Jaid Black (13 page)

His forehead wrinkled.

“Strangest thing,” she said, frowning. “I never lose a record. I suppose,” she said grudgingly, “that with thirty-three years under my belt, I was bound to mess up at some point.”

He winked at her. “You made a backup. Your record remains intact.”

She nodded before turning to exit the office. “I’m leaving for the night. If you need anything else, send a message downstairs and I’ll see to it as soon as I come in tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Nan.”

The file clerk was gone a moment later. Thomas turned his attention to the report she’d brought in, the one his partner, James, had filed four years ago after speaking with Vincent Pinoza.

He scanned it quickly, looking for the important part. Vincent’s name, Vincent’s height and weight, Vincent’s occupation and drug habits . . .

Vincent’s statement. Here we go, he thought.

Thomas stilled. He reread the statement, frowning. This couldn’t be right, he thought.

His gaze raked over the document, coming to settle at the very bottom. The signature:

Chapter 13

Saturday, July 19 11:07 P.M.

Monica Baker-Evans had led a difficult but wonderful
life. She had worked her way up from nothingness after the divorce from Craig, earned her master’s degree on the side while holding down a full-time job, and by the age of thirty-three had managed to make Senior Vice-President at the international consulting firm where she was employed.

Life couldn’t have been better. Just next week the CEO of World Visions was scheduled to fly in from New York City and announce her as the next president of the Cleveland division, starting in a month when her boss vacated the position to begin his new career at a rival firm. The goal she had worked toward all of these years had been within her grasp.

Almost . . .

“Please, Kevin,” she said shakily, her entire body shivering despite the heat. “Please let me go.”

Nothing. He said nothing.

She closed her eyes briefly, hope at war with resignation. Hope because a small part of her still wanted to survive. Resignation because she realized he had no intention of letting her go. She was a realist, a pragmatist, and she knew that the end was almost here.

Work had always been rewarding to Monica—very rewarding—but she’d grown a bit lonely in the process of becoming a professional woman to be reckoned with, and she had wanted to meet a man she had a chance at settling down with. If only she could meet Mr. Right and fall in love, she had thought, everything would have been perfect.

But Monica wasn’t easy to put up with and she knew it. Emotionally speaking, she was on the needy side and tended to be a bit too clingy a bit too soon where relationships were concerned. Most men were turned off by such displays, so she had pumped tens of thousands of dollars into psychologists in the hopes of miraculously changing.

The change never happened. And as a consequence, Monica had given up on the pursuit of men altogether, deciding she was meant to be alone.

Alone, however, didn’t have to mean lonely. She had work, she had her friends, she had her family. All was perfect. Except for one thing: no matter how much she wished it otherwise, a small part of her still held onto that stupid idyllic Cinderella dream that little girls are socially spoon-fed before they can crawl—that dream of being swept off her feet by Prince Charming and finding Happily Ever After.

If only. Life was full of “if onlys.”

If only Craig hadn’t cheated on her, they’d still be together. If only society at large hadn’t spoon-fed her the Cinderella fantasy, she wouldn’t have wished for a Prince Charming of her own. If only she hadn’t gone looking for her Prince Charming on the Internet . . .

Monica watched through dulled vision as the man she’d met online Wednesday night continued to snap photographs of her naked, spread-eagle body. A body that was quickly growing weaker and weaker from a steady loss of blood. A body that had been slashed with knives in at least fifty different places.

A body she could hardly feel anymore.

He set the camera down, engaged it so that it would take photographs at specified intervals, and then turned to her. His penis was stiff, ready to assault her again. His eyes were glazed over, drunk on a sadistic high. The knife in his hand gleamed, the blood on it beginning to coagulate.

“Tell me you love me,” Kevin murmured, his voice thick with a frightening mix of lust and anger. “Tell me Nikki doesn’t matter because you love me enough for both of you.”

Monica Baker-Evans closed her eyes for a final time. Hope completely deserted her and resignation at last won out. “I love you,” she whispered. She swallowed roughly as he resumed the humming of that eerie song, praying the deathblow would come mercifully soon. “I love you enough for both of us.”

