Deep Dark (12 page)

•   •   •

It was after eleven when Laney finally left. Reed was still tied up, and one of his coworkers had offered her a ride home. The woman was polite but brisk, and Laney appreciated that she didn't try to talk Laney's ear off as she gave her a lift in her unmarked police vehicle.

Laney stared out the window. She couldn't get the crime scene out of her head. She'd been standing at the bar working on the computer when the medical examiner's people had removed the body.

Isabella. Bella to her friends. The sight of the body bag being wheeled out had stolen the air from Laney's lungs. She hadn't been able to breathe or even move.

Reed had noticed her noticing and asked some meaningless question to distract her. But it was too late. The image was etched into Laney's mind.

The ID hadn't been confirmed yet, but Laney felt certain it was Isabella Marshall, twenty-four, a second-year law student at the University of Texas. She'd been in summer school. Based on her email exchanges, she'd apparently spent the weekend with family in Dallas before returning to Austin to study for exams.

No one had said how she'd died, but Laney could guess. It hadn't been a gunshot. The CSIs had been talking about blood spatter and castoff patterns. And then Laney had seen a pair of detectives—including the big one, Jay—remove the back door from the apartment and load it into the crime-scene van.

The lock had been picked, evidently.

A cold ball formed in Laney's stomach. She glanced at the woman beside her, Jordan Lowe, a detective who worked with Reed. She was slender and brown haired—pretty in an understated way. She wore a linen blazer over jeans, and Laney noticed the bump at her hip.

“What kind of gun do you carry?”

Jordan glanced over. “Glock twenty-two.”

“You keep it with you all the time?”

“Yep.”

“This is your exit up here.”

She sailed across three lanes without signaling. Traffic was light this time of night.

“Does it feel heavy?” Laney asked.

“Not really. Honestly, when I'm not carrying? That's when I feel weird. You get used to the weight of it.” Jordan gave her a sidelong glance. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“You worried about something?”

Laney looked out the window. “Isn't everyone?”

She didn't comment right away, and Laney wished she hadn't brought it up.

“A Glock twenty-three is more compact.” Jordan glanced at her. “You're petite, so that might be a better bet for you.”

“You're turning left at the light here.”

“A concealed-carry permit shouldn't be a problem. If you don't have a sheet, that is.” She smiled slightly. “Which I assume you don't, if you're working for us.”

Laney didn't answer the implied question.

“There're some reputable dealers in town. Reed could hook you up.”

Laney didn't comment. She had no doubt Reed could hook her up. In a lot of ways.

But if she asked him for a favor, that would put him in some kind of power position over her. The idea made Laney uncomfortable. Intensely uncomfortable. She'd never owed a man for anything in her life, and she didn't want to start with Reed Novak.

Jordan rolled to a stop at the light and glanced at her. “What's up with you two?”

“Nothing.”

Another faint smile. “He'll be disappointed to hear that. Reed likes you.”

“How do you know?”

“The way he looks at you. And the way his ex looks at you.”

“His ex?”

“Erika Cowan. The PR flack from the mayor's office. You didn't know?”

“No.”

Laney had noticed the woman eyeing her but had thought she was just pissy over being barred from the crime scene. Laney couldn't picture her with Reed. She seemed too . . . artificial, with her designer suit and her dragon-lady fingernails. How had Reed ended up with her?

But it was obvious, really. How did men end up with anyone? She was built like a Victoria's Secret model.

“The other way I know?” Jordan looked at her. “­Because—no offense—your house is way the hell out of my way. Not that I mind or anything. But normally Reed would have let a uniform drive you home. He asked me because he didn't want anyone hitting on you.”

They finished the drive in silence. Jordan pulled up to the curb, and Laney pushed open the door.

“Thanks for the ride.” She glanced at Jordan's gun again. “And for the tip about the Glock.”

“No problem. And you know, for what it's worth, homicide scenes are always disturbing. It's a normal reaction.”

Laney watched her drive away, feeling more unsettled than ever.

