She stared at the closed door for a second, her arms crossed over her chest. “He’s not happy about my coming on board.”
“It’s the mixing of business-pleasure thing.”
She turned to him and lowered her voice. “I hate to say this, I really do. There was one person who came off as a bit strange at the coffee shop: Owen.”
“No way.” He shook his head, not a doubt on his face.
“You’re a bit biased, don’t you think?”
“I’ve known him almost all my life.”
“Yeah, but do we really know the people in our lives? People who knew Ted Bundy never suspected his terrible hobby. Owen is odd, you have to admit that.”
“Absolutely. He’s always been that way. But I’ve never seen him so much as lift his hand in anger. Or muse about killing someone. To be honest, I’m not even sure he likes women. He doesn’t seem to date, or if he does, he doesn’t talk about it to me.”
“Another commonality of serial killers: social impairment with the opposite sex. And he does like women. When I came in today, he had a thought about…me:
Mm
,
I can see her tied spread-eagled to the bedposts while I torture her.
Torture!”
“He could have meant in a good way.” He looked her up and down. “I could imagine you tied up while I torture you, bringing you to the brink, backing off.” He cleared his throat. “For example. Not that I’m thrilled he’s having those kinds of thought about you.”
“I couldn’t hear anything else; he nearly tripped over himself to get away from me. You didn’t tell him I could hear people’s thoughts, did you?”
“No. He doesn’t even know about my visions. He’s a see-it-to-believe-it kind of guy. Doesn’t believe in ghosts or psychics or anything like that. So I never told him.” He walked over to the window, looking down at the sidewalk. “I won’t even go there. It’s not Owen.”
She couldn’t blame him, but
she
wasn’t going to accept his belief in Owen. “Okay, we won’t go there. But what if, and just humor my wild imagination here, it is Owen who climbs into my window? What would you do?”
“I suppose I would flatten him, as planned. But it’s not him.”
She walked up beside him. “Come over for dinner tonight. I’ll cook.”
That got a smile out of him. “I’d love to. Then we can go over the plan, where I’ll hide, all that.”
“And we can kiss. I kind of liked that.”
She gave him a quick kiss good-bye and walked out, hoping to get another chance at Owen’s thoughts. No such luck. She pulled on her coat, and with another glance at the picture of Adrian skydiving, left the office.
Adrian wasn’t going to help her pin down the idiosyncrasies that might indicate Owen’s murderous tendency. As defensive as he’d gotten, he would never look at Owen objectively.
She stepped into the elevator and dug in her purse for her lip balm. Her fingers bent a business card: Dale Soza’s card. He was as eager as she was to catch Kiss and Kill Cupid, though for other reasons. Still, as a reporter, he would be objective. Could she trust him?
She stepped out of the elevator and called him. “Dale, my name is Kristy. We met at the police station two days ago.”
“Long, blond hair?”
“Yep, that’s me.”
“You had information on Kiss and Kill Cupid.”
“Not information, per se. But I have someone I’d like you to check out, if I can trust you to be discreet and not to print his name or mine.”
“You can’t get to my level of success by not being trustworthy. Where are you? I can meet you right now.”
She gave him her location. “There’s a Starbucks on the corner.”
“I’ll catch a cab and be there in about fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“See you then.”
She walked inside, inhaling the rich scent of coffee. After ordering, she stuck in her earbuds and found an empty table. The only thought she could hear was her own:
I sure hope I haven’t made a huge mistake.
Chapter Six
Dale burst in sixteen minutes later, scanning the crowd for her as he untangled his earbuds. He wore a backpack and looked like a college student taking a break from mad-crazy finals. He held up a finger to indicate she wait for a second while he ordered an espresso. From his rapid movements, she suspected he’d already had at least four. His hair was again in disarray, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold.
He dumped five packs of raw sugar into his cup, jabbed the stir stick in circles, and set the cup on the table before dropping down into the seat next to her. “What do you have for me?”
No wonder he had so much energy. He was hyped on caffeine and sugar.
“I can’t tell you everything, but I can say I think I know who Kiss and Kill Cupid might be.”
“No shit.” He pulled out a notepad, poised his pen, and looked at her expectantly.
