Serial Bride (11 page)

“No. But he seemed pretty sure.”

Had Perreth found something? Or had he learned that Kane was Bertram's weakness and he was using the serial killer to get under the professor's skin?

She glanced at Bryce.

As if he sensed her unvoiced question, he pulled out his cell phone along with Perreth's card and punched in the number. Stepping into the doorway of the tiny office, he cupped his hand around the phone and started talking in a low voice to whoever had answered the phone. Judging from his polite tone, Sylvie would bet it wasn't Perreth. Maybe the detective's voice mail.

She turned back to Bertram. He really did look
stressed. Was guilt over getting Diana involved with Kane to blame? Or was what Louis Ingersoll told them the reason? Had he been more involved with Diana than he'd led them to believe? “What was going on between you and Diana?”

His head snapped up. “What do you mean?”

“Diana's neighbor said you were at her apartment about a week ago.” Louis hadn't said it was the professor. Not exactly. But after the scenarios Sylvie's imagination had conjured on the trip over, coming right out and accusing Bertram seemed like the fastest way to get answers.

“We were working together. Writing a book. I stopped by her apartment a couple of times.”

“He said he heard you crying. Sobbing, actually.”

Elbows on the desktop, he cradled his forehead in his palms.

“What were you upset about?”

He let out a shaky breath. When he looked up, tears sparkled in the corners of his eyes. “It's not what you think.”

“You have no earthly way to know what I think.”
She
didn't even know what she thought. Not anymore. It seemed everything she thought she knew about her sister had been turned on its head. An affair with the professor would just be one more layer of icing on a damn confusing cake. She braced herself. “What is it?”

“It happened many years ago. Probably not very long after you were born.”

Not long after she was born? How could his explanation possibly go back that far? She waited for him to continue.

“I had a daughter. Beautiful girl. Brilliant girl. She was only sixteen when she graduated from high school.”

Sylvie's mind raced, trying to determine where Bertram was going with this. “What does your daughter have to do with Diana?”

He swallowed hard, as if trying to pull himself back out of his memories, trying to control his emotions. “Nothing.”

“I'm asking you about my sister. I need to know about my sister.”

“You asked why I was at her apartment. Why I was upset.”

“Yes.”

“I'm telling you, if you'd stop and listen.” Sad no longer, his dark eyes flashed with temper.

“I'm sorry. Go on.”

“My daughter was a student here. I was an assistant professor. I was so proud that she chose to come here. I can't even tell you.”

Sylvie forced herself to nod politely even though she felt more like wrapping her hands around his throat and strangling the truth out of him.

“She used to have this book group. Just for fun. She and her friends would get together at a restaurant on State Street and talk about the latest releases. One night she never made it home. She was found a week later…murdered by Dryden Kane.”

Sylvie gasped.

Bryce stepped up close behind her. She hadn't been aware that he'd finished his phone call. But he was there. As soon as she'd gasped he was there. Before the horror could even take hold.

“That's the real reason I got involved in studying Dryden Kane years later, when Risa Madsen started the program. I had to know why. How he could have done those horrible things to my beautiful little girl. And you know, in all my study, I've never gotten an answer. I never found why.” His voice cracked and he buried his head in his hands.

Sylvie let his words sink in. The professor was a victim of Dryden Kane, too. Suddenly his constant work hours made perfect sense. His wife's strange behavior, too. Her fear. Her comment about her husband's obsession fit, too. He'd been obsessed with Kane. So obsessed that he'd shut everything else out of his life, including her. “I'm sorry, I thought—”

“I know what you thought. That I was a horny old professor hung up on a woman less than half my age.”

What could she say? That
was
what she'd thought.
That and worse. But somehow the idea of the professor kidnapping Diana because of some obsessive love he felt for her was preferable to the prospect of Dryden Kane being responsible.

“If you're looking for someone who was hung up on your sister, check with my assistant.”

“Your assistant?”

“Sami Yamal. I don't think Diana ever actually dated him, but it wasn't for lack of trying on his part. She asked me to have a talk with him a couple of weeks after she started working with us on the project.”

“A talk?”

“To suggest that he back off.”

Sami? When Louis had told them about the man who'd aggressively pursued dates with Diana and the man who was crying in her apartment, he'd said he couldn't be sure they were the same person. Apparently they weren't.

Heart pumping, Sylvie leaned forward, her palms on the desk. “Is Sami Yamal here today?”

