Cavanaugh's Surrender (16 page)

“It might not be a serial killer,” Destiny said, coming up behind them. Both men turned almost in unison and looked at her quizzically. “At least, not a serial killer in the traditional sense.”

“You want to explain that?” Logan requested. Seeing as how she was the one who had originally called this a serial-killer case, this was a complete one-eighty on her part and he wanted to know, in as few words as humanly possible, why she’d changed her mind.

Between arrangements for her sister’s funeral and dealing with her own grief, Destiny had still managed to squeeze in some work. She’d been busy reading everything she could find on each of the other so-called nonvictims, plus she also had the benefit of the interviews she and Logan had conducted. There were still some details that bothered her. Details that didn’t add up in the traditional sense.

“For one thing, I don’t get a sense that our killer is enjoying this. That he’s following some ritual dictates that he’s unable to ignore. Most serial killers stick to a pattern religiously, one they can’t deviate from, only embellish on.”

Destiny looked at the photographs of the other women on the bulletin board, deliberately avoiding the last one. Her sister.

“It’s almost as if the killer’s doing this out of some need for expediency, like he
has
to do it
now
and quickly. And he changes things,” she pointed out. “He’s not slavishly bound by steps he has to follow.” She pointed to one photograph, then another, moving from one pretty face to another. “One victim types her suicide note, another doesn’t leave one at all. And a third sends a text message, while a fourth posts a note on her Facebook page, telling the world goodbye because ‘he doesn’t love me anymore.’ It’s like he uses whatever he can get, whatever’s handy for him.”

“So exactly what is it that you’re saying?” the lieutenant pressed.

Frustrated, Destiny dragged her hand through her hair as she slanted a glance toward her sister’s picture. The one taken at Christmas, one of the last times they’d been together. “I don’t know. Just that something doesn’t feel right.”

Her answer did not please Bailey in the slightest. “Feelings don’t stand up in court, Richardson. We need evidence. You’re a crime scene investigator. You should know that,” he all but barked at her.

For a second, she closed her eyes, pulling herself together. “Yes, I know that.”

“Then get me some evidence!” Bailey shouted before storming away. Less than a minute later, he slammed his office door as if to underscore his order.

“Why don’t we get that personal trainer’s list of clients?” Logan suggested, acting as if the lieutenant hadn’t even been there. “We can see if Debra trained anyone your sister interacted with. If we can just find that one point in common that they had—”

“Other than they were all in their twenties, blonde, more than reasonably attractive and supposedly committed suicide when they were ‘dumped’?” she posed dryly.

“Yes, other than that.”

He let his voice trail off, allowing her to fill in the silence that followed any way she wanted to. At this point, they didn’t know what they were after, only that if they stumbled across it, they’d know it—if they were lucky.

* * *

“Debra West’s list of clients?” Becky, the receptionist with the toothy smile repeated. She looked at them blankly for a full five seconds before saying, “We don’t have a Debra West working here.”

“No, you don’t,” Destiny agreed patiently.
Because she’s dead, you idiot.
“But you did,” she went on in the same calm tone. “A year ago.”

“Oh. A
year
ago,” she repeated as if that was the key to the secrets of the universe. “I’ve only been working here two months,” Becky told them. “I don’t know where I’d have to go to access that kind of information.” She seemed perfectly happy to let the conversation drop at this point.

Sensing that she was near the end of her patience, Logan moved Destiny aside and addressed the intelligence-challenged receptionist.

“Do you think you might be able to call over someone who could possibly know how to do that?” he asked, speaking to Becky in a calm, level voice, all the while smiling into her eyes.

Whatever he was doing, Destiny noted, it had the desired effect on the receptionist.

“Sure. That would be Brittany,” Becky volunteered. She jumped up to her feet as if her lower limbs had gotten the message delivered belatedly. “I’ll get her for you.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Logan told her.

“Maybe I should have let you do the talking to begin with,” Destiny murmured under her breath as Becky disappeared into the rear of the building.