There was no way she'd be able to sleep. She was wired and hungry and more than a little unnerved. She should make herself a snack and then slide into her computer world where she could lose herself until her head cleared. She pictured that body bag again, and a shudder rippled through her from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

She glanced up and down her block, trying to calm her thoughts. There was no moon tonight, and it was dark but peaceful. Her neighbors' familiar cars were parked along the street. A warm breeze wafted over her. She turned toward the bright glow of the convenience store on the corner. Still open.

She walked quickly, thinking about Reed again.

He'd said the crimes had a similar MO, but what did that mean, exactly? She knew the details of her own incident, but that was it. News articles about April and Olivia had included little information about the crimes themselves. In April's case, most of the news coverage focused on the fact that she was young and worked for a local tech company. Olivia's case was sensational for totally different ­reasons—the small-town teacher who had disappeared without a trace and the intensive search that failed to yield
even a single clue until her skeleton was discovered by hikers.

Laney shuddered again. She picked up her pace and hurried into the squint-inducing brightness of the grocery store. She nodded at the clerk as she stepped inside. He had turquoise ear plugs and a ponytail down his back, and he always reminded Laney to buy a lottery ticket when the pot was big.

She bypassed the “fresh” food section, where brisket sandwiches languished under a heat lamp, opting instead for a frozen pizza and a Raspberry Snapple.

“Ticket tonight?” the clerk asked her.

“No, thanks.”

“Six mil.”

“Ten's my floor.”

She left the store swigging her tea, buoyed by her purchases. She had dinner now, and probably breakfast, too, and she could work on her computer until her nerves settled.

What she definitely wouldn't do was stare at her phone all night hoping Reed would call. He wouldn't—he probably had hours of work ahead of him. And she wouldn't stare at her door, either, because she definitely did
not
want him to come over when he was finished.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and checked it. No messages.

The breeze kicked up again. Moths flitted around the streetlights. Her street was calm and empty, and she couldn't really account for the sudden queasiness in her stomach.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Nothing.

She scanned both sides of the sidewalk for threats.
No shadows between the cars. No dogs barking. No sign of anyone on the street right now, but—

Scrape.

She whirled around.

It had sounded close. Too close. But there was no one there.

She kept walking, focusing on her house, scanning her yard for anything out of place.

Snick.

Her heart did a flip. She glanced around. She quickened her stride and pulled out her phone.

She didn't have pepper spray or even a purse. She had nothing but a pepperoni pizza and a phone. And, yes, two years of kickboxing under her belt, for all the good that would do her. She wished she had a Glock on her hip. She rushed down the sidewalk, feeling ridiculously paranoid as she neared her house.

“Screw it,” she muttered, breaking into a run. She clutched the pizza to her chest and glanced over her shoulder as she dashed for her door. Relief surged through her as she reached her sidewalk.

An arm snaked around her, grabbing her from behind.

CHAPTER 11

The Snapple bottle shattered as Laney shrieked and kicked.

“Fuck!”

It was a male voice, and she lunged away from him, turning on her heel to nail him with a side kick. She missed his leg and threw herself off balance, landing on her butt. Her motion-sensitive floodlight went on. She scrambled to her feet, punching at her attacker, who was on his hands and knees on her sidewalk now, spewing curses.

“Scream, is that you?”

“Shit, Laney!”

She rushed forward, crunching glass under her shoes. Her ankle burned, and she realized it was bleeding.

Scream was bleeding, too. He pushed himself to his feet, dripping blood from a gash in his hand. He wore a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and combat boots.

“What the fuck?” He glared at her.

“What are you
doing
?” She clutched her chest, where her heart felt like it would pound right through her skin. She looked him up and down and resisted the urge to kick him in the shins.

Which, she now noticed, were bleeding pretty badly.

“What the hell
was
that?” he asked, looking around at the chunks of glass scattered across the pavement.

“My drink. What the hell are you doing skulking around my house at night?”

“I was looking for you.”

“You grabbed me!”

“I was kidding around.” He stripped off his T-shirt and wrapped his hand.

She stepped over to him, feeling guilty now that she could breathe again. She eyed the rivulets of blood streaming down his shins.

“Here. Come inside.” She picked up her pizza, which perched like a Frisbee on the hedge beside her door. She fumbled with her keys and managed to get the door unlocked, then tapped in her alarm code and dumped all her stuff on the kitchen counter.

