I Can See You (36 page)

“How do you know? Nobody called you.”

“Abbott texted me. But I did promise, so I will check
on her and Rachel on my way home, even if the cruisers say everything is
normal.” He lifted a brow. “I also don’t make promises I don’t keep.”

“Point taken. But you never said you would leave.”

“I’ll move to the chair so you can stretch out.” He
moved himself and the files to her chair and sat with a satisfied sigh. “Much
more comfortable. Give me your gun.”

“Why?”

“So I can check it out. When did you last fire it?”

“Three weeks ago when I went to target practice with
Sal. If you’re satisfied with my gun, will you leave?”

He just held out his hand. Rolling her eyes, she dug
in her computer bag, finding the gun where it always was. Except it wasn’t as
she’d left it. As soon as her hand closed over it, she knew something was
wrong. She drew it out, her heart pounding yet again.

Noah took it from her hand, then met her eyes. “You’d
have a hell of a time hitting a target with this thing, considering it’s not
loaded. I’m guessing this surprises you.”

Dread tightened her gut. “It had a full clip when I
left the house tonight. I was so rattled by Buckland and Jeremy Lyons following
me to the Deli that I double-checked.”

“Someone had access to your bag. Where do you keep it
when you’re working?”

“In Sal’s desk drawer in the back office. To answer
your next questions, the only people working tonight were me and Sal, but there
is a door to the alley, for the trash.”

“Give me your bag.” He put on a pair of gloves and
pulled out a manila envelope with her name written in block letters with a
thick marker. “Feels like photos.”

Her blood went colder. “That’s the envelope Buckland
tried to make me take.”

“Then let’s find out what he wants you to see so
badly.” He slit the envelope open with his penknife, then uttered a hoarse curse.
“Sonofabitch. Sonofafuckingbitch.”

Eve looked over his shoulder. And went still. In
Noah’s hands were photos of himself and a petite redhead, locked in an embrace
as they stood on a front porch. The number on the house matched the address on
the piece of paper still in Eve’s pocket.

“Trina,” she murmured. Trina’s arms were around Noah’s
neck, his around her back. Her face was pressed against his neck and he looked
like he was holding on for dear life.
Not good. Not good at all.

“Sonofabitch,” he repeated viciously. “She hugged me.
That’s all.” He looked at Eve with a glare. “You can’t believe this? She’s my
family, goddammit.”

He’d misinterpreted the concern on her face. “No,” she
said and briefly touched her hand to his. He was shaking with fury. “I’ve seen
her at the bar, seen her with you. I don’t believe she’d do it. And I don’t
believe you would. So calm down.”

He did, shifting back to cop. “This means Buckland was
at Brock’s Sunday night.”

“Sunday night?”

“Well, Monday morning, actually. Must have been two,
three in the morning.”

“Why were you at Brock’s at two in the morning?”

He shrugged sheepishly. “Why am I here with you at two
in the morning?”

“That’s not an answer, Noah.”

“Yeah, it actually is. I went to Brock’s because I
needed a drink, so Brock and I boxed some, punched out my craving. Always
happens when I’ve been to Sal’s.”

He said it without accusation, but she felt guilty
just the same. “Because of me.”

He looked her square in the eye. “Yes.”

Eve set this most recent declaration aside for later
consideration, focusing instead on the timing. “Monday, at two in the morning?
You’d just found Martha, Christy was still alive, and nobody knew about
Samantha yet.”

“Except my team.” He looked puzzled, then his eyes
widened. “He was following me even before the serial killer story broke.”

“In a very personal way. I told you he didn’t look
quite sane. He said I wouldn’t think you were a ‘good guy’ after I saw these. I
think he’s after you and I just got in the way.”

Noah massaged the back of his neck. “Why would he be
after me?”

“I don’t know. Do you know him?”

“Not before this. I’ll report it to Abbott. Fine
timing, just as we get a serial killer running around. And yes, I’m thinking
what you’re thinking.”

“That it’s no coincidence.”

“Our reporter just got a whole lot less sane. He
threatened you and he’s hanging around my family. I need to call Brock, make
sure Trina and the boys are okay.”

He rose, piled the files on the floor, then paced as
he dialed. He cursed and dialed another number, then a third. “Nobody’s
answering at home or either of their cells.”

“Then go, make sure they’re all right. Call me when
you know.”

He shrugged into his coat. “Brock and Trina are both
cops. I’m sure they’re fine.”

“I’m sure they are, too. I’ll lock the door and call
you if I hear so much as a rustle.”

He paused at the front door, his expression intense.
“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Believing I wasn’t the kind of man to cheat with my
cousin’s wife.”

“You’re welcome. Noah, call me about Rachel Ward?”

“As soon as I hear from the cruiser. I promise.”

“Thank you. Be careful.” She locked the door behind
him, more hollow than relieved as she sat in her chair to wait for his call.
She’d told him to go, but she missed him already.
I could get used to having
a man in my house. In my life
.

She thought about his admission, that he craved a
drink after going to Sal’s to see her. He’d risked a great deal to watch her
all those months. He was stubborn.
He’d probably call it determined
.
Either way, he wasn’t going to give up.

“I’ll just tell him the truth,” she said quietly.
“Then he’ll leave on his own. It’ll be for the best.” And when he was gone,
she’d have her work. “If I’m not expelled.” She still had Dr. Pierce’s card.
Perhaps it was time to start damage control on her career.

Wednesday, February 24, 1:45 a.m.

It was anticlimactic, actually. He stood staring down
at Rachel Ward with a frown. She was sitting rather docilely on the counter
stool he’d dragged to the middle of her basement floor. He hadn’t needed to
sedate her to strap her in the straitjacket and tie her to the stool. She’d had
so much to drink it was a wonder she’d made it home.

