Pretty Dead (18 page)

“For one thing, the guy is older. For another . . . Lamont is wrong about the killer’s motivation. The mayor’s daughter? That was all about us. All about getting our attention. Understanding motivation is everything if you want to get ahead of this guy.”

She didn’t like where this was going. The majority of serial killings were ones of opportunity. David was telling her that this was different. “Then who’s next?”

“Let’s just say I don’t think it’s a bad idea for your father to be staying at your house.”

Her heart pounded in alarm. “You’re thinking Audrey?” Would her job always put Audrey in danger?

“You can’t be too careful. No more going out with her friends at night. She should be taken to and from school. I know you aren’t crazy about having Sweet at your house, but I think his presence is a good thing. I don’t have any doubt he’ll protect her.”

At least there was that. Elise might not trust Sweet, but she didn’t believe he’d harm Audrey. Otherwise she’d never have allowed him into her home.

“Profiling 101 isn’t going to cut it anymore,” David continued. “Lamont is still working by the same curriculum we trained with. It’s old. It’s outdated.”

“A killer is a killer.”

“No.” David shook his head. “That’s what everybody thinks, and the FBI keeps churning out these profilers and profiles, never considering that killers have adapted. The killers of today aren’t the killers of our grandparents’ generation, and they aren’t the killers of fifteen years ago. They’ve
evolved
, and a lot of that evolution is due to the Internet and media. Most killers still crave the attention, but they’re also better equipped to manipulate the system—and to manipulate by-the-book thinkers like Lamont.”

It made sense. And in a weird way, it tied into thoughts not yet fully formed that were lurking in the back of Elise’s mind like some unnamed dread—a feeling that something simply wasn’t right.

Now that the tablet was filled with swirls and random words and lines, David tossed it down on the table. “But that’s probably all bullshit and you should forget it, because the most obvious and banal observations could be accurate. And right now you can’t afford to be wrong.”

“So you’re doubting yourself.”

“That’s why I’ve been reluctant to say anything. Because I have nothing to back up this theory.”

“Other than the fact that it makes perfect sense.”

“Does it? I don’t even know anymore. About anything. I thought it made sense a week ago, but now . . .”

“You have to let go of the toxic self-doubt your wife left you with. Don’t let that poison you.”

“Too late.”

“Then drink the poison and survive it. Use it.”

“Don’t go all Yoda on me. I hate that stuff. And things like ‘Tomorrow will be better.’ And ‘Everything happens for a reason.’”

“I’d never say that to you. Killers don’t kill because there’s some life lesson to be taught.”

“I know they don’t, and I know you wouldn’t.”

“If you step away from this, our chances of catching this guy decrease. Look at my team. Lamont, Avery—who seems a bit shaky lately—the guy with three names, and Jackson Sweet—cancer patient.”

“Don’t put too much faith in me. I don’t have any leads. It’s more about the
process.
It needs to change. It’s more about tossing out the instruction book and starting over, this time with the realization that we’ve supplied the killer with everything he needs to know to evade us.”

Chilling words.

As she was leaving, David grabbed a key from a hook near the door. “So the caretaker doesn’t have to let you in next time,” he explained, tossing it to her.

CHAPTER 26

A
n hour after Elise got home from David’s, a crash downstairs woke her. The bedside clock read 11:02 p.m. as she grabbed her gun and tossed back the covers, her ears tuned for any additional sound. Wearing pajamas dug from the closet two days earlier, she made her way across the wooden floor, each step eliciting a creak from the hardwood under her bare feet.

She looked in on Audrey. Asleep.

On the first floor, she made a sweep of the house, checking front and back doors, plus the windows. The alarm was still set.

Through the kitchen and down the hall to the guest room. “Sweet?” she whispered. Getting no reply, she felt for the wall switch and turned on the overhead light. The bed was empty.

Yards away, the guest bathroom door was ajar, the room dark. She smelled vomit.

Elise flicked the wall switch.