“I don’t know for sure that it is this guy. I don’t want him to know I’m having him checked out.”
“Trust me, he won’t have a clue. What’s his name?”
“Owen Bushnell. He co-owns
Get Out!
magazine here in New York.”
He was writing furiously in a kind of shorthand. “Never heard of him or the mag. Is it a gay rag?”
“No, outdoor adventure.”
He nodded. “Okay, and why do you think he’s the killer?”
“That’s the part I can’t tell you. You have to trust
me
on that.”
“Fair enough.” He gave her a serious look. “I have a bad feeling about this. About you, in particular. Do you believe in that kind of thing?”
“Sort of.”
She tuned into his thoughts among the murmur of everyone else’s.
What does she know? What is she holding back? If only she’d tell me everything.
She took a sip of her coffee. “I know serial killers have certain tendencies. Owen fits some. Socially uncomfortable. Broken home. Loner. Maybe you can find out if he fits the profile. I figured from your articles you know Kiss and Kill Cupid pretty well.”
“Unfortunately, that I do. What I really want to write is an article about how they caught the guy.” He jabbed his thumb at his chest. “And how I helped.” He tapped the notepad. “Has this guy been bothering you?”
“Not bothering, per se.” She shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t get into it.”
“Tell me this: has he just appeared in your life in the past few days? The police think that’s what Kiss and Kill Cupid does, targets his victim and gets to know her in the days leading up to Valentine’s Day.”
Well, that fit Adrian more than Owen. “His friend approached me about a business opportunity.”
“His friend.” Dale poised his pencil over his notepad. “What’s his name?”
“No, it’s not him.”
“Can you be sure about that?” He studied her. “What, you’re into him, aren’t you? Can’t imagine a nice guy could be a killer? Think again. Ted Bundy was the nicest guy around. He even helped at a suicide hotline. Can you believe that? He helped people to not take their lives, then went out and killed.” He shook his head, but his gaze narrowed in on her. “It’s not worth your life to trust anyone.”
She felt a tightness in her chest. “Just check out Owen.”
Dale whipped out his BlackBerry from his backpack. “Owen Bushnell,” he muttered as his thumbs danced over the tiny keys. Bart Simpson peered at her from the skin on the back, asking,
Do I know you?
Dale scanned the results. “A few articles connected to the mag. I’ll see what I can dig up about his past.”
“That would be great.”
He tapped his BlackBerry. “I’ve got your number. I’ll let you know if I find anything suspicious. In the meantime, do you have any protection? Gun, pepper spray?”
She patted her purse. “The standard pepper spray.” Which she could use to disable the guy so Adrian could whack him.
He shoved his BlackBerry into a pouch in his cargo backpack. “Be careful. And remember what I said: don’t trust anyone.”
Kristy had run errands the rest of the afternoon. Her cell phone rang with the latest Offspring song while she was checking out at the grocery mart. Her heart jumped. It was Adrian.
“Hey, there,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Don’t you want to know what I’m wearing?” She couldn’t help the grin breaking out on her face.
“I’ll find that out later. I’m sure it’ll be something bright enough to cheer up this dreary day.”
“Actually, I haven’t been home yet. I’m getting the fixings for dinner right now.”
“Are you close to my office?”
“Not very far.”
“Why don’t you come here? I’m running a little late. I’ve got a conference call in three minutes. You can park the perishables in the fridge here. I’ll call the travel agent we use to make your travel plans.”
“For after Valentine’s Day.”
“After Valentine’s Day,” he confirmed, a bit begrudgingly. “Later in the week, just in case this all goes down and we need to stay around and answer questions. After we get your flights hammered out, we can head to your place together.”
“Are you trying to protect me?” It was getting dark already.
“Maybe I want to spend more time with you. Then I can help you with dinner.”
“Deal. Be there in a few mins.”
She arrived at the office shortly after. The door was still unlocked, but it looked as though everyone had gone home. She peered in Adrian’s office. He was on the phone, but he gestured around the corner, and she found the break room. She put her bag in the fridge, content to wander the hallways, until she realized Owen might not be in his office.