Scream went directly to the sink and started rinsing his hand as Laney switched on a light.

“Damn it, Laney.” He plucked a shard of glass from his palm and dropped it on the counter.

“Hey, not my fault. You freaking attacked me.”

“I was joking. Christ. Good thing you're not packing heat.”

A sour lump lodged in her throat. She swallowed it down. If she
had
been armed, she probably would have killed him.

Blood flowed from his hand as he held it under the faucet. She eased closer to watch. He smelled like cigarettes, and she took a closer look at him.

He'd put on weight since she'd seen him last. He was still thin, but his arms were more defined. The tattoo on his shoulder—a picture of Edvard Munch's
The Scream
—had been embellished since she'd last seen it. Now it was framed by a ring of barbed wire.

Laney dampened a dish towel and crouched down
to examine his injuries. The blood looked alarming, but when she wiped away the streaks, she saw that the cuts were pretty small.

“Ouch!” He scowled down at her.

“Fine, you do it.”

He stepped back and propped his foot on the counter, and she watched as he pulled a sliver of glass from his shin.

Laney tended to her own cut, squeezing out a thin splinter.

“What did you want, anyway?” He looked at her. “You've been leaving messages everywhere.”

She sighed. “You want a beer?”

“Hell, yeah. Something to numb the pain.” He smiled slightly, and she felt relieved. Teasing meant he didn't need to go to the ER.

She switched on the oven and slid the pizza inside. Then she grabbed a beer and used the bloody dish towel to twist off the cap. Scream took his leg down and leaned back against the sink, and Laney had a sudden memory of Reed pinning her against that very spot. Had it really only been a few hours ago?

The two men couldn't look more different. Reed was tall and powerfully built, with thick dark hair that curled at the nape of his neck, and just the thought of touching it again made Laney's fingers twitch.

Scream was . . . odd-looking. Pale, thin, awkwardly long-limbed. At first glance, most people took him for a skinhead, but his body art didn't fit. His tattoos included literary references, Egyptian symbols, Chinese characters.

“What about you?” He swigged his beer, watching her.

“I'm not thirsty.”

She eyed his cuts again and felt a tug of guilt. She dreaded asking for favors, and she wasn't good at chitchat, but she at least needed to try. She tossed the bloody towel into the sink.

“So how are you?” she asked.

“Fine. You?”

“Fine.” This was why she hated small talk. She crossed her arms. “How's business?”

“Can't complain,” he said. The smug tone of his voice told Laney he was making money hand over fist.

Scream's underfed homeless look was basically an avatar. In reality, he was a millionaire several times over.

Scream sold zeros for a living, which was one of the reasons Ben hated him. Ben believed he operated without code. Not computer code but ethics. As in, Scream had none, at least not according to Ben.

Once upon a time, Scream had been the best ­cyber-intrusion expert at the Delphi Center. During his years at the lab, he'd built a name for himself.

But then he'd gone rogue. He'd gone from helping companies test and fix their security vulnerabilities to selling those vulnerabilities on the black market as zeros. Fresh zeros, or zero-day exploits, were hugely valuable because they'd been known for zero days, which meant they could be exploited until someone had a chance to fix them. Individuals, companies, and even the U.S. government spent millions of dollars a year buying up zeros to gain unauthorized access to computer systems all over the world. Another lucrative part of the market was companies that purchased their own zeros to prevent rivals from snapping them up.

Once Scream's original business was running smoothly, he'd started buying up zeros found and created by
other
people, then selling them to the highest bidder. And when he sold a bug, he didn't care what his client's intent was. Scream didn't care if the buyer wanted it to hack, steal, or spy—he was all about the money. If the Net was a war zone and zeros were weapons, then Scream was an arms dealer.

“I need a favor,” Laney said now. “I understand you've been doing some work in the social-media space.”

He arched his eyebrows but didn't confirm.

“I need to know if you've sold any zeros lately that could be used to target a dating website.”

“What's it called?”

“Mix.”

“I've heard of it.”

“What have you heard?”

He shrugged. “They're small. Local. They're trying to grow their customer base by appealing to the young demographic that comes to town every year for ACL Fest and SXSW. It's a good niche. Some people think they're headed for an IPO soon if their vulture capitalists don't pull the funding.”