The professor shook his head. “I haven't seen him.”

Sylvie's mind raced. Sami was the right size to be her assailant. Had he decided to lay low to hide the bruises she and Bryce must have given him? Or was he with Diana right now?

“Did he call in sick?” Bryce asked.

“Didn't hear from him. But it's Sunday. He
often comes in, but he's not required to be here.” Bertram raised a shaking hand to his forehead, as if the hassle of answering their questions was too much for him to handle.

Sylvie felt for the man. He seemed so much weaker than the last time they'd seen him, as if the past hours had taken a horrible toll. Losing his daughter to a serial killer had to be the definition of hell. And revisiting that horror would stress the strongest man. But even if Sami Yamal was the one who had kidnapped Diana and attempted to kidnap Sylvie this morning, even if Diana's disappearance had nothing to do with Kane, she still couldn't excuse the professor for exposing Diana to that evil in the first place. No matter how she could sympathize with his need to understand his horrible loss, she couldn't forgive him. “Where does Sami Yamal live?”

As soon as they emerged from the building, Sylvie handed Bryce the slip of paper with Yamal's address. Her hand shook. Lines of worry dug into her forehead and flanked her lips.

With the stress she was under, he doubted she needed to be searching down the assistant professor, but he had learned enough about her to know he couldn't sequester her while he tracked Sami Yamal himself. She had to know. And hell, he could hardly blame her for that.

But he could take precautions. “I'm going to call Perreth, have him meet us at Yamal's apartment.”

She shot him an uneasy look, then nodded. “I suppose that's a good idea.”

Apparently she still wasn't convinced Perreth was on the up-and-up, even though their conversation with Bertram had proven the detective had actually been investigating Diana's disappearance. He just
hadn't been keeping them informed about what he knew. “Perreth is a prick, no doubt about it. But he seems to be looking for Diana. He seems to be doing his job.”

“I suppose you're right. But I don't trust him.”

“You don't trust anybody.”

She shot him a crooked smile. “You're doing all right. So far, anyway.”

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and squinted down at the slip of paper to hide the smile beaming through him. He couldn't remember when a heavily qualified half compliment had meant more.

He punched his phone's redial as they walked down Bascom Hill and left the address on Perreth's voice mail. He sure as hell hoped the detective checked his messages. He didn't want to be stuck facing down Yamal with no weapon.

“How far is Sami's apartment?” Sylvie asked when he finished.

“A fifteen-minute walk up State Street, tops.”

Sylvie nodded. “What do you think about Bertram?”

“He seems like a man in pain, like all of Kane's victims' families.” Like him. Maybe like Sylvie, if her sister was dead.

“Kane did such horrible things. I don't know how those families coped.”

Coped? Who said they had coped? Bertram sure
didn't seem to be an example of a family member who'd coped. And Bryce himself sure as hell wasn't. Coping was overrated. He'd much rather get justice. Or maybe even flat-out revenge.

“Sami.” She shook her head and increased her pace. “Somehow, I never really considered Sami might be responsible for Diana's disappearance. I know we talked about it, but he just seemed so helpful that day, so proud of his work.”

“When Diana and Professor Bertram arranged to work together, they cut him out of the mix. And if he had unrequited feelings for Diana on top of that…” A clear recipe for disaster. Bryce had seen it before, with some of Ty's pro bono clients. Women trying to escape their husband's anger and their love and dependence at the same time. Out-of-control passions always made things more complicated. More volatile.

They crossed the footbridge over Park Street and negotiated their way through the humanities building and down the stairs to Library Mall. The wind kicked up, blowing blond strands across Sylvie's face; she brushed them out of the way. “Diana getting the job of interviewing Kane had to kill him.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he found another way of communicating with Kane.”

“You mean, maybe he's doing all this for Kane? Kidnapping Diana? Attacking me?”

“It's possible. He could be using another inmate as a conduit. Or a prison guard. Think about it. Yamal is certainly as obsessed with Kane as Bertram is. He has spent his life studying the monster. Whether you're talking about Yamal's obsession with Diana or his obsession with Kane, he's a good candidate for kidnapping your sister.” And for killing Ty. “Exactly the reason I think Perreth should be there.”

“I hope he gets there before I do. If Sami Yamal hurt Diana, I might just kill him with my bare hands.” Sylvie set her chin and marched straight ahead.