“Can I use a computer?” she whispered.
He nodded and she took off, looking for an office that might be Owen’s. Ah, God bless the nameplate. She found it on the next door and slipped in. The lights were off, and only the watery, gray light outside washed in through the window. She settled into his leather chair and turned on the PC. He had no pictures of friends or family on his desk or credenza. Nothing much of a personal nature. A few seconds later she opened his Internet Explorer page and dropped down the History list for that day.
She scanned the list. Nothing about how to murder a woman, of course, but a couple of newspaper sites. She opened the sublist on one of those.
Bingo.
He’d been reading about Kiss and Kill Cupid. Other news items, too, but those could be a cover. She went to the other newspaper site and found the same thing. That one was Dale’s story. She’d made the right decision.
“What are you doing?”
She swiveled to find Adrian—thank goodness it wasn’t Owen—standing behind her looking at the screen. “He’s been reading up on Kiss and Kill Cupid.”
“Who hasn’t? It’s in the news. People are morbidly fascinated by it.”
He had a point. She closed down the computer. “I’m leaving the possibility open that he could be the one. And I respect that you don’t see it that way. Let’s just leave it at that, ‘kay? I don’t want this evening to be about all this, other than making our plan.”
“Deal,” he said, though his expression was a bit darker. “Ready to go?”
“Sure am.”
He was quiet as they waited for the car he’d called. She caught herself wanting to make it right, to make her case, anything to smooth things out. Damn, this was when she wished she could hear his thoughts.
No
,
scratch that.
Forty-five minutes later, they were making dinner together, the tension of earlier finally dissipating. She pulled the sauté pan off the flame and used tongs to set the strips of seasoned chicken on the platter. It sizzled, just like it did at her fave Mexican restaurant.
Adrian arranged the platter with tortillas, shredded cheddar, and salsa, then set it on the small dining table. “Most women wouldn’t dare eat something messy like this, much less make it.”
She set the chicken on the table. “It’s fun food.” She nodded to the platter of sautéed vegetables. “And colorful.”
“Like you.”
She arched one of her eyebrows. “Are you comparing me to fajitas?”
He laughed. “I guess I am.”
She plopped down on the chair. “I guess that’s better than being compared to, say, tofu or pickles.”
He laughed. “Definitely.”
They enjoyed the dinner, along with a Riesling he’d brought, and fun, light conversation that expressly avoided talk of Kiss and Kill Cupid or Owen.
Afterward, she began to take the dishes into the kitchen. To her delight, he helped. One guy she’d had over for dinner actually flopped down on the couch and turned on the television while she cleaned up. And asked her to bring him a beer! She’d nearly lobbed it at his head.
Her cell phone rang. She glanced at the number on the screen: Dale Soza. No way could she take that call.
“Unfortunately, I have to get this cleaned up before my roommate gets in, which will be late tonight. She has fits, even though I always clean up my messes. One time I left it until morning, and she’d put sticky notes on the stove and the table, everywhere where there was a dish.”
He ran the water and started rinsing the dishes. “She sounds like fun.”
She rolled her eyes. “Loads. She gets on my case about the pan handles sticking out over the edge of the stove. And yes, it makes sense because they can be bumped accidentally, but she’s freaky about it. She walks in, and screeches, ‘Pan handles!’ The only reason I’ve stayed is I hardly ever see her. I’m hoping to get my own place soon.”
Honest to Pete, there wasn’t anything much sexier than a man doing dishes. Through Adrian’s tight knit shirt, she could see his muscles working. He was wide at the shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist and hips, and in tailored dress pants, she could see one of the finest derrieres she’d ever laid eyes on. The song “I Like the Way You Move” from Outkast played in her mind.
What she wanted to do was slide up behind him.
Calm yourself, girl. Don’t be slutty. You’re not there yet.
She took a deep breath and walked up beside him, taking the soapy plate he was holding and rinsing it.
She tucked it in the dish rack. “And no dishwasher, can you believe it?”
He gave her a grin. “Well, you’ve got one tonight.”
“If this place came with you, I’d stay here forever.” She put a soapy hand to her mouth. “Did I actually say that aloud?”