She’d been a road menace, weaving lane to lane.
Thankfully they had encountered no police and Rachel had managed to stagger
into her house. Pushing her through her front door had been child’s play. It
was a disgrace.
No more bars. Insist on coffee.

She was staring up at him, her eyes glazed. She should
be coherent, conscious, ready to be scared to death. But she was nearly asleep,
goddammit.

He could just strangle her, set the scene and get out,
or he could wait for her to sober up. He might have something in his kit to
speed her up. So to speak. Half the fun was in seeing their fear and he didn’t
want to give up his fun without a fight.

Wednesday, February 24, 2:10 a.m.

Eve put her cell phone on one arm of her chair and
settled in, her computer on her lap and her hands wrapped around a mug of hot
coffee. Buckland had unloaded her gun.
Why?
Had he planned to attack her
and wanted her helpless? Or had he just wanted her to know he was there? That
he could get close to her wherever she was?

“Just to fuck with my mind,” she murmured. Who was
this guy? And what self-respecting newspaper would hire him? Buckland was a
stalker. He needed to be stopped before he hurt someone.
Too late
. She
rotated her wrist.
He hurt you.

He had. And if she hadn’t worked in a cop bar and if
Jeff Betz hadn’t been right there, eavesdropping, he could have hurt her much
worse.

Setting her mug aside she googled Kurt Buckland. And
frowned. He was legit, with bylines on the
Mirror
going back years.
Local stuff, neighborhood news. Of course the inside scoop on a serial killer
could catapult him from Metro to the front page—and had. His “Red Dress Killer”
article had been at the bottom of page one of Tuesday’s paper.

With a start she realized he’d written the article on
Martha’s suicide she’d shown to Donner. She’d been so shocked she hadn’t
noticed the reporter’s name. Tomorrow she’d report his assault to the police.
And to his boss. He had to be stopped.

A flashing tab at the bottom of her screen caught her
eye. It was the open Shadowland window. Someone was talking to Greer.
Poor
Greer.
Eve had left her sitting at the bar in the cabaret, waiting for
Rachel’s avatar to show up. Eve toggled back and saw the bartender was scolding
Greer for loitering.

Buy another drink or leave.

I’m sorry
,
Eve typed.
I’m waiting for someone. Maybe you know her. Delilah?

That trash? She’s not here tonight
.

He said no more and Eve had Greer transfer a few
Shadowbucks to the bartender’s tip jar. Money talked in any world.
I need to
talk to her. Who might have seen her?

The bartender avatar hesitated, then shrugged.
That
one over there, with the purple hair
. The dancer’s nude body was painted
with tiger stripes that clashed with her purple ’do.
They sometimes sit
together at the bar while they’re waiting to hook up for the night.

You mean, like meeting guys? To take home? Does
Delilah do that often?

Do you consider ten or twelve times a night often?

Ew. She’d never understood the lure of virtual sex.
Thanks
,
she typed and added a few more Shadowbucks to the tip jar, then sent Greer to
the stage.
Excuse me. Miss?

The dancer was wrapped around a pole, hips gyrating in
an intriguing move Eve was sure took at least as many keystrokes as salsa
dancing.
I don’t do girls. Go away.

I don’t want to hook up with you
, Eve typed.
I’m looking for Delilah.

She ain’t here. She don’t do girls neither. That one
over there does.

Eve shuddered. Ew.
I don’t want to hook up. l need
to talk to Delilah. Where is she?

She had a date
.
The gyrating hips bucked lewdly to the beat of cymbals.
IRL
.

Eve’s heart beat faster. IRL?
Did she say who with?
Somebody she met here?

The dancer frowned.
I’m a businesswoman here.

Grinding her teeth, Eve transferred Shadowbucks to the
dancer’s garter belt.
Well?

Don’t know his real name. Here, he goes by John. Gonna
be a one-night stand.

You ever hook up with John, here in the World?

Nah, not my type. Too bookish. Get enough of that on
my day job. Now go away. I can’t type and dance at the same time and my set’s
almost over.

Thanks
, Eve
typed, then backed Greer out of the casino and dialed Noah’s cell.

Wednesday, February 24, 2:15 a.m.

Noah parked his car in Brock’s driveway, reining in
his panic. They still weren’t answering his calls. They’d better have a damn
good explanation for this.

He knocked on their front door, scanning the road for
any car that didn’t belong. He was here often enough that he knew the
neighborhood vehicles. But nothing seemed out of place, except that nobody was
answering his knock.

He found their key on his ring and let himself in. He
drew his weapon and held it to his side, creeping through the darkened house,
breathing a sigh of relief when he found the boys snug in their beds and sleeping
soundly. He knocked lightly on Brock and Trina’s bedroom door, nudging it open
when no one answered. Empty.

It was then he heard the shower. More correctly, he
heard the shower stop. The master bath door opened, revealing a scowling Brock.
He wore a robe that was soaked through and his wet hair stood up in spikes.

“This had better be good,” Brock said deliberately,
through clenched teeth.

Noah looked him up and down. “You didn’t answer your
phone.”

Brock drew an uneven breath. “So you rushed over here
in the middle of the night?”

“Brock?” Trina came through the door and Noah looked
away, but not in time to miss getting a glimpse of her in a very, very small
towel.

Noah winced, staring at his shoe. “I can see my
concern was misplaced.”

“Y’think?” Brock asked acidly. “You’re not the only
one who ever has a goddamn bad day.” With that he stalked out of his bedroom,
grabbing clothes on his way.

“For God’s sake, Noah,” Trina snapped. “What’s this
all about?”