Bryce was sure she meant every word. He could imagine her hands around Yamal's throat, choking the life out of him. But he recognized the vulnerability under her bravado, too. The fear for her sister. Her brave facade was as transparent as glass. And as fragile.

Bryce fought the urge to touch her. There was definitely something growing between them. Something he wanted to tend, to encourage to blossom. But it needed time to take root. Time and attention neither one of them could spare. Not right now. And rushing was too risky. He'd learned that when he'd kissed her last night. Rushing could destroy whatever tender shoots he'd established.

Emerging from Library Mall, they crossed Lake Street and started up State in the direction of the
capitol dome. Several blocks up, they turned off State Street and located the old Victorian home at the address Bertram had given them. The house had been separated into three flats, each with a separate entrance.

Sylvie poked the buzzer next to Yamal's name. No answer.

Bryce cupped a sore hand and shielded the window in the door. Through the wavy old glass, he could see a staircase stretching to the second floor. Just looking at the stairs, Bryce could see Yamal didn't believe in cleanliness. Tiny muddy cat tracks peppered the old linoleum. And at the base of the stairs, a small orange feline peered at the window and mewed incessantly. “His cat is home.”

Sylvie pressed up next to Bryce and peered in. “She seems upset. Do you think something's wrong and she's trying to let us know?”

“Do cats do that?”

“Not a cat person?”

“Not a pet person. I like animals, but I don't have enough time to do them justice. I don't even have house plants.” God, he sounded pitiful. Lonely.

“One of my foster families had a cat. Believe me, when anything was wrong, she'd let you know.”

The cat paced back and forth on the stairs without taking its eyes from their faces. Its meow was low, urgent.

Sylvie put a hand on the doorknob and twisted. It turned under her fingers. “My God, it's open.”

A trickle of foreboding ran down Bryce's spine. “Perreth should be here any minute.”

Ignoring him, Sylvie pushed the door inward. She stepped inside, stopping at the base of the stairs as the cat wrapped itself around her legs. She bent to stroke the animal's arching back.

The scent hit Bryce through the open door. Blood. Death. Memories of finding Ty flooded his mind and turned his stomach. The smell. The blood. The gut-churning grief. “Sylvie. Get out of there.”

She turned to him, wide-eyed. “That smell. Is it—”

“Wait for the police.”

She turned back to the steps. “I have to know.”

He grabbed her arm before she could start up the staircase. He couldn't let her see whatever caused that smell. Damn, he wished he had his pistol. Except for his cell phone, he was empty-handed.

“I can't just stand here, Bryce. I have to know.” Sylvie tried to pull her arm away.

He held on. Where was Perreth?

“Please, Bryce. If that body in the morgue isn't Diana…”

Maybe the body upstairs was? “Don't think that way.”

“I can't help it. Imagine how you would feel.”

He didn't have to imagine. He'd smelled the sickly sweet odor of death as soon as he'd opened Ty's front door. Even though he'd never smelled human blood, human death, before that time, he'd known what the scent was, what it meant. It hadn't stopped him. It hadn't even slowed him down. “Okay, stay behind me.”

He slipped his hand down her arm until he gripped her palm in his. Holding her hand, he started up the stairs, stepping on the edge of the linoleum to avoid walking on the cat tracks—tracks of blood, not mud. “We can't touch anything. This is a crime scene. We can't destroy evidence that might help the police.”

Sylvie crept behind him. Her hand trembled in his, but her steps were steady. From the bottom of the stairs, the cat's mewing grew louder, the sound emanating from deep in its throat.

They approached the dark doorway at the top of the stairs. Bryce's eyes drew even with the floor above. More tracks spotted the wood. The smell clogged his throat. Memories crashed through his mind. Ty's broken body lying twisted on the edge of his bed. The puddle of blood soaking the sheets and dripping into the carpet.

Placing a hand on the door frame, Bryce steadied himself and peered into the apartment. Blood spread over the hardwood floor, not fresh, but brown and
sticky. And just inside the archway leading to the kitchen, Sami Yamal stared at them through shattered lenses. A ravaged hole gaped where the top of his skull should be. And in his hand, he still held his gun.

 

S
YLVIE STARED
at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Hair tousled and wet and body wrapped in a towel, she looked tired. Shell-shocked. No surprise there. As hard as she tried, she couldn't erase images of Sami Yamal's apparent suicide from her mind. The blood on the floor. The dead stare of his eyes. The smell that had filled her nostrils, clung to her hair and permeated her clothes.

