When the Storm Breaks (25 page)

Washington, D.C.

Friday evening

T
he man frowned as Marie Claire’s cab pulled away from the curb, quickly followed by an anonymous beige sedan. Watching, he clicked his thumbnail against his teeth in a nervous habit he wasn’t even aware of.

This is ridiculous. Don’t the police have anything better to do than follow her around?

At first he’d worried that she’d remembered something, perhaps even identified him, but after two weeks, he didn’t think so. There was absolutely no sign that the police were interested in him. Even so, he decided that there wasn’t any point in risking being noticed by following the cab as he had for the past three nights. Same time, same restaurant, different date, same cops.

My gift must have really shaken Marie Claire and the police if she has round-the-clock protection.
He smiled at the thought and considered sending her something else just to watch the fuss and freshen up the story for the media.

It was a delicious idea, but he decided against it as he
had every other time it occurred to him. It wasn’t that he was frightened by the police—they added spice to the game even as they made it more difficult—but the longer he watched Marie Claire and her escorts, the more he believed that the cops were using her as bait to get to him.

It wouldn’t happen, of course. He was much too smart, far smarter than public servants driving tacky Chevy sedans. But that didn’t mean he would be careless. As much as he wanted to feel his knife slicing into Marie Claire, he could be patient when the goal was worth it. His sweet prey was definitely worth whatever patience it took, even if he was getting more and more restless.

His thumbnail clicked more rapidly against his teeth as he tried to figure out why her dates picked her up and dropped her off at this building when she worked across town—not that she’d been at work lately. She spent her days in a house with cops parked outside and her nights coming and going from this building. The question was why. His own broker was based in the building, along with other trading offices and small businesses, but it wasn’t likely that Marie Claire needed to check in with her broker on a nightly basis.

He needed to find out exactly where she spent her time in that office building, and if the police were really using her as bait. It would be risky, but at this point he decided there was greater risk if he didn’t find out exactly what was going on. Besides, he was tired of just watching.

A movement across the street caught his eye. One of the building security guards was holding open the
handicap-access door. A young woman with short blonde hair came out, pushing a double stroller in front of her.

The man smiled and licked his thumbnail as he recognized the woman. He’d seen her outside the Georgetown home where Marie Claire and her little friend were staying. He’d also seen her talking to the police. He sat patiently as she loaded her babies into car seats in the back of her minivan, then folded the huge stroller and stored it in the back.

After she pulled out into traffic, he waited for a few moments to be sure that no one followed her. Then he made a U-turn and caught up with her at a stoplight. He followed her as she drove past the town house that had been Marie Claire’s home for the last two weeks. When she turned right, so did he, watching while the minivan turned into an alley that ran behind the row of houses. He paused for a minute, then pulled forward. He saw the blonde woman unloading her babies and their car seats and carrying them through a gate—right into the backyard of the house where Marie Claire was staying.

He drove further down the street until he found a parking spot, then doubled back to survey the entrance of the alley on foot. He was close enough to read and memorize the woman’s license plate. After about twenty minutes, the woman came out alone with several duffel bags. She returned to the house and immediately brought the babies back to the car. Once they were secured in their seats, she stopped to close a padlock on the back gate.

As he watched the woman drive away, he smiled. Fate had been particularly generous with him lately. He now knew exactly how to make his sweet prey think of him,
send the media and the police into a frenzy, feel another woman’s terror just before she died, and be perfectly safe.

A sexual shudder built from the base of his spine. Tomorrow would be a very good night.

Washington, D.C.

Saturday afternoon

S
ean and Aidan sat at their desks reviewing the status of several leads on the Mendes murder investigation. They were developing a system to divide Camelot’s male clients into several different categories of risk, a time-consuming procedure requiring daily updates to the database of suspects they were creating.

“All clients on our list who haven’t been run through the law enforcement computers will be categorized as high risk,” Sean said.

“Agreed. And once they’ve been through a preliminary check they’ll get moved to medium risk, depending on the results. Only medium-risk clients will be allowed to go out with Claire for further assessment.” Aidan made notes as he spoke. “After the dates, anyone who’s been dismissed will be categorized as low risk, but we won’t formally eliminate any suspect until we actually catch this bastard.”

“We have to move faster. It’s been a month since Renata Mendes was murdered. I don’t think the killer will
wait long before he strikes again. Keeley pretty much agreed with me that the guy was speeding up his pattern.”