 

 

Kim distractedly glanced up from the romance novel she had been reading. “Today?” she snorted, closing the book with a thump. “Working nights has really messed up your sense of time. It’s one in the morning, hon.”

Nikki smiled. “I came as soon as my shift was over.” She sighed a bit tiredly as she plopped down on the bed. Her eyes scanned the injury Kim had sustained, easily noticeable since her friend was lying on top of the covers wearing only a thigh-length red robe, her battered leg stretched out. “How’s the ankle? Did your mom take you to the doctor today?”

“Step-mom,” she muttered. “And yes, she did.”

Nikki stared at her best friend for a long moment, her expression mulling. “You know, Kimmie . . .”

“Oh, God, not again.” She sighed. “Please. Nik, I’m not up for another of your speeches tonight, okay?”

“Then give her a chance.” Nikki frowned. “Megan has been here for two days, and I haven’t smelled a drop of alcohol on her breath.”

Kim rolled her eyes. “Oh wow. Two whole days. Let’s call the
Guinness Book of World Records
.”

“You’re not being fair,” Nikki murmured. “You are all Megan has left. You could at least try—”

“You mean my money is all she has left.” Kim picked up the romance novel she’d thrown aside when Nikki first arrived and absently thumbed through it. “She’s already gone through all of hers. Time to cozy up to Kim.”

Nikki grunted, too exhausted to plead Megan’s case tonight, but not willing to let the subject drop without one more solid punch. “I don’t think that’s true. And what’s more, I don’t think you think that’s true, either.”

Kim’s nostrils flared as their eyes met, but she said nothing.

“Look, Kim,” Nikki said, her smile tired. “I’ll let this go for now, but think about this.”

One of Kim’s blonde eyebrows slowly inched up.

“I’m not excusing Megan’s past alcoholism. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But if I had been married to your father,” Nikki said calmly but ruthlessly, “I would have been a drunk, too.”

Silence.

Kim half snorted and half laughed. “Touché.” She shook her head and sighed, setting down the book again. “Enough about me and Megan for tonight. Tell me about you. Has everything been okay at work?” She frowned. “Sorenson causing any more trouble?”

“Not since Thursday. But, lucky me, he was off tonight.”

Kim nodded. “And Richard?” she quietly asked. “Any word?”

Nikki shook her head. “Not a thing,” she murmured. “I almost wish he’d make a move. Sad, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. Very understandable, in fact. At least then you wouldn’t have to live in constant fear of a phantom. You’d know exactly what his intentions are.”

“That’s what he feels like to me,” Nikki whispered, her expression faraway. “Like a phantom with deadly intentions. You never know where it will strike, when it will strike, or how it will strike, but you know it’s coming.”

Kim reached out and placed her hand over Nikki’s. “You don’t know that for a fact, hon,” she said gently. “Don’t let him do this to you. You’ve got him built up in your mind as a larger-than-life demon, when in fact, he is only a man. A sick and twisted man, but still just a man.”

Nikki inclined her head. “Now it’s my turn to say touché.”

“Besides,” Kim reminded her. “The police told you that serial killers very rarely stalk the same victim twice. He’s probably moved on by now.”

“I wish that made me feel better.” Nikki briefly closed her eyes, drawing in a calming breath as she did so. “But I’m not one of those people who can think, ‘Hey, better her than me.’ ” She shook her head. “If it’s not me it’s still someone else, and that doesn’t make me feel okay at all. In fact, I doubt I’ll ever feel better, at least not until he’s caught. Or dead.”

“I wish I could help,” Kim muttered. “Damn! A week ago I’d have given away my last dollar to stop those dreams. Now I’d give anything for them to come back.”

Nikki studied her face. “Do you suppose the images were so strong because they were about me?”

“Definitely.”

“But why?” Her nose wrinkled. “I don’t get this whole premonition business.”

“Me, neither.” Kim sighed. “If I understood how it worked I’d be a millionaire.”

Nikki slowly smiled. “You are a millionaire.”

Kim chuckled. “Touché.”

