Charade (26 page)

"I showed them to Jeff," she said, ignoring his sarcastic remark. "Then to Bill." "Because the TV station's security might be compromised," he said. "I heard you tell him that. Who else knows?" "No one. The fake obituary arrived in yesterday's mail. That was the last straw. This morning I had an eight o'clock appointment with a police detective." She frowned. "For all the good it did me," she said bitterly, "I could have better used the time to take a bubble bath." "What'd he say?" Almost verbatim, she recounted her conversation with Lieutenant Hunsaker. "My life could be in danger, but he was more interested in ogling my legs. Anyway, he tried placating me with a lot of nonsense about the occupational hazards of being a TV personality, as if I didn't already know. He reeked of cigar tobacco, cheap aftershave, and good ol' boy sexism. "I cut him off at the knees, but the bottom line is that until something terrible happens to me, the police can't do much except cruise past my house a few nights a week. Can you believe that?" "Unfortunately, yes." He regarded her for a moment. "This is what had you so jumpy that night we caught Spicer at your house, isn't it? And you're still jumpy." Cat rolled her lips inward. She rubbed her damp palms up and down her thighs, drying them on her jeans. Now that she had cooked his breakfast and told him her predicament, she was suddenly nervous, partially because he could read her so well. He sat motionless, scrutinizing her with eyes that seemed to miss nothing. "What do you want from me, Cat?" "Help." He made a scoffing sound. "From me?" "You're the only person I know with a criminal mind." His eyes narrowed. "You've dealt with criminals. You've studied MOs. You know the psychological profile of a character who'd do something like this. I need your assessment. Is this the work of a prankster, or a psychopath? Should I dismiss this as garbage or take it as a warning?" Dropping all vestiges of pride, she added, "I'm frightened, Alex."

"I can see that." He regarded her with his quiet intensity. "You're an easy target." Nervously she ran her fingers through her hair. "I know, but I refuse to live in an ivory tower and become a prisoner of my success. There's always a chance that a fan is going to get crazy and become obsessive. Most just hound you for an autograph. But some will kill you. I attended the funeral of a young actress who was shot to death in her own home by a fan who professed to love her." She shook her head sadly. "You'll learn, Alex, that the more famous you become, the less privacy and security you'll have." "Authors have more anonymity than TV stars." She conceded that, but remained reflective. "I enjoy being a celebrity. I'd be lying if I pretended otherwise. But I pay a price for it." "Has anything like this happened to you before?" She told him basically what she'd told Hunsaker about the mail generated by Passages. "I learned to differentiate between normal fan letters, even critical ones, and those that were written by someone obviously a little left of center. They raised goosebumps sometimes, but basically I ignored them. None ever disturbed me like this. Maybe I'm being silly and overreacting, but ..." "There's nothing here that's specifically threatening," he noted softly. "If there were, I think they'd be easier to dismiss. As it is, they're just creepy. You can't fight something you can't see. But even though I can't see the danger, I sense it's there. It might just be my imagination working overtime, but lately, when I'm out, I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder. I feel ..." "Stalked." "Yes." He mulled over her subdued response. "What do you think it all means, Cat?" "What do you think it means? I came for your opinion. In exchange for those damn eggs." "I've had worse." "Thanks." He steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lips. Cat

remained silent and gave him time to arrange his thoughts. He hadn't ridiculed her for being upset, although in a way she wished he had. She wanted him to tell her that she was needlessly worried about these cryptic messages. "Here's what it looks like to me," he said. "But it's only a guess." "I understand." "Worst case scenario--" She nodded. "This much coincidence belongs in the Guinness book of records." "I think so too." "Taken independently, the causes of death were unusual but credible. Grouped together, they start to stink." She drew in a shaky breath. "Go on." "Considering the time and distance involved, the person who sent you the clippings probably didn't run across them by chance." "He knew about the deaths." "And might even be responsible for them. 1/ it's established that they were homicides and not acts of God." "So ... so what are we dealing with here?" "If he is responsible--and at this point that's still a big if--he's not your usual serial killer. He isn't picking his victims at random. Fate has chosen his victims for him. However, he's gone to a lot of trouble to seek them out and snuff them in very creative ways." "What's his motive?" "That's simple, Cat." "The donor heart," she said huskily. Her chest felt very tight. Alex had said precisely what she feared he might. His hypothesis concurred with hers to the letter. "These three transplantees received hearts on the same day you did," he said. "The psycho knew a heart donor, and, for some reason, he can't bear that his or her heart continues to beat. Obviously he isn't sure who the recipient is, so he's eliminating all the possibilities. One by one, he's icing the transplantees who got hearts on that particular day, knowing that sooner or later he'll strike the right one." "But why?" "To stop the heart." "I know that, but why? If he were that close to the donor, he