Sean looked up as their captain approached. He could tell it wasn’t going to be a pleasant discussion when Captain Michaels remained standing, rather than taking a seat at one of the desks.

“What progress have you two made?” Michaels asked.

“We’re putting together our weekly report—” Sean began.

“I need something right now,” Captain Michaels interrupted.

Sensing their supervisor’s foul mood, Aidan spoke cautiously. “The Crime Scene Unit in charge of the Mendes case hasn’t come up with any conclusive forensic evidence for us to work with.”

“We have details of the cause of death and the layout of the scene documented,” Sean added. “There are similarities with several other unsolved stabbing deaths in the metro area, including Baltimore.”

“But no hard evidence?”

“None. This guy is careful to carry out his attacks in heavily trafficked areas, so the odds of getting useable hair, fiber, or prints are pretty much zero,” Sean said.

“What about the dating service thing? Any suspects there?”

“We’ve been able to classify every man the witness has seen as a low-level risk, which essentially eliminates them from further active investigation,” Sean said. “Our witness continues to review the remaining members of the service. We have a nightly operation to get the witness and suspects in close proximity and see whether we can make an identification of the killer.”

“At this rate, it could be months before you make it through every suspect, right?”

Both detectives nodded.

“That’s not good enough.” Michaels threw an advance copy of the Sunday paper on Sean’s desk. “The shit will hit the fan tomorrow. Someone’s been leaking tidbits to Whitcombe. She’s written a story citing unnamed sources that could blow the lid off your witness.”

Aidan stood up and looked over his partner’s shoulder. In a small box on the front page was an article by Shelly Whitcombe slamming the D.C. police for not having any suspects or leads a month after Renata Mendes’s murder. The story went on to question the capabilities of the investigative team, given the fact that they’d made so little progress despite the assistance of an eyewitness to the crime.

Sean clenched his fists around the sides of the paper as he flipped to page twelve and read the last of the story.

“Fucking gossipmongering leeches,” Sean said. “Don’t they have any idea how much danger this puts the witness in?”

“Why should Whitcombe care?” the captain said. “A dead witness makes a better story, especially if said witness is in protective custody when she dies.”

“Very few people know who the witness is, and only her surveillance team knows where she’s staying,” Aidan said, more to reassure Sean than the captain.

“Move her anyway. I’ll speak to the group doing the surveillance about some new rules. Unnamed source, my ass.” The captain walked away without further comment.

“Shit. Any ideas on who the leak is?” Aidan asked.

“No, and he’d better hope I never find out. Dammit, this could drive the killer over the edge.” Sean pushed back from his desk. “We’d better tell Claire and get her moved. Where is she now?”

“Her team said she returned to Afton’s place about two hours ago. She’s probably getting ready for her date tonight.”

Sean made a sour face and headed for the door with Aidan right on his heels.

Washington, D.C.

Saturday evening

C
laire stood in front of the bathroom mirror and ran her fingers through her wet curls. She was preparing for date number whatever—she’d lost count, much less any sense of urgency. Olivia was out shopping and wouldn’t be back until after Claire left. It had been a lovely, quiet afternoon, but it was time to put on her cocktail dress and perfume and pretend to be someone she wasn’t for the evening.

She shrugged into a soft robe and wandered into the bedroom, looking out the window while she fastened the belt. She sighed and decided it looked like another storm was coming, bringing with it an early gloom.
Wonderful. I beat my hair into shape and the humidity makes it go sproing. Maybe I’ll just let the curls do their curly thing.

Since Claire’s bedroom overlooked the back of the house, she couldn’t see the surveillance team, but she knew they were around somewhere. They always were, like the humidity.

The gate in the backyard banged open and shut as a
burst of wind rustled the trees and shrubs. Claire frowned at the noise. The six-foot-tall gate was always closed and secured with a padlock. She was sure it had been closed when she had gone up to take her shower. Otherwise she would have heard it banging in the restless wind that preceded the thunderstorm.

From her second-story bedroom, nothing looked out of place in the backyard or alley. The patio furniture, glider swing, and barbeque set were all neatly arranged in the small yard. There weren’t any strange cars in the alley.

The gate banged again, and her heart beat a little bit faster.

Tightening the knot on her robe, Claire padded down the stairs in her bare feet. Feeling foolish, she went through all the rooms to make sure she was alone. Only then did she go to the back door.