 

 

Thomas’s nostrils flared as he threw Vincent Pinoza up against the brick wall outside the bar from which he’d retrieved him. “Why did you lie?” he ground out, his muscles bulging as he grabbed Lisa’s husband by the neck. “Why!” he barked.

“Okay, so I drink on weekends when my parents watch the kids,” Vincent blithered out. “I never touch drugs, though. I swear it!”

“I’m not talking about the drugs,” Thomas hissed. His jaw clenched. “I’m talking about your dead wife.”

Vincent blinked. His face scrunched up. “Either I’m drunk or you’re making no sense.”

Thomas tightened his hold on Vincent’s trachea, letting the man’s eyes bulge a little, his throat gurgling from the lack of air. Completely against procedure. Totally illegal.

Oh goddamn well.

“Don’t you care who killed her?” he bellowed. “Don’t you want the fucker caught?” Thomas knew he was letting his anger get the best of him, knew too his obsession with Lucifer was driving him to lows he’d just as soon not know he had in him.

Vincent gasped when the detective released the pressure on his throat muscle. “Of course I care!” he rasped. “What the fuck are you assaulting me for? This is illegal, don’t you know! I could have your fucking badge!”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Why,” he bit out, trying to reign in his barely controlled temper, “did you tamper with a police investigation?”

Vincent looked confused. Convincingly confused. A fact that didn’t sit well with the detective.

“Look, man,” Lisa’s widower muttered, calming down and sobering up a bit. “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. If you care to explain it—without mauling me!—then I’ll answer any questions you got. Otherwise, I’m leaving this alley now and going back inside.”

A ludicrous statement coming from someone pinned against a brick wall and dangling six inches off the ground, but one that had to be taken seriously if he didn’t want to lose his badge. Thomas’s nostrils flared as he stared the other man down. Angry, but not sure at whom, he released Vincent Pinoza, letting him collapse to the ground.

“All right, talk,” Thomas growled. “I want to know when you were lying. To Detective Merdino four years ago or to me when I came and paid you a visit last week?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about!” Vincent shouted, his tone sounding frustrated. “I haven’t lied to anybody! Jesus H. Christ!”

“Four years ago you told Detective Merdino you didn’t think Lisa was cheating on you,” Thomas said in a calmed if angry tone. “Last week you thought she
was
cheating on you. Which is it?”

Vincent shook his head. “My story hasn’t changed. And I don’t
think
Lisa was cheating on me . . . I
know
Lisa was cheating on me. She told me she was, which I told both you and that other cop four years ago.”

An uneasy feeling began to knot in Thomas’s stomach. He was good at reading people. Very good. And he was about ninety-percent sure that Vincent Pinoza was telling the truth as he knew it. A fact Thomas didn’t know how to feel about. “Were you stoned when Detective Merdino interviewed you?” he asked, his gravelly voice low. “Had you been taking drugs?”

“Taking drugs?” Vincent asked incredulously. “In a one-man holding cell? Yeah right!”

Thomas stilled. In his anger and confusion he had forgotten that fact.

Vincent Pinoza had been interviewed from county lockup. Drugs were always a possibility, even in jail, but the chances in Vincent’s case were so remote as to be implausible. Unable to control him while in the throes of a high, the police who’d arrested him had thrown Pinoza into a one-man cell. He’d still been in that cell, and totally sober, by the time James had interviewed him. But if Lisa’s widower was telling the truth, then that meant . . .

No. There had to be another explanation. James Merdino was a damn good cop and a damn good friend. To even consider for one moment that his partner would tamper with evidence—that made no damn sense. Fuck.

“I’m sorry about the rough shit,” Thomas absently muttered, his thoughts in chaos. He ran a hand over his jaw. “Thanks for the info, bud.”

“Any time.” Vincent snorted, shaking his head. “Bud.”

 

 

Sitting in his parked car outside Detective James
Merdino’s house, Thomas read and reread the report his partner had filed, not knowing what to think or how to feel. Logic dictated that someone was lying. Gut instinct told him Vincent was telling the truth. Or the truth as he knew it.