more than likely was the one to grant permission for transplantation. Why would he suddenly change his mind?" "God knows. Maybe he just woke up one morning months after the fact and thought, 'Oh, my God. What have I done?' Donor families are called upon to make this decision hastily and under the worst of conditions. Maybe he felt pressured into donating. It began to haunt him, and he couldn't live with the guilt any longer. Ever read Poe's The Telltale Heart'?" "This heart isn't buried. It's really beating." "But, just like the character in the story, your stalker friend probably hears it constantly. It's haunting him, driving him nuts. He can't live with that and wants to silence the heart forever." "Please ..." She moaned. He reached across the table and touched her hand. "Or we could be way off base, Cat. You asked me for an opinion. That's it. I hope it's wrong." "But you don't think so." He said nothing, but he didn't have to. She read the affirmation in his eyes. "For the sake of argument, let's say we're right so far. How did he track down these people, including you?" She gave him the same explanation she'd given Hunsaker, telling him about the UNOS number. Alex took time to reason it through. "Heart transplants still make news. He could have simply added up clues he had gleaned from here and there. Who knows? Until you know who the guy is, you won't know how he operates." "He has to be affluent," she observed. "Why?" "Because in the past four years he's traveled all over the country." "Ever hear of hitchhiking?" Alex asked. "Or hopping a freight? He had a year between each murder, so he could have worked odd jobs to support himself while making his way slowly toward his next victim." "I never thought of that," she said dismally. "It could be anyone." "A businessman who travels strictly first class or a hobo. Whoever he is, the son of a bitch is smart and sly. He's adaptable, a chameleon. How else could he get close enough to these people to murder them without casting suspicion on himself?

"Like that woman in Florida. She fell through a plate glass window in her own home. Assuming she was pushed, he had to have been there in the house with her." "He could have passed himself off as a repairman," Cat ventured. "Would she water her plants while a repairman was in the house?" "Possibly." "But unlikely. I picture her asking someone she knows and trusts to hold the stepladder while she reaches for the fern." Cat shivered. "He must be a monster." "But he's not on a killing spree, not on a rampage. Instead he's controlled, totally focused on his mission, driven by revenge, or religion, or any one of a hundred other strong motivators." "It's interesting, isn't it? What motivates people to do the things they do." She looked at him askance. "Sometimes their motives make absolutely no sense. They care very little about how their actions affect other people, so long as their needs are served." Her words carried a double meaning, which he immediately caught. "You still think I'm a shit." "Oh, yes. Definitely," she said without mitigation, as though agreeing that world hunger should be stamped out. "Don't I get credit for being honest with you?" "I'm sure that even your honesty was self-serving." "Cut me some slack, will you? Could you at least try to understand me?" "I understand perfectly. You were horny, and I was compliant." "I wasn't relying on you to get laid," he shouted. "Then why didn't you get laid with somebody else! Why the big come-on, Alex? You made me fall hard, and you did it deliberately!" He opened his mouth to speak, then decided against it. Shoving his fingers through his hair, he swore beneath his breath. Finally he said, "Guilty. I deliberately led you to believe that the impossible was possible." "Why is it impossible?" He remained silent, his lips set in a narrow, resolute line. "What, Alex? What eats at you?" "Nothing I can discuss." "Try me."

"Believe me, Cat, you don't want to know."

