Deadly Dreams (6 page)

“Were you called to the other scenes, too?”

“Not the first one.” He unscrewed the lid of the glass jar he’d taken from the kit and began taking scrapings of the charred timber.

“But you’d know which accelerant was used at the first, even if you weren’t there.”

“That’s right. It was a mixture of diesel fuel and gasoline. Unless I’ve lost my touch—and that’s highly doubtful—it was used this time around, too. Gasoline burns off too quickly to be relied on. The diesel fuel makes it burn longer.”

“Because he isn’t relying on whatever is handy,” she murmured. “He goes into the kill prepared.”

He glanced down at her as he screwed the lid shut on the glass container holding the scrapings. “That’s right. Has it down to a tee, if you ask me. Our guy has had some practice, even though we’ve struck out with ViCAP.”

The words elicited a renewed burst of interest. The FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program database allowed law enforcement to submit details of a crime to compare with similar ones around the country. “You didn’t get any hits?”

“Oh, we got plenty. Nate could tell you the exact number. But none were close matches for what we’ve seen with these crimes, taking into account the type of accelerant, material used to secure the victims, the manner in which they were bound . . . Here, take this, will you?” He broke off to hand her the jar with the sample he’d taken.

She reached for it. The factors he’d mentioned could all be part of the offender’s MO, which could change over time as he perfected the kills. But his signature wouldn’t change. “Were any of the other victims from the results cops?”

“No. But Nate still figures he might have practiced first, so he hasn’t given up on ViCAP.” Brandau handed her another glass jar with more scrapings in it. “Maybe this time around we’ll get more details to feed into the search.”

Something inside her was relieved by the exchange. It sounded like the case was being managed competently. There was no reason to believe she could bring something to this case that McGuire couldn’t. Especially since the dreams that had always been at the root of her “uncanny instincts” had been absent for months.

Until last night.

“Well, well, looks like you were right again.”

Nonplussed by the remark coming so close on the heels of her thoughts, she sent a startled glance upward. And saw Brandau holding up tweezers with something that looked like blackened hair in its grip.

But in the next moment she recognized it for what it was. “A strand of rope?”

His expression was grim as he dropped it into another jar and labeled it. “There’s a few more up here. The bastard kept the victim in place with a rope thrown over these rafters, most likely.” His assessment was an almost eerie affirmation of her and Nate’s guess earlier today.

And a macabre reminder of the burning specter in her dream last night.

Risa unlocked the small house she’d bought for her mother three years ago. It was past six. Hannah Blanchette would have already headed out to catch a bus to her job, cleaning office buildings after hours. So catching sight of the figure sitting on the brightly floral secondhand couch had her stopping short in the doorway, her hand going automatically to a weapon that wasn’t there.

One she would have been unable to fire even if it’d been present.

Her eyes slid shut for a moment in frustration. “Adam.”

The lack of welcome in her voice had no discernible effect on her employer. “Marisa. Your mother left about twenty minutes ago. She assured me it was all right to wait for you.”

“I’ll bet she did.” Hannah was fascinated by Adam Raiker, while maintaining a healthy wariness of the man. It might have been his appearance, which Risa had to admit was ferocious. A black eye patch covered one laser blue eye and a hideous scar ran across his throat. More scars covered the backs of his hands, one of which clutched the knob of the cane he was never without. He looked like a man who had entered the gates of hell and made it out, barely alive.

If even half what she’d heard was true, the description fit.

“You’ve been gone all day, she said. Didn’t leave a note, so she wasn’t sure where you were.”

“Shopping,” she lied, and watched with satisfaction as his eye narrowed in annoyance. “I hate to miss those spring sales.”

His gaze swept her. “No bags.”

“With my height everything has to be altered.” Because she’d never been one to enjoy being manipulated, she continued the pretense. “Once it’s done they’ll be delivered to me. Pretty good deal.” She shrugged out of her coat and hung it up in the postage stamp front closet.