Sweet, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, was curled in a fetal position on the floor. “Off.” He squinted up at her.

She placed her weapon on the vanity, stepped over him, and flushed the toilet. “Did you take your antinausea medication?”

“Can’t keep it down.”

Sweet probably weighed 170 pounds; she wasn’t sure she could get him back to bed by herself. Briefly, she thought of yelling for Audrey, but Elise didn’t want her daughter involved in the disturbing scene, and she was sure Sweet wouldn’t want his granddaughter to see him this way.

“Turn off the light and go,” he said.

“You can’t stay on the floor.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.” The words came out in a breathless exhale.

Severe illness reduced everyone to this. To the humiliation of being found on the bathroom floor.

She gathered up bedding. Returning to Sweet’s side, she slipped a pillow under his head and another at his back. She covered him with blankets, wrapping them around him as best she could in order to protect him from the cold floor. Then she brought him a glass of water and his pills, placing them within reach.

“For later, when you think you can take a drink.”

He gave her an almost imperceptible nod, too nauseated to speak.

Gun in hand, she turned out the light and left him there.

CHAPTER 27

S
ince first laying eyes on him, Coretta Hoffman had dreamed about getting David Gould into her bed—but acting on that fantasy had been a foolish thing to do.

Just sex. That was what she’d told herself. Maybe one night, maybe two, then done. Out of her system. But once she started, she found she couldn’t stop, even though she knew people were talking, knew she was jeopardizing her already shaky career.

Stupid, especially once the mayor began watching her so closely, watching
all
of them.

Now it was done, over, but she wasn’t relieved.

She’d miss Gould.

Maybe it had been an irrational move on her part, but she’d felt the only way to get him out of her system was to go cold turkey. And the only way to do that was to suspend him, which was really just a step toward firing him. They both knew it, because no way would she be able to see him in the hallway of the Savannah PD and not want to call him down to her office and rip off his clothes and have him work her over right there on her desk.

Because, Lord, that man was fine.

Oh yeah, she’d fantasized about the desk. Many times.

Even tonight, twelve hours after kicking him out of his office, she was so crazy about him that when a knock sounded and Trixie barked and ran for the door, Coretta found herself hoping it was Gould coming to her house in the middle of the night like he’d done many times. Once inside, they’d shed their clothes and have sex on any handy surface, even the floor. Especially the floor.

In the semidarkness of the living room, she set her wineglass aside—how much had she consumed? She lifted the second bottle. Half-empty. She’d pay tomorrow.

The dog kept barking. Frantic, excited, scratching at the door as if she knew who was on the other side. Coretta felt the same way. Like scratching on the door in excitement while she made pathetic whimpering sounds.

She had no shame.

No self-control. That was what had gotten her into this mess.

She pushed herself off the couch and tightened the belt on her red silk robe. Maybe kicking him out of his office and her life had been a mistake. Maybe he was worth everything she’d lose. Worth losing her job over, if it came down to it.

No.

Because Gould would never truly care for her. Maybe that was really why she’d kicked him out. Because he’d never love her, not when he loved Detective Sandburg.

Take that man and run, woman.

She’d once gotten up the nerve to ask him if he’d ever slept with Elise. Coretta figured they’d at least spent a few weekends together. But no. If he was telling the truth, they’d never had sex.

Elise was a fool. Or something was wrong with her. Or she preferred women. But even at that . . .

Coretta unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door, a smile on her lips.

She was the chief of police, but she hadn’t gotten there the usual way, not by coming up through the ranks, starting out as a patrol officer. No, she’d slept her way in, launching herself with a secretarial position. It had happened so long ago that the whispers and jealousy had long since died, gone out the door with the retirees and the people who’d simply become sick of law enforcement.

But regardless of how she’d arrived, Coretta was good at her job, maybe because she’d always been in administration. She could get people to do what they were supposed to do.

Still, the downside about coming up from the secretarial pool was that she knew little about protecting herself, other than the common things like eye gouging and a knee to the crotch. So when she opened the door with a smile on her face and an ache between her thighs, she was unprepared for the figure in the black sweatshirt, hood pulled low, face in deep shadow.

