whatever necessary. Even if it meant breaking a few laws.
“Carmen’s name was listed as Carrie Jacobs.”
Nikki folded her hands together on top of her notepad, her attention fully focused on them. Griff knew her formidable intelligence was sorting and calculating every word they spoke.
Like the most sophisticated computer.
“Is that significant?” Nikki asked.
Carmen answered. “I haven’t been called Carrie since I left Louisville when I was twelve years old.”
Nikki arched a brow, glancing back at Griff. “You thought this lunatic might have a personal connection?”
Griff reluctantly removed his arm from around Carmen. He’d always been a man who had perfect focus. Rylan used to tease him that a nuclear bomb could go off and Griff would never notice if he was working on a project. But that was before Carmen.
Now just the warmth of her body or a whiff of her citrus scent was enough to destroy his concentration.
He had it bad.
With an effort, he cleared away the distractions. Then he quickly told Nikki about meeting with Lawrence Jacobs, and his suspicion that the man was hiding something from them. But it wasn’t until he revealed what Ronnie Hyde had told them about the life insurance policy and the housekeeper’s suspicion that Carmen’s father had been driven over the edge by his brother that Nikki looked intrigued.
“Three million dollars is a lot of money,” she agreed.
Carmen gave a sharp shake of her head. “Not enough to kill five women,” she said.
“You’d be surprised,” Nikki said, her tone edged with anger. As if she could offer a list of creeps who’d been willing to murder for financial gain.
And she probably could.
“Are you taking the lead on this?” Griff asked his friend.
Nikki shook her head. “I’m going to the crime scene, but my presence will be in an unofficial capacity.”
Griff frowned in confusion. Serial killers were usually handed off to the feds.
“Has it moved up the chain?” he guessed.
“Nope.” Nikki’s expression was carefully bland. Which meant that inside she was seething with frustration. “There was no chain at all.”
“The locals are in charge?” Griff rasped in disbelief. Nikki nodded. “Why?” he demanded.
Nikki hesitated, as if she was debating whether to share privileged information. Then she gave a small shrug.
“Because the women weren’t the only ones found in the house.”
The sunlight poured through the glass wall like liquid gold, but it was devoid of warmth as it spilled over the three people seated around the table.
Not that any amount of sunlight could actually combat the icy fear that was forming in the pit of Griff ’s gut.
“The owners of the farmhouse?” he a
sked.
“No. A man,” Nikki said in clipped tones. “He was shot in the head. An apparent suicide.”
Carmen blinked in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
Nikki reached to flip open the manila folder that was next to her notepad. Griff suspected it was more an opportunity for Nikki to decide how much to share, rather than any need to review the case file.
At last she lifted her head, speaking directly to Carmen.
“The local detectives searched the house and found the women neatly laid side by side on the basement floor. And in an upstairs bedroom they found a man with a gun in his hand and a hole in the side of his head.” She tapped her finger on the file. “The cop’s conclusion is the man killed the women then brought them to the house to hide them. But once he’d seen them laid out together he’d suddenly developed a conscience, and unable to bear his guilt, he decided to kill himself.”
Griff made a sound of disgust. He’d never heard such a stupid theory. Serial killers didn’t have consciences. They hunted and slaughtered their prey without remorse. That’s what made them serial killers. And the only reason they would ever consider ending their life was because they were about to be captured.
He didn’t bother expressing his opinion of the cops. Nikki was as aware as he was that their explanation of what happened was full of crap.
“Do they have a time of death?” he instead asked.
“Not yet. The autopsies will take a while,” Nikki said. “By the times the bodies were found they were completely frozen.”
There was a tense pause as the horror of what was found in the farmhouse crashed over them. Seated hundreds of miles away in an FBI office, it was easy to forget they were talking about young women who’d been brutally murdered and stashed in an abandoned house like unwanted trash.
It was finally Carmen who broke the silence. “Why are they so convinced this man is the killer and not just an unlucky witness?”
“They already ran his fingerprints and identified him as—” Nikki once again glanced at the file folder, her gaze skimming to the bottom of the top page. “Archie Darrell. Do you recognize the name?”
Carmen flinched, her brows snapping together. “No. Should I?”
Nikki flipped to the next page. “He started out as a petty thief who spent his childhood in and out of juvie. From there he graduated to sexual assault. He was sent to a mental facility when he was twenty.”
Griff leaned forward, trying to catch a peek at the file. He didn’t doubt for a second that Nikki would keep vital information from them. Right now she was an FBI agent. Not his friend.
“Why wasn’t he sent to prison?” he asked.
“According to the police report he was delusional when they arrested him. He claimed to hear voices and was convinced that the woman he’d raped was Jezebel from the Bible. The judge ruled that he was unfit to stand trial.” Nikki shuffled through the stack of papers. “He disappeared from the hospital over two months ago.”
Jezebel? Griff grimaced. It was possible that it was nothing more than an act. But it was equally likely that he was truly unhinged.
Carmen curled her hands in her lap, but she didn’t flinch. She’d spent the past few years listening to stories from killers that would make most people lock themselves in their home and never leave.
“Why would you ask if I knew him?” she demanded.
Nikki flicked a quick glance toward Griff, as if silently warning him to brace himself.
The icy ball in his stomach doubled in size.
Nikki spoke directly to Carmen. “After Archie Darrell escaped from the hospital, they searched his room. They found a copy of your book along with several pictures of you.”
