Authors: Lynde Lakes
The next morning as they drove toward the airport she felt a relaxed edginess. They would easily make their morning flight to L.A. Still, deep in the pit of her stomach, muscles tightened in readiness to contract at the first sight of danger.
At a stoplight Dane took one hand off the wheel and rested it lightly on her shoulder. She kissed his hand, then smiled up at him. The glow of happiness on his face mirrored what she was feeling.
“Have I told you that you’re one terrific woman?”
“Not since last night,” she murmured. The desert sun had never shone brighter, the barren sand dunes and plateaus in the distance had never looked more colorful, more magnificent. Her heart filled with joy. He’d made her forget her troubles for a while. If only the warm connection between them didn’t have to end.
Three hours later, as they headed down Hollywood’s Sunset Boulevard in another rental car, Jill clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her tension growing again. What would she do if Tess didn’t show up at the audition?
“Does reporting the news ever get under your skin?” Jill asked. “I mean, do you ever hate it?”
The faint lines on his face deepened. “It’s all I have, now.”
Jill wanted to ask questions about the murder of his wife and son, but Dane’s rigid posture told her he wasn’t ready to answer them.
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Dane asked, “What do you do when you’re not chasing psychos?”
The question was a simple one, but she found it difficult to answer. “I’ve been on this case so long I’ve forgotten there’s a life beyond it.”
He grinned at her. Amusement crept into his brown eyes. “Let me help you. Judging by the collection of piano tapes and records in your living room, you’re a keyboard romantic. And by the mix in your library, I’d say you love to read both fiction and non-fiction. You don’t like to cook much, but you enjoy good food.” His grin deepened and he raised a teasing brow. “Like the omelet I whipped up for you.”
Dane turned into the parking structure for Studio One-Hundred. They took the elevator to the basement where the audition was being videotaped. He gave Jill’s icy hand an extra squeeze as they reached the desk where a sleek redhead in an upswept hairdo was checking in the models.
“Name please,” the woman asked.
Jill blushed. “Oh, no. I’m not one of the models.” She was surprised the woman didn’t recognize that. “Has Tess Grayson checked in?” Jill crossed her fingers, reverting to a practice she hadn’t indulged in since her teens.
Let Tess show up for this
.
Let her be here now.
The redhead scanned her list and shook her head. “But we’re expecting her,” she said. “Ms. Grayson sent in her bio and the glossy for the call board. She’s number thirteen.”
Thirteen! Oh great.
“If you want to wait,” the woman said, gesturing to the only two chairs not occupied by either gorgeous, long-legged California blondes or spicy brunettes. “Ms. Grayson should arrive any minute.”
An intense young woman with wiry hair entered the waiting area. Over rimmed spectacles, she looked at her clipboard. “Number eight?”
A platinum blonde in a red leather dress stood and followed her out of the reception room. Ignoring her, Dane moved closer to the call board. His look turned grim as he stared at a photo of Tess standing with her filmy white dress blowing in the wind. “What’s wrong?” Jill whispered, taking his arm. She couldn’t see anything disturbing about the photo. Quite the opposite, the photography was outstanding.
“The background looks familiar,” Dane said. “There’s a lighthouse on Marin Headlands, north of the Golden Gate Bridge...” His voice trailed away as though the thought of the place was too painful to contemplate. “I know only a few men with a still-shot signature like that.”
“Is Sammy one of them?” She noticed the photographer had somehow captured an incredible amount of energy and emotion in the photo.
Dane nodded. “Either Sammy or Gordy Angelo. They have similar styles and both do a lot of freelance work.”
Jill grasped Dane’s hand as they sat down. Both Angelo and Sammy had disappeared. The last she’d heard, Sammy hadn’t shown up at his staked-out apartment. His history of mental problems along with his disappearance raised questions. The ex-newsman’s name came up too often. But so did Gordy Angelo’s.
The woman with the clipboard finally called number thirteen. When none of the remaining models responded, she went on to the next number. If Tess were coming, she wouldn’t be late. Jill shuddered, remembering her sister used to jokingly say she’d rather be dead than late.
Chapter Thirty-One
Hours later, back in Saratoga, Dane placed Jill’s luggage in her bedroom. It griped the hell of him to return to the bay area without finding a lead to Tess’ whereabouts. The photo of her on the model’s call board had been Gordy’s work. He was fairly sure of it. But that didn’t prove anything. After all, he’d taken pictures of Tess himself. Even professor Mansell and several of the guys in the video class had hired her to model for them.
At least he and Jill had made progress in Vegas. And he’d gotten to know her better. His pulse raced. It drove him wild to remember how he’d devoured her frenzied sweetness with abandon. Having her once wasn’t enough.
He leaned on the dresser and glared into the mirror.