So he knew all about them, maybe more than she did. This was exactly why she'd wanted his help. Scream kept his ear to the ground. And as someone who dealt in information, he knew rumors had value, whether they were true or not.

He swigged his beer. “What are you investigating, a credit-card scam?”

“I can't say.”

He rolled his eyes.

“It's a sensitive case,” she added.

“Okay, what's your budget?”

“I don't have one.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Really, I don't. I'm doing this on the side, sort of pro bono.”

He smiled slowly. “You're going to have to do better than that, Laney.”

She hesitated to go into it. But if she wanted his help, he needed information.

“It's for a friend of mine,” she said. “He's a detective, and his department's pretty cash-strapped.”

He sipped his beer and watched her, and she could see his interest in doing this favor was quickly evaporating.

“What's this detective of yours investigating?”

“A murder.”

He tipped his head back. “Shit, I should have known.” He looked at her and shook his head. “Always the crusader. You should have been a cop, Laney.”

She bristled. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“Not.” He plunked his beer on the counter, and she felt a surge of desperation.

“But you have to. I don't know anyone else.”

“Sure you do.”

“Not for this.”

He gave her a long, cool look, and she realized he was right. He
didn't
have to. He didn't owe her anything, and her guilt trips weren't going to work if he truly had no moral compass. And she really didn't know if he did. She didn't know much of anything about him, not even where he lived. Scream popped in and out of her life at odd intervals, mostly without cause or explana
tion. He was temperamental and mysterious, and he liked that image and worked hard to cultivate it.

So the question was, would he help her for free? Because she sure as hell wasn't going to sleep with him.

His gaze locked on hers, and she felt like he could read her thoughts.

Laney checked the pizza to stall for time. She needed a new strategy.

“Listen, I wouldn't have called you if this wasn't important,” she said. “I need your help.”

“And why do I get the feeling there's more to this favor than you're telling me?”

“There is. And you're the only one who can do it.”

“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.” He said it in a high-pitched Princess Leia voice.

“I'm being serious here.”

“Then cut the crap,” he said. “What is it you really want?”

“There's another zero I need. And there's no one else who can get it.”

“You mean get it for free.”

“Yes. I need a way into the FBI.”

He stared at her.

“Specifically, I need access to their ViCAP system,” she said. “That's the database where—”

“They store info about violent crimes, I know.”

She could tell he was intrigued, and she felt a flicker of optimism. Scream hated the FBI, so maybe he'd help her defeat their security just for kicks.

“I want to see if there are any similar cases out there,” she said. “The victims—”

“How many?”

“We don't know. At least three with a similar MO,
maybe more. The UNSUB goes to their homes and unscrews a lightbulb near his point of entry. Then he comes back to rape and bludgeon them.”

Scream was listening closely, but she couldn't read his reaction.

Her phone chimed, and she rushed to answer it. It was Ben, so she took the call out on the patio, pulling the door shut behind her and giving Scream a chance to think. She had a feeling she'd hooked him.

“What's up?” she asked Ben.

“Did you see the news?”

“No. Why?”

“There's been another murder.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“So you're on the case?” Ben sounded confused, and she didn't blame him. She wasn't on anything yet. APD hadn't really hired the lab. She was essentially freelancing, and that wasn't accurate, either, because Reed hadn't officially hired her. But she had a sense that was coming. Whether he liked it or not, he needed her help.

“More or less,” Laney said. “We're still trying to establish a firm connection between the cases.”

“What's the holdup?”

“I haven't seen all the evidence,” she said.

“Well, what else is new? We never see all the evidence. Do they realize the trail's getting cold while they dick around?”

“I can't talk about this right now, Ben. I have to go.”

“Call me in the morning.”

“I will.”

Laney stepped back inside and halted. The kitchen was empty now.

“Scream?”

She checked the bathroom and the bedroom, confirming what she already knew.

He'd left. She'd turned her back for one minute, and he'd taken off. She returned to the kitchen and glanced around. The pizza sat on the counter with a big wedge missing so it looked like Pac-Man. Beside it was a paper towel that had a message scrawled across it.

Mission accepted. But it's going to cost you.