Before she let out a full gasp, a hand clamped down over her mouth, silencing her and shoving her deeper into the room. The door slammed behind her; the dead bolt turned.

In drunk confusion, she tried to change the scene to the expected, to David coming inside and the shedding of clothes and the crazy sex that would end with her telling him she was sorry about suspending him, and David telling her it was okay, that he understood.

That didn’t happen.

With a vicious swing, the man—it was definitely a man—kicked her feet out from under her. She fell, hitting her head on the end table. Glass shattered, a lamp crashed to the floor, and the room went dark.

Her dog was no longer barking, probably cowering in the corner. “Don’t hurt her,” she said. A silly thing to say when she should have been begging for her own life.

She figured the intruder for a thief or rapist or both. “I’ll give you whatever you want.” She sounded pathetic, so unlike her strong self.

“Yes, you will.” His voice was smooth. Southern? She wasn’t sure.

“I don’t have much money in the house, but you can have my bank card and PIN.”
Always give them what they want.
It was one of the few things she did know.

He was on top of her, pressing her to the floor. “I don’t want your money.” His breath was hot against her cheek.

Sex. So it was sex.

She kneed him.

He let out a roar of pain and anger that she hoped the neighbors would hear. But she had little to do with her neighbors. Would they even care what was going on next door? Would they even notice?

“Bitch,” the man said.

He moved quickly, shifting his weight, fumbling inside his clothes.

She expected him to spread her legs and bury himself inside her. Instead, she felt a deep pain in her neck, followed by a warmth across her throat. Blood filled her mouth—blood she realized was her own.

Had he cut her throat? No, that couldn’t be. That was ridiculous. Surely a sliced throat would hurt more than this pain that was already ebbing. Surely she’d know without a doubt.

In the light filtering in around the curtains, Coretta tried to get a better look at him, for some reason feeling it was important. For some reason thinking she’d have to remember what his face looked like so she could report him.

She didn’t like that gurgling sound. She wished it would stop.

Weird that she was both warm and cold at the same time.

Now she understood that this was not a robbery gone wrong. This was not a rape, although maybe that just hadn’t happened yet.

Did she even care? She just wanted to sleep. On some level she recognized the seriousness of the situation, but she felt relaxed and sleepy. More at peace than she’d felt in years.

But something inside told her to stay awake. To keep her eyes open, to look at the man hovering over her.

Dark hood. Dark clothing.

Maybe she imagined it, but she could suddenly see a face. Someone who was rather nice-looking. Kind-looking. Sweet-looking. Not the face of a killer . . . Or was she hallucinating? Yes, she must have been, because suddenly the sweet face became David’s face.

Trixie was barking again, and this time it was a fearful bark, a worried bark.

She should have gotten a breed that was more protective. Like a German shepherd or something. But miniature poodles were cute.

She’d have to tell David about this. All of this.

About the man she let into her home because she thought it was David at the door. That was funny. Horribly funny. They would laugh about it together, and then they’d make love.

CHAPTER 28

D
avid knocked on the door. Coretta’s dog, Trixie, let out a series of barks from the other side.

David sure as hell hadn’t expected to stop by Coretta’s house today, but Elise called, asking if he’d mind checking on the major because she hadn’t come to work. A little past noon, the rest of the day stretching in front of him, David agreed, even though Coretta was the last person he wanted to see right now.

Earlier, in his apartment, she hadn’t answered her phone, so he’d left a voice mail. No reply. He’d sent her a text. Same thing. And now she wasn’t answering her door.

No surprise, really. She probably wasn’t crazy about the idea of seeing him either.

Her house was located southeast of downtown, on the way to Thunderbolt. Ranch-style homes with palm trees in the yard. Kinda bland, but one of the safer areas, unlike Elise’s downtown neighborhood, which had seen an uptick in crime over the past year thanks to Mayor Chesterfield.