When she turned back, he seemed to have relaxed against the couch. She wasn’t fooled. Raiker never relaxed, and his brilliant mind was always operating on multiple levels simultaneously. “Nice try. But there’s not a woman alive who’d go shopping dressed like that.” He nodded to her attire. “I can only think of one thing that would have you rolling out of bed and leaving the house without changing.” His pause was full of meaning. “A case.”

Risa dropped the farce. It was useless with him anyway. She also didn’t bother hiding her irritation. “I’d be more impressed with your powers of deduction if I didn’t know damn well that you were behind the invitation from Detective McGuire today.” She set her purse on the hallway table with a bit more force than needed. “Had a little chat with the chief inspector of the detective bureau, I understand.”

His shrug was negligible. “Actually, I spoke with the commissioner. I assume he made a suggestion to the chief inspector.” He waited, but when she said nothing, he added, with a familiar note of impatience, “Well? So you were invited to look over the case file on the torched cops?”

“Not exactly. I rode along to a response to the newest victim.”

Adam’s impatience faded to be replaced by a gleam of interest. “Another policeman?”

She nodded, trying, and failing, to ignore the pitch of excitement that was always present at the onset of a new case. “I don’t even know why I went. I can’t help them. I can’t help
you
. How many times have I told you that?”

His smile was feral. “I don’t know. I wasn’t listening.”

Risa hissed in a breath, an all too familiar sense of frustration filling her. It was maddening to be faced with a man who refused to take no for an answer. Who constantly thought he knew better than she what was in her best interests.

And heartbreaking when his dogged persistence inevitably had doubt rearing.

And that was perhaps the most difficult emotion to deal with. She knew what the spectacular failure in her last case meant. Her career was over. Her usefulness on an investigation at an end. And sometimes she could almost hate the man for trying to make her think differently. For making her
hope
.

“So a third cop is dead, burned alive if the same MO was followed.” He looked to her for confirmation, found it in her nod. “The department is going to pull out all the stops. A task force was being formed even before this latest casualty. An UNSUB targeting cops is going to bring a high-profile effort after him. No expenses spared.”

“So hiring a consultant from the firm of the legendary Adam Raiker would be welcomed by the brass,” she guessed caustically.

“I wouldn’t know.” His answer stopped her dead. “I never suggested it. What I did suggest is that the commissioner might be interested in using the voluntary services of one of my employees while she’s in the vicinity on leave. A former employee of the department with enough commendations in her file to be something of a legend herself within the PPD.”

Sick fear twisted through her at the thought, even though she’d figured out how it must have gone down. “I can’t.”

“You did. Today.” His expression was fierce. “Last month . . . hell, last week you would never have gone to that scene.”

“Last month I hadn’t just had a dream about a similar crime,” she said flatly. Raiker knew all about her nocturnal visions. She’d been upfront about them when he’d first contacted her about working for him. Had been shocked when he’d eventually offered her a job anyway.

He’d stilled at her statement. “The dreams are back.”

A frisson of ice splintered through her. The words sounded stark. Inescapable. “One dream. One time.”

“Well.” He eased his form more comfortably against the ancient couch. “That had to have been . . . a surprise.”

A short laugh escaped her, although humor was the last emotion she was feeling at the moment.
A surprise
. Masterful understatement. And so Raiker. “You could say that. As a matter of fact, you predicted the nightmares would fade and that eventually the dreams would come back. I didn’t believe you.”

“You didn’t want to believe me.”

Risa looked away. The welter of emotion from this morning returned. The sick dread for what the dream indicated. Filtered by a shuddering relief that the normal had returned. Or what had always been normal for her.

And layered by the paralyzing self-doubt that had been her constant companion since that dark cellar in Minneapolis.

“It might not mean anything.” She desperately wanted to believe that. To distract them both she headed toward the kitchen. “I’m getting a water. Do you want one?”

“No.”

Risa took her time, taking a bottle of water from the fridge and twisting off the cap to take a long swallow. It wasn’t necessarily avoidance. She’d been out on the scene with McGuire all day, with nothing but a soft drink from the selection one of the officers had brought back after the canvass.