After she and Bryce had answered Perreth's questions for what seemed like hours, Bryce drove her to the hotel and insisted on accompanying her to her room. She should have objected. When he'd paused in the hallway, waiting for an invitation inside, she should have simply closed the door. But after what she'd seen at Sami's apartment, she couldn't bring herself to shut him out.

She listened to the rhythm of his footsteps as he paced the floor outside the bathroom door. She couldn't imagine what she would have done if she'd come across Sami's body by herself. Even now, the horror of it hung on the edges of her mind, as strong and hard to get rid of as the memory of that smell.

She leaned on the vanity, trying to catch her breath. A sob worked up her throat and echoed in the
bathroom. She could never forget how she'd felt walking into that apartment, smelling that odor and thinking in the back of her mind that it could be Diana. That her sister really might be dead.

A knock on the door. “Sylvie? Are you okay?”

Her knees trembled. She grasped the towel, pulling the terry cloth tighter around her body. “I'm fine.” Her voice broke. She closed her eyes.

“Open the door.”

She fought the confusion bubbling in her blood, the temptation to lean on a man she hardly knew. A man who might be gone tomorrow. She had to pull herself together. She couldn't let him stand out there. She couldn't hide in here and make him worry she was falling apart. “Just a second.”

She let the towel fall to the floor and pulled on her robe. Tying the sash securely, she took a deep breath and turned to the door. Pulling it open, she peered out at him. “See? I'm okay.”

Forehead lined with concern, he searched her eyes. “Sure?”

Barely above a whisper, his one word carried so much concern—concern for her—tears came to her eyes.

“I thought so.” He stepped into the bathroom, behind her. Meeting her gaze in the mirror, he lay a warm hand lightly on the sleeve of her robe. “You've never seen a dead body before, have you?”

She shook her head. She should have known better than to believe she could hide what she was feeling. They might not have known each other very long, but the events of the past few days had convinced her that at times he knew what she was feeling before she did. “I keep seeing his eyes. Those staring, empty eyes.”

“Don't think about it.”

“I can't help it.” A sob hiccupped in her throat. “I keep seeing Diana.”

He wrapped his arms around her. His chest and the firm plane of his stomach pressed against her back.

The press of his body felt so good, so right. Just what she wanted. Just what she needed. Just what she couldn't have.

She tried to step forward, to move away from him, but the vanity blocked her. “I can't do this.”

He let out a long breath. Slipping his hand along her cheek, he brushed her hair back from her face, draping it over her shoulder. “Let me just hold you. Let me wipe those images from your mind.” His breath whispered against her neck.

A shiver rippled over her skin. Not a shiver of cold, though. A shiver of anticipation. She wanted him to hold her. She wanted much more. But… “You might be gone tomorrow.”

“I won't be. I'll be right here.”

“That's worse.”

He met her eyes in the mirror. His eyebrows dipped low with confusion, with questions.

He deserved an explanation. As much as she didn't want to voice her fears, her insecurities, he deserved to know where he stood. “The longer you're here, the more I'll rely on you. The more I'll…” Her voice faltered. The more she'd what?

“You're still worried I'll leave you in the lurch. That just when you need me, I won't be there.”

She nodded.

“It doesn't have to be that way. Not with us.”

“I wish I could believe that.” She'd give almost anything to believe it, for it to be true.

“I wish you could trust me.”

She swallowed into an aching throat. “I do trust you on some level. I just…”

“Can't go that far?”

“No. It hurts too much.”

“I don't want you to hurt, Sylvie. You shouldn't ever have to hurt.” He hugged her tighter, fitting her back tight against his chest. “Just let me hold you. That's all. It doesn't have to go further than that. Just let me take care of you tonight.”

His offer sounded good. It sounded wonderful. The trouble was, if she gave in, if she opened herself to temptation,
she
would be the one who wanted it to go further.
She
would be the one who needed
more. “I know I sound like such a coward. I sound so weak. I guess I am.”

“You?” A laugh rumbled in his chest. “You're the bravest, strongest woman I've ever known.”

The warmth of his laugh, his words, reverberated through her back and wrapped around her heart. He made her feel so warm, so wanted. As though she'd finally found her place in the world. A place where she, and only she, belonged. A place she might even be able to pretend was permanent.