Sal’s eyes twinkled and she knew he’d poked at her on
purpose. “I imagine that would be a lot of men’s fantasy. But not mine,” he
added quickly. “Josie wouldn’t like it.”
“I’m sure,” Eve said dryly. Then she shrugged.
“Besides, I’m not wasting my time playing computer games. Shadowland’s for my
thesis, and you know it.”
Sal’s eyes stopped twinkling. “Exactly my point. Even
when you play a game, you’re working. When was the last time you went on a
date?”
Five years, eleven months, and seven days ago
. That the amount of time should come back to her so
quickly, after all this time, was… terrifying.
“I thought so,” Sal said quietly when she said
nothing. “You’ve been under so much stress lately. This project of yours is
putting dark circles under your eyes. I want you to take some time off. Take a
vacation. Go to Florida and get some sun.”
Eve tossed the ice bag into the sink and started
mixing a martini, the usual drink of the next customer in line. “Vacations take
money, Sal. I don’t have any.”
“I’ll loan you some,” he said simply. “Tell me what
you need.”
Abruptly she put the shaker down, her heart in her
throat. “Damn, I hate it when you’re nice. Why can’t you be a mean boss?”
Swallowing back what would have been embarrassing tears, she patted his beefy
shoulder. “Keep your money. I’m fine.”
He shook his head. “You’re not fine. You’re worried. I
see it in your eyes.”
She finished the martini and started with the next
order. “I wish everyone would stop looking into my eyes,” she muttered,
Callie’s observation about Noah Webster still fresh. She looked for a subject
change and found it in the magazine Callie had left behind. “Jack Phelps was in
here tonight, but he left before I could ask him to sign the
MSP
cover.”
“I heard it was more like he got called out,” Sal
remarked mildly. “By Webster.”
She turned and stared at his profile. “How did you
know that?”
His sideways glance was almost amused. “I know what
goes on in my own bar, Eve. I’m surprised it’s taken Webster this long. There
was a pool, you know—how long Web would put up with Phelps before he requested
a transfer or cleaned Jack’s clock.”
The mental image of such an altercation left Eve
disturbingly aroused. “Who won?”
“Nobody. Webster’s outlasted all of our predictions.
Man’s either a saint or a fool.” He slanted another glance her way, this one
annoyed. “Maybe both.”
Eve thought of the parting words Noah had uttered with
grim resignation, more a good-bye than a thank-you. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t
think he’s coming back.”
Which was for the best. She didn’t have time for
anything more than work, school, and her Fantasy Island computer game.
Not
true
. It wasn’t the time she didn’t have. It was the heart. And various
other internal organs that made a huge difference.
Sal sighed. “I’m sorry, honey.”
She made herself smile. “Don’t be.” She poured the
martini and reached for an olive, relieved to find the canister empty. She
needed a minute to herself. For just a moment or two, she needed to hide.
“We’re out of olives. Hold the fort. I’ll get them.”
Sunday, February 21, 9:10 p.m.
Finally
. The
Hat Squad finally knew they had a homicide. It had taken them long enough.
Three homicides, carefully staged. At least they’d seen it with Martha
Brisbane.
He hadn’t realized how impatient he’d grow, waiting
for them to engage. But as frustrating as the wait had been, the Hat Squad’s
ineptitude better furthered his goal—to see them humiliated, degraded, their
stature in the community obliterated.
To see stripped away that infuriating self-importance
they wore along with their badges and guns. And their hats. He wanted each of
those hat-wearing, knuckle-scraping Neanderthals to see themselves for what
they really were. Worthless failures.
Which was precisely why he’d staged these murders as
suicides.
He’d known they’d miss the first victim, perhaps even
the second. That they’d be so eager to close a suicide that they’d miss the
clues he’d left behind. He didn’t know what had finally tipped them off,
whether it was that they’d finally seen the clues or because they’d finally
connected Martha to the other two. Regardless, they would soon know that there
had been others, that through their carelessness they had
missed
two
homicides.
Now they were on victim three of his six, halfway
through the game already.
Because they had God complexes, they would blame
themselves. They would know that if they’d been smarter, quicker,
competent
,
they would have seen victim number one hadn’t killed herself. That they might
have prevented the deaths of the others.
They’d begin to second-guess themselves, and each
other. And as the body count climbed, all that they believed they were, the
mirage of strength they’d built of their own hubris would disappear. Because
their strength had never been.
He would move on, stronger through their weakness. And
he alone would know the truth, because they’d never find the one who’d brought
demise to their public façade.
But enough of that for now. They’d finally discovered
Martha Brisbane, aka victim number three of his six, aka Desiree. The game had
officially begun.
On to victim four. He opened his laptop and logged in
to his new hunting ground. There was a great deal to be said about the supposed
anonymity of Shadowland’s virtual “world.” His victims were there to play,
their guard down. In the virtual world they could say and do things they’d
never dream of doing in the real world. He could earn their trust more easily
because they believed he didn’t know who they really were.
But he knew. It was why he’d chosen these particular
six out of the millions online.
He knew their names, addresses, occupations, marital
status, and—of great personal value—their phobias, their worst fears. He’d
tailored each experience to the victim, so although he hadn’t put his hands
around their throats or allowed himself release, he’d been able to stoke the
first three to more intense terror than he’d ever achieved with his hookers.
In the past, the fears had been only in his victims’
minds, a byproduct of the ketamine he’d used to sedate them. Not so with these
six. They played in the virtual world, but he’d make certain they died
terrified in the real one.
His first of six had been so terrified of small
spaces. After minutes in a box, Amy had been hysterical. Pulling that twine
around her neck as her heart had thundered, her body unable to flee… It had
taken real discipline to keep from losing control.