“Maybe,” Logan agreed, amused.

Now that he thought of it, the receptionist
did
remind him of the kind of woman he usually dated. Young, fun-loving, but definitely not a candidate for a Rhodes Scholarship in this lifetime. And, up until a few days ago, he was fairly certain that was the type he preferred and for the most part required. Because there was no chance of a meaningful or lasting relationship growing out of those sorts of liaisons.

But after trading barbs and dealing with a woman who continuously kept him on his toes, Logan began to view women like the receptionist as less appealing despite all her impressive physical attributes.

The realization, coming to him out of the blue like this, was more than just a little unnerving. It threatened to upend his world.

Just what the hell was he thinking? And why was he thinking it now?

“Something wrong?” Destiny asked as they waited for the receptionist to return with this Brittany person in tow.

Rather than answer her question, he asked one of his own, sounding, she noticed, just a little defensive. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged, about to drop the subject when something stopped her. There was this unusual expression on his face, as if he’d suddenly realized something. About Paula’s case?

“You look like you just had an epiphany,” she told him.

Epiphany.

Well, that was as good a word for it as any, Logan decided.

If
that indeed was what he’d just had. It sounded a lot better than saying he’d suddenly come to his senses—because he didn’t know just how sensible he was.

“Maybe I have,” he murmured more to himself than to her.

Destiny’s eyes narrowed as she tried to make sense of what he was saying. She’d just thrown the word out there, never once expecting him to do anything except bristle at the term. It was a twenty-dollar word, and he was a fifteen-dollar cop.

Was he humoring her or laughing at her?

Had
he actually had an epiphany?

And why did
any
of this actually even matter to her, she silently demanded?

Because Paula’s death knocked you for a loop and you’re trying to anchor yourself to something. And that’s understandable. But you know damn well that it can’t be him.

No, she silently agreed, it can’t be. Because a man like Logan didn’t stay for long.

Chapter 12

L
ogan leaned back in his chair as far as it could go. He was bone weary. It was past his shift and the squad room was empty except for him and the woman pensively staring at the bulletin board with her back to him.

Even her back looked obsessed, he thought. Where did she get her energy?

Sullivan had returned from his honeymoon, but the detective had been temporarily partnered with someone else until Logan either brought the case to a satisfying conclusion—or signed off on it. He wasn’t about to give up.

He and Destiny had been at this nonstop for close to three weeks now, searching for that one common thread that connected all these so-called nonsuicides together. So far, they kept striking out.

Logan glanced over toward the bulletin board. Six years, six women, and all they’d come up with were paralyzing dead ends.

And while he liked to think that he was a damn good detective, Logan felt as if his efforts paled in comparison to the efforts of his father’s chief assistant. Richardson was there when he arrived in the morning, she was there when he left at night, eternally going over the information they’d gathered and searching for new angles, for that elusive “something” that would finally and once and for all break the case wide-open for them.

In the meantime, Logan mused, the woman
had
to be wearing herself out.

“An airline attendant, a teacher, the owner of an upscale restaurant, a wedding planner, a trainer and a fundraiser,” Destiny suddenly said out loud.

Logan wasn’t sure if she was addressing him or the dead women whose photographs were pinned along the top of the bulletin board.

She was reviewing their high-profile careers and frowned as she glanced at him over her shoulder. “What are we missing?”

“Right now, my best guess would be our sanity,” he quipped wearily.

“Besides that,” she retorted, exasperated not with him but with herself. What wasn’t she seeing?

Turning back to the bulletin board, she looked at each individual photograph. The faces had begun to haunt her dreams.

“What am
I
missing?” she said under her breath.

But he’d heard her. Again he thought that Richardson was coming dangerously close to wearing herself out without even realizing it. Something had to be done before that happened.

“You want to take a break?” he asked suddenly.