"Well, whatever it is, sex isn't going to make you feel better about it." He cocked his eyebrow meaningfully. "One of us is remembering wrong. I remember feeling not only better, but damn great." "I don't mean physically," she said shortly. "Of course it felt good that way. It's that male thing that's incomprehensible to women. To this woman, anyway. Men can't distinguish the physical from the emotional. If it feels good down there, what else matters? Women--" "He could be a she," he said suddenly, his body jerking as though he'd been shot. "What?" "A woman could be stalking you." "Melia." "Come again?" Cat didn't even realize she'd spoken the name aloud. It was too late now. He'd want to know. "This woman at work. I've locked horns with her on several occasions." For the second time that morning, she related the difficulties she'd experienced with Melia King. "I think I've seen her," Alex said. "A walking wet dream? Big tits, long black hair, full lips, legs that go on forever?" "Little escaped your notice," Cat said dryly. "She's hard to ignore." "She's also spiteful and hateful, but I can't see her as a murderer." "Everyone's a suspect, Cat. And everyone's capable of killing." "I don't believe that." "I once arrested a thirteen-year-old girl for whacking her mother while she was asleep. Motive? Mom had grounded her for wearing too much eye shadow. This was a sweet-looking kid with braces on her teeth and a Mickey Mouse poster on her bedroom wall. Murderers come in all shapes and sizes. This one is as slick as owl shit."

"If there is a murderer." He glanced down at the three newspaper clippings. "The Justice Department should be notified." That was a quelling thought. He must think this was even more serious than he was leading her to believe. "What would they do?"

"Assign an investigator to check out the deaths." "That would involve a lot of time and red tape, wouldn't it?" "I've never known any dealings with the federal government to move quickly." "In the meantime, the anniversary of my transplant is barely a month away." She tried to smile. "I get the distinct impression that I'm next on his list. Or her list." Alex picked up the obituary and read it again. "He wants to get caught. If not, he wouldn't be sending you these. There's purpose behind the killings, but he doesn't do it instinctively or just for the thrill. He's committed to his warped ideal, and yet he knows it's wrong. He's begging to be stopped." "I just hope we can stop him in time." "Did you say we?" "I can't do this alone, Alex. I don't have the connections or the experience. You do." "Breakfast is getting more expensive by the minute." He cocked his head to one side. "What if I say no?" "I don't think you'll refuse, because there's a lot of cop left in you. You took a vow to protect and serve. I don't think that commitment ended when you relinquished your badge. Even if I were a stranger you wouldn't turn me away. And if I died mysteriously, you'd never forgive yourself." He whistled. "You play dirty." "I'm catching on." With characteristic candor, she laid it on the line. "You're the last person I want to ask a favor of. It wasn't easy for me to come here this morning. If I had another option, I'd take it. Unfortunately, you're it." He mulled it over for less than ten seconds. "Okay. I'll do what I can. But where do you suggest I start?" "Here. In Texas." Obviously he hadn't expected such a definite answer to what had been a rhetorical question. "Why?" "I've never told anyone this before," she said hesitantly. "I have one clue as to the origin of my heart. The night of my transplant, I overheard a nurse say that it was winging its way to me from the Lone Star state. I've always believed that my heart came from here."

Trying to make it sound like a casual afterthought, she added, "Maybe that's what drew me here." He leaned forward. "You're dropping lots of juicy bait this morning, and I can't help but bite. What's that last statement supposed to mean? That you were drawn to Texas because your donor lived here?" She shook her head, impatient with herself. "Dean says that kind of spiritual transference is impossible." "What do you say?" "I agree." He arched an eyebrow, indicating that he'd noticed the lack of conviction in her voice. "But it's sure as hell a topic for stimulating debate, isn't it?" "Maybe sometime we'll debate it. Right now, I need to find my stalker. The reference to Texas is the only clue I've got." "Fine. Standard operating procedure is that you go with what you've got." "One more thing, Alex. I tried to learn if my donor's family had ever made an attempt to contact me." "You did?" he asked, surprised. "That goes against your resolve, doesn't it? You told me you never wanted to know anything about your donor." "I no longer have a choice. They're checking into the records. I'll let you know what, if anything, comes of that." "Good. Meanwhile, I'll start in Texas and work outward. I'll also see what I can turn up about these accidental deaths. There might be another common denominator beyond the victims being transplantees. But I don't promise anything." "I'll appreciate hearing whatever you learn." She got up and gestured toward the refrigerator. "There was food left. You're welcome to it." He followed her to his front door. "Don't leave yet." "We've concluded our business." "But not our argument." "There is no argument, Alex. We've agreed that you're a shit, and you now know how I feel about meaningless sex." "It wasn't meaning--"