Griff swore beneath his breath, wrapping his arm around Carmen’s waist as she abruptly leaned back, as if in need of his support.
“How did he get pictures of me?” Carmen’s words came out as a shaky whisper.
Something that might be sympathy flickered through Nikki’s green eyes, but her expression remained hard with determination. The perfect FBI agent.
“They think that the pictures were sent to him, but they had no way to trace his mail.”
Carmen fell silent, her head turning to burrow in the hollow of his shoulder. The air itself felt heavy. As if Archie Darrell’s sickness was managing to leak from the file folder.
Carmen, however, wasn’t hiding from the truth. Instead, she was absorbing and processing what Nikki had just told her. At last she tilted back her head, meeting Griff ’s worried gaze.
“There’s more than one killer,” she rasped. “There has to be.”
Surprisingly, Nikki gave a sharp nod of agreement. “That was my thought as well,” she said. “I don’t believe for a minute that the man committed suicide. If he was overcome by guilt, why would he go upstairs and lie down on a rotting mattress before putting the gun to his head? And where was his car? He didn’t walk to the farmhouse carrying five dead women.”
Griff tried to visualize the scene. The abandoned house. The victims laid neatly in the basement. The dead man upstairs with a bullet through his brain.
“If he had a partner, the two of them might have had a falling-out,” he suggested. “Or Archie Darrell might have become so unstable he was a liability to the sick collaboration.”
“Agreed.” Nikki pressed her lips into a tight line. Her frustration was almost a physical force. “Unfortunately, the cops are eager to avoid mass panic at having to admit there might be more than one killer stalking women. It’s far easier to reassure everyone that the madman is dead and that the public can go back to enjoying their holiday.”
Without warning Carmen was leaning forward, her hand slamming on top of the table with a burst of fury.
“And what happens when the killings continue?”
Nikki didn’t recoil at Carmen’s outburst. Instead, a grim smile curved her lips.
“Then I’m no longer there as a professional courtesy,” she told Carmen. “I’ll take charge of the investigation.”
Carmen scowled in frustration. Griff didn’t blame her. He might have full faith in Nikki’s talent as an agent, but that meant nothing if she wasn’t allowed to do her job.
“So until then, we have to wait around for the killer to strike again?” Carmen’s voice was harsh.
“No. I might not be the primary investigator in Kansas, but that doesn’t mean I’m not able to follow my own leads.” Nikki picked up her pen and flipped the page on her notepad. Then, settling her forearms on the table, she studied Carmen with a fierce intensity. “It’s clear to me that you’re somehow connected to these killings, Ms. Jacobs. I want to know everything about you.”
Carmen’s scowl deepened. “But—”
“Carmen.” Griff interrupted her protest, giving her fingers a squeeze. He’d seen that expression on Nikki’s face. Right before she’d spent the night disassembling her ex-boyfriend’s prized motorcycle down to the last screw after she’d caught him with another girl. “You might as well get comfortable.”
* * *
Despite the fear that churned through her like a toxic sludge, Carmen did her best to answer Nikki’s questions. Even the ones that were intrusive, or downright stupid.
Of course, it’d taken more than one silent reminder that Nikki was doing her job. The woman could be downright abrasive. But having the vast resources of the FBI helping to track down the mystery killer, or killers, might make the difference between life and death.
And not just for herself.
If the maniac truly intended to imitate the killers in her book, then there were a lot of women in danger.
She had to do whatever possible to stop him.
It was after four when they at last returned to the truck waiting in the parking lot. By mutual agreement they drove straight to Louisville, stopping long enough for a quick meal at a fast food restaurant before they were back on the road.
Carmen’s thoughts were too distracted to conduct a conversation.
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She’d been right from the beginning. There was a serial killer out there. Probably more than one. And the lunatics were using her book as some sort of twisted inspiration.
Already five women had died. How many would be dead before the nightmare was over?
And was her name on the list?
It was after nine by the time they were crossing the hotel lobby and taking the elevator to the upper floor. She unlocked the door and stepped inside before she reached to flip on the light. As she was about to step out of the way so Griff could enter the room, Carmen’s attention was caught by a white square on the carpet.
She bent down. “You must have dropped something when we were leaving yesterday,” she said.
Griff abruptly brushed past her. “Wait,” he commanded.
He was too late. Carmen had already grabbed the paper. Straightening, she felt the slick gloss beneath her fingers. It wasn’t a note as she’d first thought. It was a postcard.
She turned it over, puzzled at the picture printed on the front. It looked like one of the cheapo postcards you picked up in a gift shop when you were on vacation. This one had an image of the ocean lapping against an impossibly white beach. The gentle waves reflected the sun that was just cresting the horizon and the words SURF AND TURF were stamped across the top in a large font.
There was nothing to show exactly where the picture had been taken. Just a typical sunrise over the water.
Sunrise.
Carmen reached to grasp Griff ’s arm. Once when she’d been helping her grandfather around the farm, she’d gotten too close to the edge of an old well. The soft ground had crumbled beneath her feet, sending her tumbling into the dank darkness. This felt just like it.
The terror. The sensation of falling through the air. And the jolting pain as she hit the bottom.
“Oh my God,” she breathed.
Griff turned so he was standing directly in front of her. “What is it?”
“The Morning Star.” She shoved the postcard into his hand. “The killer is going to the beach.”
He studied the happy ocean scene, his lips tightening. Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket and took a picture of the postcard.