“You mean like for coffee?” She was beginning to fade, she realized. Coffee might be just the thing to keep her going for another hour or so. “Sure. You can bring me back a container if you’re going to the machine.” She was already on to her next thought and waved in the general direction of the desk she was using. “My purse is in the bottom drawer. Take what you need.”

Logan laughed to himself. “A loaded statement if I ever heard one,” he commented. Richardson had handed him an absolutely fantastic straight line, and he was doing his best to be good.

Preoccupied, Destiny had only half heard what he’d said. “What?” When he didn’t answer, she looked at him again. He was still sitting down. Had he changed his mind about the coffee?

“I’m talking about a
real
break,” he emphasized. “Like getting away from the office—and this case—entirely. Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he interjected in case she’d lost track again, the way she had last Saturday—Richardson had spent the weekend at the precinct with the dead women and her computer for company, working hard and getting nowhere for her efforts.

“So?”

“So I’ve got a wedding to attend. My sister Kendra’s getting married,” he told her before she could ask. “Want to be my ‘plus one’?”

For a moment, she said nothing, then decided that he had to be pulling her leg. “Don’t you have a girlfriend to take?” The man, according to everything she’d heard,
always
had a girlfriend—or two—somewhere in the picture.

His mouth curved in amusement. “As my sister Kari so succinctly says, I’m in between meaningless relationships. And I don’t want to go alone,” he said, appealing to her. “Come with me.”

Destiny stared at him as his words sank in. Was he actually asking her out? “A pity date? For who?” She was definitely unclear on the concept. “You, because you’re in between ‘meaningless’ relationships, or me, because I haven’t been in a relationship since slightly after the dawn of time?” Or at least it felt that way. Put on the spot, she wouldn’t have been able to say just
when
her last so-called relationship had ended. It had been
that
long ago.

“How about we split the difference?” he offered gamely. “Or, if it makes you feel any better, we can say that it’s for me. Your pity, my date,” he said, summing it up cheerfully.

Though the idea of going out with him on an unofficial date was intriguing—hell, it was downright tempting—she was still suspicious. “Why do you want me to come?”

“Because I think it’d do you good to get away from all this, clear your head, put things in perspective. A couple of days away from here will do you a world of good,” he predicted. “And,” he stressed, “because you can’t keep talking to computer hardware indefinitely. Eventually, you’re going to start thinking it’s talking back, and then you’ll
really
be in trouble.”

Destiny laughed then. She didn’t exactly know why, but what he’d said sounded so absurd that she had to laugh. It was the first time she’d laughed since before she’d found Paula’s body.

And then, glancing one more time at the photographs that were lined up along the bulletin board so neatly, Destiny blew out a long, steadying breath.

“Maybe you’re right,” she allowed.

“It’s been known to happen,” Logan acknowledged, giving her a killer grin that she was fairly certain had melted more than its share of kneecaps. She felt her own turning slightly watery.

Her mouth curved in amusement. “Well, even a broken clock is right—”

He closed his eyes as he finished the old saying for her. “Twice a day. Yeah. I know.” Opening them again, his eyes held hers for a moment. “Thanks.”

She wished he’d stop looking at her like that. It made her feel completely at loose ends and unfocused. “So you’re really serious about that invitation—to your sister’s wedding?” As she said it, she had to admit that the idea started to appeal to her. Not that she was much of a party person, but a change of scenery for a few hours might not be completely out of order.

Logan nodded, trying his best to appear solemn rather than just dead tired. “Serious enough to come get you and drag you over to the church tomorrow whether you’re ready or not.”

“Then I guess I’d better be ready. What time?”

He thought for a second, trying to get the details right. “Ceremony’s at eleven.” He did a quick calculation backward. “I’ll pick you up around a quarter after ten.” And then he smiled, the expression on his face a self-deprecating one. “Kenny vividly described what she’d do to my anatomy if I show up late.”

She’d met Kendra briefly at her sister’s funeral. Even so, the woman had impressed her as a kindred spirit. “Is your uncle Adam officiating?” she asked.