The Seven-Day Target (5 page)

“What is it?” Libby’s voice quivered.

“It’s a photograph of the murder victim,” he said. “And it says you’re next.”

Chapter 3

L
ibby forced herself to look at the photograph, to take in the image of the poor woman. The sick bastard had framed the picture like a head shot, capturing the ligature marks on her neck and the vacant stare of her blue eyes. On the back he’d written “Your next” in red block letters, followed by a number two. He should have written “You’re next,” but that was the least of anyone’s problems.

“Yeah, that’s her, all right.” Vasquez’s expression was grim as he considered the photo. “Where did you say you found this again?”

“It was shoved into one of my files.” Libby wrapped her arms around herself. Vasquez’s office was stuffy and warm, but she couldn’t seem to shake the chill that had settled over her in court.

“That means that the suspect gained access to your office,” Nick said. “The D.A.’s Office is monitored by video surveillance.”

“We’ll take a look at the videos,” said Vasquez. His face pinched with concentration as he turned the evidence bag that protected the photo in his hands. “The image is digital. We’ll analyze the ink used, see if we can trace it to a printer make and model. That could be helpful once we locate a suspect.”

“Handwriting analysis will be impossible,” Nick mumbled. “He used a thick marker and block letters. What do you make of that number two?”

“There was a reference to six signs in the first letter. Six signs over six days.” Vasquez placed the letter on his desk and rested his hands on his trim waist. “So I guess this is sign two?”

Libby rubbed at her forehead, which pulled with tension. “Six days.” She was going to be sick.

“We’re going to get him,” Nick said, gripping her shoulder. “I’m going to be right by your side. I told you I wouldn’t leave.”

There was something wild and fiery in his eyes as he swore to protect her, and he intensified his grip as if to underscore his commitment. A few hours ago she’d hoped he would leave her alone, but now she clung to his promise with a frightened desperation. He wasn’t leaving. She wouldn’t be alone. “Thank you.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“So this is sign number two, and sign number one was the photograph left beside the victim.” Vasquez spat a foul word as he folded his arms. “What are these signs about, anyway?”

“Some sick game he thinks he’s playing with us.” Nick sat in the chair beside her. He was close enough that she felt the heat radiating from his body. “Serial killers get off on torture, and what is this but psychological torture? Mark my words—he’s watching us very closely. He wants to see Libby in a state of fear, and he wants to see us panic. If these details land in the paper, so much the better.”

“We’re not giving him that satisfaction,” Vasquez growled. “It’ll be a cold day in hell.”

Libby looked at Nick. “So this is a serial killer, then? That’s what you’re thinking?”

“We’re looking through our files to see if this most recent crime compares to any other cases,” said Vasquez. “The crime had bizarre elements that make me think it’s possible this is some sort of fantasy fulfillment.”

“And killing me is the fantasy?” The realization washed over her like a rush of icy water. The black wig on the victim, the navy blue business suit. “I wasn’t chosen at random. I was selected for a reason.”

“We don’t know that, Libby.” Nick’s voice was calm. “This could still be random, or you may be a target because of your work on the Brislin trial.”

“Do you have any enemies?” Dom asked.

Too many to count, it seemed, but she didn’t want to admit that. “Probably. Officer Hawkins just threatened me in court this afternoon. Well, I guess he didn’t threaten me directly, but he said that he hoped someone already accused of murder would kill me next.”

Nick eyed her. “Spoken like a true attorney. Hawkins threatened you, Libby.”

“Hawkins, huh?” Dom said. “Between us he’s been a real problem. He’s going through a divorce and there’s a nasty custody battle. He’s become something of a liability. I can’t see him as a murder suspect, but we’ll check him out.”

“He should be easy enough to find. He was thrown in the holding cell at the courthouse,” Nick said. Dom’s lips thinned.

Libby felt a wave of nausea as something occurred to her. “That file wasn’t just in my office.” She pressed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and closed her eyes. “I took it home with me a few days ago to review it.” Oh, God. Had he been in her home?

A silence fell over the room, and when she opened her eyes again, Nick and Dom were watching her. Dom finally said, “Who has keys to your house?”