He’d managed to conjure the memory of her terror
later, when he was back at home, alone. But his climax was only a pale shadow
of what it would have been had he taken it as his first of six gasped her last.
But one had to make sacrifices for the greater goal.
Samantha, his second of six, had been afraid of being
buried alive. He’d had a bad moment when he thought she’d passed out, lying
under feet of dirt, a snorkel her only access to air. He wanted her conscious
when he killed her, completely aware. To his relief she’d struggled like an
animal when he’d unearthed her. It had been magnificent.
Martha… not so much. She hadn’t been that afraid of
water. So he’d made her pay in other ways. One had only to look at her
apartment to know she was obsessive about the
stuff
she’d accumulated.
Excepting her computer, nothing was of value, but its loss induced nothing less
than sheer panic. So he’d forced her to throw it all away.
And she’d loved her cat. Those threats had resulted in
extreme disturbance.
When he put Martha back in the water, he finally
achieved terror. By the end, she’d begged him to kill her. He rolled his eyes.
By the end, he’d been happy to oblige.
Christy Lewis would be number four of six. He had high
hopes for Christy.
Oh, yesssss.
He chuckled aloud. Christy’s phobia was
especially intense.
“Gwenivere, are you online tonight?” Of course she
was. She always was. Christy wasn’t Gwenivere any more than Martha had been
Desiree. But Shadowland’s motto said it all.
Sometimes you want to go where
no one knows your name.
“Except me.”
Gwenivere was at Ninth Circle, the virtual club she
visited every night. Here she was a former Miss Universe, a pianist as well as
an avid dancer and witty conversationalist.
Shadowland was truly a fantasyland.
Gwenivere
,
he typed.
I’ve missed you
.
Christy’s avatar smiled at him. Her avatar had one of
Pandora’s nicer faces. He also had invested in a quality face and body-builder
physique for his own avatar. Pandora’s Façades Face Emporium had good stock and
wasn’t nearly as expensive as some of the other avatar designers.
After all, one had to look one’s best when hunting
shallow, narcissistic fantasy addicts. But one also had to save a little cash
for expenses. Like his Ninth Circle bar tab or his account at the Casino
Royale’s most elite poker table.
Long time no see
, Christy typed back.
Where have you been?
Waiting for someone to find Martha Brisbane, he
thought.
His avatar took the bar stool Christy had saved, his
long legs easily allowing his feet to touch the floor. He’d chosen Pandora’s
tallest, most muscular model because that’s what would most easily attract his
prey. As the hunter, he had to choose the best bait, even when it sickened him.
Off on business
,
he typed.
You know, bought an island, built a resort, made a million. Can I
buy you a drink?
Christy’s avatar smiled again.
Oh, maybe just one.
He’d chat with her awhile, get her talking. It never
took more than a few minutes for Christy to abandon her Gwenivere persona and
become herself. Once he’d “slipped,” telling her he lived near Minneapolis.
She’d been surprised, revealing that she did, too.
Of course she did. That’s one of the reasons he’d
picked her.
She’d suggested they meet several times, but he’d
always put her off. He’d still been waiting for Martha to be found. Tonight
he’d suggest they meet, just for coffee.
Just to talk.
They always fell for it. Every single time. So why change what worked?
Sunday, February 21, 9:55 p.m.
“Normally we don’t allow visitors this late,” the
nurse said.
“We’re sorry. It took longer to find Mrs. Brisbane
than we expected,” Jack said.
“If Mrs. Brisbane is asleep, you’ll have to come back
tomorrow. Department policy.”
“We understand,” Noah said. Martha Brisbane had chosen
a nice place for her mother, he thought. Must’ve run Martha a pretty chunk of
change.
Noah thought of his own mother who wintered in Arizona
because of her health. Between his dead father’s police pension and a sizable
percentage of his own salary, he’d settled her pretty comfortably. It was a
financial sacrifice, but she was his mom and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
He imagined Martha had felt the same.
“Will getting this news about her daughter’s death
affect her heart?” Noah asked.
“It might, if she had one,” the nurse said, then sighed.
“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” She opened the door, revealing a woman who
nearly disappeared against the white sheets. “Mrs. Brisbane, these men are
detectives. They’re here to talk to you.”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “What about?” she demanded
sharply.
Noah had lost the toss. “I’m Detective Webster and
this is my partner, Detective Phelps,” he said, keeping his voice as gentle as
possible. “We’re here about your daughter, Martha. She’s dead, ma’am. We’re
very sorry for your loss.”
Mrs. Brisbane’s mouth pinched as if she’d eaten
something sour. “How?”
They’d agreed to keep Martha’s death a suicide until
the ME filed his report. That said, they were questioning witnesses assuming
Dr. Gilles would confirm a homicide.
“It appears she killed herself,” Noah said.
“Then she got what she deserved. The wages of sin is
death, Detective. It’s as simple as that.” And with that Mrs. Brisbane closed
her eyes, dismissing them.
“Whoa,” Jack mouthed silently, then cleared his
throat. “Ma’am, we have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind,” Mrs. Brisbane snapped, not opening her
eyes. “Make them leave. Now.”
“You have to leave.” In the hallway the nurse
shrugged. “That was pretty mild.”
“ ‘She got what she deserved,’ was mild?” Jack asked,
incredulous. “Hell.”
“Mrs. Brisbane didn’t approve of Martha,” she said,
“and I have no idea why.”
“Was this disapproval something new?” Noah asked.
“No. It’s been that way since she got here, about six
months ago.”