The gate banged again as the wind shifted direction. The hinges creaked and the gate opened after failing to latch properly.

Maybe Afton forgot to lock it yesterday?

A chill went through Claire’s body. She blamed it on the fact that she was standing in an air-conditioned room with wet hair and nothing but a short robe for cover. She should really go secure the gate, but when she reached for the back door, something made her hesitate.

Don’t be silly. It’s still light outside, and you have two policemen within yelling distance. Just go out and close it.

With a deep breath, she opened the door and walked out onto the back step.

The wind gusted again, bringing the scent of rain and making her robe whip around her knees. She shivered and knew it was pure nerves. The air outside was heavy with humid heat. She slowly walked down the brick path,
making her way between the chaise lounge and a patio table. As she passed the glider swing, she reached a hand out to stop its slow creaking motion. There was silence in the yard.

Holding her robe against another playful tug of sultry air, she continued toward the back gate, which was slowly swinging open again. As she passed the grill and oversized wooden barbeque counter, which were protected from the elements by a dark green tarp, she caught something out of the corner of her eye. Heart hammering, she turned and looked.

A woman lay curled on her side, facing the fence. She was slender and had a cap of blonde hair.

“Afton!”

Claire leaped forward and gently turned the woman over, then jerked back, instinctively recognizing the look and smell of death. The woman’s brown eyes were open and vacant.

It wasn’t Afton. It was a woman wearing a blonde wig.

Claire leaned closer in horrified fascination and looked at the woman’s dark eyes and dusky skin. The wig had fallen off more than halfway when Claire turned her over. Underneath the wig, the dead woman’s hair was thick and black and curly. She had been wrapped in a tattered, lightweight raincoat.

Claire held a hand to her mouth and began to shiver visibly.
He wanted me to think it was Afton. He’s playing games again.

She turned to get the police officers from the front of the house and found herself staring at a man holding the gate open. He wore a baseball hat and dark glasses, along with dark jogging clothes. She was opening her mouth to ask him for assistance when he smiled at her.

It was the smile from her nightmares.

“Marie Claire. Sweet prey, you’re next.” The man spoke in a harsh whisper, and then was gone. His running footsteps echoed down the alley.

Claire decided that the fastest way to get the cops was to scream. It felt so good that she did it again.

Thirty seconds later, a cop appeared on the back porch, weapon drawn. His partner came running through the alley and stopped in front of the gate when he saw Claire.

She motioned frantically at the open gate. “White male, blue jogging shorts, blue cap, dark glasses. Hurry, hurry! He’s running away!”

The younger officer immediately turned and sprinted up the alley. The second cop took her arm and started hustling her back to the safety of the house.

“Wait—she—” Claire pointed with trembling fingers toward the woman lying on her back by the fence.

The officer briefly assessed the victim. “She’s not going anywhere. Get inside until I get some backup here.”

He dragged Claire through the yard and into the house. He locked the back door, pulled her into the kitchen, and shut the blinds. Claire dropped into a chair and put her head in her hands while the officer called in backup and checked with his partner on the radio.

“Any luck, Stokes?”

A few seconds later his partner responded. “Nothing,” he panted. “I saw him running, but he headed up to the university and I lost him in the crowd. I’m doing another check of the area. Campus police are assisting.”

“I’ll get the CSU. We’ve got another murder victim here.” The officer turned to her. “What happened?”

“I heard the gate banging and went out to lock it.”

The cop said something under his breath.

“I saw her—the dead woman—and thought it was Afton. Then he—he—said ‘Marie Claire.’ He knew my name. He said I was next.” Her voice broke as she finished, and the officer put a hand on her shoulder to steady her.

“It’s all right now. You’re safe. I’ll ask CSU to bring a sketch artist. Is there anything more you can tell us about the guy?”

She took a shaking breath and then another, calming herself. “He’s a tall white male, at least six feet, with a medium build. Between the hat and glasses, I really didn’t see much. I got the impression he had dark hair, but didn’t see it that well. A blue baseball cap and navy jogging shorts are about all I can remember,” Claire said.

The policeman repeated her description into the radio.

Claire sat with her face in her hands again, her mind reeling.
He could have killed me. I’d be another case in Sean’s files.

Sean.

Claire covered her mouth with her hand and unconsciously rocked herself for comfort.