But as one minute turned into two, and then three, she knew evasion was at play. That recognition had her heading back into the living room. She’d had to face some hard truths about herself in the last few months. Cowardice hadn’t been one of them, despite what her employer might think.

She dropped into a chair across from Raiker’s seat and observed that the man looked curiously out of place in Hannah Blanchette’s modest home. There was a veneer of gloss to Adam Raiker, a sophistication that owed little to the expensive suits. It almost hid the shimmer of danger that emanated from the man.

“The dream could have been a fluke,” she said finally, in the face of her boss’s silence. “And even if it’s not, we already know that they can’t be trusted.”

“Then don’t,” he said tersely, his gaze intent. “I didn’t hire you because you go to sleep and dream of murder. I hired you because you’re a damn fine investigator with some of the best instincts I’ve ever seen. Accepting a role on this case will give you a chance to learn to trust them again.”

Bitterness surged. “I think Minneapolis proved my instincts are flawed.” She had lived with the knowledge, with the guilt, for the last four months.

“That case proved you’re not infallible.” His flat tone would have sounded cold to someone who didn’t know him. “None of us are, and sometimes it takes a fucked-up case to make us realize it.” She looked at him then, saw the faintest flicker of empathy in his expression. The sight had her throat knotting up. “Once we live through something like that . . . we’re not the same. We aren’t meant to come out of it unchanged. The question is, are you going to let it merely change you or eviscerate you?”

She couldn’t reply. Wouldn’t have known what to say if she was able. But Raiker was better at commentary than conversation. Already he had his cell phone out, texting a message that would doubtless have his driver returning for him. He’d pulled the necessary strings, applied the necessary pressure. Now the ball was in her court. She could return, in an unofficial capacity, to the work that had once identified her.

Or she could continue to hide and dodge coming to a decision about her future.

The familiar longing and self-doubt warred inside her, emotions crashing and colliding in an inner battle that left her feeling bruised and weary. But Raiker couldn’t help her with that. No one could.

Risa eyed him. “What are you doing in Philadelphia anyway?” This was his second visit. Usually he contented himself with short, terse phone calls. He had a reason for coming here. Raiker had a reason for everything he did. “Shouldn’t you be concentrating on finding the guy trying his damnedest to kill you?”

“
Failing
to kill me. The verb is rather important.” His shrug was negligent. The navy pin-striped suit would have made another man look like a banker. It merely gilded that faintly lethal air that surrounded the man, like a wolf disguising itself in sheep’s clothing. “He’s imaginative. I’ll give him that.”

She blew out a breath. “You mean tenacious. Blowing up your penthouse was what? The fourth attempt on your life in the last few months?”

His grin faded as quickly as it had appeared. And the look in his eye reminded her that this was a very dangerous man in his own right. “He miscalculated again. I’m still alive. But he’s got my attention.”

And that alone should have the would-be assassin quaking. If it was only one. “Did you ever consider this might not be the work of a single man? Tampa, LA, Chicago, DC . . . How is he, or they, discovering your itinerary anyway?”

“Risa.” The gentleness of his tone didn’t hide its finality. “Paulie and I are on it.”

She folded her arms over her chest and met his stony stare. Intellectually she knew he was right. Not only would his own formidable talents be turned toward finding the assassin, a number of police departments would be involved as well. But emotionally . . . that was another issue. “Do I have to call Paulie for the details?” Her bluff was empty and they both knew it. Paulie Samuels was Adam’s right arm at headquarters, and despite his breezy, friendly demeanor to all, he was fiercely devoted to Raiker. If they were playing this one close to the vest, she’d get no more out of Samuels than from Adam.

Shifting tactics, she said simply, “We’re worried. All of us.” Enough so that she checked in with one of Raiker’s other operatives weekly, just to compare notes on their boss’s well-being. Because Kellan Burke had a history with the man longer than anyone else’s—with the exception of Samuels—he was invariably the one they all turned to for information.