“My sister. That’s it.”

“Did you notice anything unusual at home? Any signs of entry?” Nick placed his hand on her back and lowered his head to peer at her.

She shook her head. “No, nothing. I would’ve called the police.”

“Did you leave windows open? Forget to lock a door?” Dom was perched on the edge of his desk.

Leave her windows open? Geez, she wasn’t stupid. “No, of course not. I’m a prosecutor. I see the awful things people do to each other every day. I have an alarm system. And yes, it works, and yes, I turn it on.”

She slumped forward. This was a nightmare. Less than twelve hours ago the biggest problem in her day had been the fact that she was seeing Nick again. Now she was wondering whether she had days left to live. How had her existence managed to unravel to this point?

She was aware of Nick’s hand moving in circular strokes across her back. His hand felt too warm, his touch too good, to move. She allowed him the contact.

“We don’t know that he was in your house,” Nick said softly. “It could have been your office, or your car, even.”

She nodded. She could handle someone rifling through her office files, but the thought of a psychopath violating the sanctity of her home was too much to bear. Libby pressed her forehead against the palms of her hands. “So now what?”

“We’re going to check for fingerprints, and our lab is processing the evidence from the crime scene already. The medical examiner is conducting the autopsy tomorrow. Believe me when I say that we’re taking this matter very seriously. In the meantime you’re going to go somewhere safe.”

“Somewhere safe,” Libby echoed. “Does that mean I can’t go home?”

“We’ll go home and get your things.” Nick removed his hand from her back. “But I think it would be best if you stayed somewhere else for a little while.”

“He must be following me, right? Do you think he knows I stayed at Cassie’s last night?” The thought that she’d unknowingly put her sister and her young nephew in harm’s way made her stomach ache. “Are they safe?”

“They will be,” Nick assured her. “We’ll make sure of it.”

“They?” Dom asked.

“Cassie and her baby,” she said.

“Dom, maybe you can send someone over to park in front of the house and keep an eye on them. From what I understand, Cassie’s all alone.”

“Of course.”

Libby shook her head. “I don’t want Cassie and Sam in that house. It’s not safe.”

“We’ll get them somewhere safe, then. Let me work it out with Dom. I want you to focus on keeping your cool.”

“Keeping my cool?” There was a shrill peak to her question. Her entire life had changed in the span of the afternoon, and he was telling her to stay calm? “That’s easy to say when no one’s leaving photographs of murder victims in your files.”

“Libby.” Nick wrapped both of his hands around hers and looked into her eyes. “I know you’re hurting, and when you hurt you like to take control. I’m telling you that you’re better off controlling yourself and leaving the rest to us. Can you trust me?”

She studied his face, running her gaze from one dark eye to another.
Controlling.
That had been a buzzword in that last fight they’d had. Nick complained about Libby’s need to count the calories she consumed and to regiment every minute of her day. Could she help it if she hated surprises? Organization was the hallmark of success, and frankly Nick could stand a little more neatness in his life. Did he expect her to go blindly along with his plans for her now of all times, when she was feeling so out of control?

“I’m not a victim,” she said. “I’m your partner. If you can promise to work on treating me like an equal, I can work on trusting you.”

After a moment of consideration Nick nodded his head. “Okay. We’ll work on it.”

They left soon afterward, walking in silence to the parking lot. Libby stared at the front seat of Nick’s beat-up coupe. There were scattered junk food wrappers and balled up napkins on the passenger floor. It was nothing short of a miracle the vehicle wasn’t crawling with rodents. “Should we just leave my car at the office, then?” She lifted a napkin by its corner and tried not to wrinkle her nose.

Nick swiftly cleared the floor and threw all of the wrappers into a paper bag. “The lot is monitored by security cameras. It will be safe.” He took the napkin from Libby’s hand and added it to the bag.

“I don’t know. This guy seems pretty bold.”

He sighed. “Do you want to drive separate cars? You know what, don’t even answer that, because it’s not going to happen. He knows your car, but he may not know mine, and we need every advantage over this bastard we can get.”

Fair enough. She climbed into the bucket seat and inhaled. The car smelled like Nick—soap and aftershave with undertones of something musky and masculine. Also French fries, but he sometimes smelled like that, too. She felt a nostalgia for better times, when Nick had been her entire world and she’d been his.

She shivered, and Nick turned on the heat without asking. Then they drove in silence to her house, riding along the same roads that Nick always used when he drove her. Libby had avoided that particular route for years.

As the car rolled to a stop in her driveway, Libby reached to open the door. “Wait,” Nick said, lightly touching her arm. “I want to make sure it’s safe first.”

She waited as he walked around the house, presumably checking for signs of a break-in. When he disappeared into the backyard, she glanced around her, watching for the slightest movement or shadow. Her mouth was dry and she gripped her house key in her fist like a weapon. She’d use it if necessary.

After a few minutes he returned to the car and opened her door. “All clear.”

“Thanks,” she said. “You’re better than an alarm system.”

* * *

He felt cold grip the inside of his stomach as he walked up the front steps to Libby’s house. This was where he’d finally rid himself of the heavy burden of being in love with Libby Andrews since middle school. Funny the way she’d helped him do it so effectively.

She turned to him as she opened the door. “Come in, I guess.” She swallowed, clearly uneasy.

Nick caught his breath. There she was, the sweet vulnerable girl he’d fallen in love with. He’d never forget the first time he saw her, walking to school with her books clasped against her chest, talking with her best friend. She’d worn her black hair short then, and it curled slightly around the back of her ears. He’d wondered why he’d never seen her before but then he’d learned that she’d been out of school the previous year with cancer. Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. She never wanted to talk about it, and when she discussed that period at all she simply referred to it as “the time I had cancer.” But even today he’d noticed the scar that was seared above her left breast, which was visible every time she wore a blouse that buttoned down. That, she’d once grudgingly explained, was where the doctors had placed the port to administer the chemotherapy. “They told me I needed the port or else the drugs would have ruined my veins. Or maybe that’s the way I understood it.” She’d changed the subject after that, and he’d never pushed her to say more, respecting that the topic was a painful one.

Her sister, Cassie, had only been ten years old at the time, but she’d talked openly to him about it. “Libby was bald,” she’d said. “My mom had to shave her head one night because clumps of hair kept falling out. I remember Libby crying for hours, and my mom, too. I think that’s why she’s always kept her hair long since then.”

Libby had no reason to cut her hair short, anyway. It was thick and black, richly wavy, and it fell halfway down her back. It smelled sweet, like vanilla. Gorgeous hair that fell like silk ribbons when it was wet. Hair like that should never be short.

Walking across the threshold of her home boiled something in his stomach. He’d helped her choose the paint for these walls, and he’d refinished the hardwood floors himself. The day she’d moved in, they’d eaten pizza on the living room floor. He thought he’d buried these memories when he’d walked away from Libby that last time. He’d never intended to return here.

He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to clear his thoughts. Protecting Libby wasn’t a choice. He couldn’t allow someone he’d once cared about to be alone under such terrifying circumstances. He understood terror. He still had the scars from his father’s beatings and so did his mother. Nick had stood by as a child when his father stumbled home, stinking of alcohol and cigarette smoke, and looking for a fight. He still woke in the night imagining the sound of her body being thrust against the wall, or the “strum” of his father’s leather belt as he pulled it through the belt loops and clicked it against his palms, stalking toward Nick’s bedroom. His mother had kicked his father out of the house, but she couldn’t keep him away forever. The routine had continued for years, interspersed with brief periods of reconciliation and sobriety.

Then Nick had gathered the courage to fight back. One evening, when his father had come calling, Nick was waiting. He didn’t know how many of his father’s bones he’d broken. All he knew was that he’d brought his father to the ground and warned him that if he ever came back to the house, he’d do worse than that. That time his father had listened.

Law enforcement was more than a job, it was his calling. He’d spent the rest of his life protecting women and children from abuse. Libby was just another victim, and when he’d helped to capture the bastard who was threatening her, he’d leave and he’d never think about her again. The thought strengthened him.

“So, everything’s messy.” She was a little breathless as she spoke.