Remember why you’re here. Get this assignment over with, then get the hell away from the fire of this woman before you become permanently singed.
****
Jill looked up when she heard Dane’s footsteps. “Gary left a message with headquarters,” Jill said as she hung up. “Everything is wrapped tight in Vegas. The outlet store is out of business. At least we blocked that hole.”
Jill stared at him. His voice was deep and far too sexy to be discussing merely the case. He moved closer, as though he was as irresistibly drawn to her as she to him. She wanted to go into his arms. But she couldn’t afford to let down her guard again. Her sole focus had to be getting Tess back home alive. She backed away, around the desk, putting a barrier between them. Her response stopped him, but disappointment and relief washed over her in two painfully conflicting waves.
“Agents are reviewing the outlet’s records now,” she said. “But the process will take time. Time we don’t have.”
Fighting the lingering desire Dane’s tall, lean presence stirred in her, Jill flipped on her answering machine and scribbled the messages with quick, shorthand strokes of her pen.
Still, the electricity between them bounced off the walls and arced around them.
Dane blew a gust of air upward and quickly shed his jacket. He started toward her, then turned and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll brew a pot of coffee.” Under his breath she heard him say, “What I really need is a cold shower.”
She smiled. Ditto. Messages reverberated from the answering machine in a diverse tonal parade. Jill scribbled them down in shorthand until the sound of the evil, hoarse voice stopped her.
The killer gave the date and hour as though it was an ordinary business call. “You seemed like the one agent I could trust.” The killer’s words came quicker, a thread of nervousness running through them. “The person who really understood me, but you’re like all the rest.”
Jill stiffened and felt blood rushing from her face. Dane came to the doorway as though he’d heard what was being said. She motioned for him to stay put—any movement would drown out the words.
“Now,” the killer said, “I’m going to tangle you in dark ribbons of video tape and confusion.”
As the killer’s electronically altered voice grew stronger, Dane mouthed the word,
Bastard.
“For me, taping is a profitable game,” the voice said. “For you, disaster. You can’t fight me. I know where you are, where you’ve been...Vegas...Hollywood. Even what you’ve been doing in bed. You two made sizzling love scenes for my camera.”
Dane curled his fingers into tight fists. “Lying S.O.B,” Jill heard him say under his breath.
“Sweet Tess is alive—for the moment.” The syrupy voice hardened again. “She’s my type, you know. A fresh nymphet begging for trouble.” A crazed laugh followed. “And I’m trouble.”
Jill knew she was attacking the wrong person, but the killer wasn’t here. In a wide, angry sweep, she knocked everything off the desk except the offending recorder. Folders flew through the air, opening like fans, spewing papers over the carpet. Pencils and pens escaped their leather holder, rolling free, while the answering machine mockingly continued to play other messages.
“Don’t let him get to you, Jill.” Dane’s voice hardened. “We have to keep working with clear heads.”
Her mind exploded with visions of killing the man with the hideous whisper, cutting out his heart with one of his own long, sharp knives. She shook her head to clear it. But the bloody rage remained.
“You’re right,” Jill said, seething. “I have to be ready for his next call.”
She could kill if necessary. She’d been trained for it. But she’d never thirsted for it before. In all her years with the FBI, she’d trusted the system, believing in law and order. Now her heart throbbed with hatred and vengeance. Jill swallowed the metallic taste that rose in her throat. She was about to be tested, and she wasn’t at all certain she’d pass.
Jill replayed the rest of her calls with a calm born of murderous intent. She made notes of each message, then began the process of answering them. One might be the lead she needed to get to the killer before it was too late.
Agent Luke Makenna had called her with the updated report on Gordy Angelo. Angelo had spent his teen years in a mental institution. His complete profile was being faxed to her.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dane retreated to the kitchen in long strides. Jill was infuriatingly capable under fire. That should be a good thing. But damn it, her icy calm was dangerous. She was out for blood. It wasn’t just because of her sister. Getting serial killers off the street was what she did for a living. More than that, it was her calling. He’d known that from the beginning, but the impact of hearing her deal calmly with that psycho hit him hard. He wasn’t sure he could be involved on a permanent basis with a woman who matched wits with killers with such icy ease. Dane slammed his fist into his palm. He’d stay with her through this case, then she was on her own.
An empty threat.
She had him so worried and mixed up he didn’t recognize himself. But before he could analyze where this relationship was going, the killer had to be stopped.
It was going to be a long night. While the coffee finished brewing, he considered possible ways to trip up the maniac. A year ago, using standardized tip sheets with the who, what, when, where and why, this story had lead him to the university and the video class. His computer had made it easy to compare, collate and systematically study the data he’d gathered all year. Everything had led him to the studio and to either one of the lessees or the owner of the building. Now Sammy and Gordy had risen to the top of his list of suspects.
He flipped open his cell phone and made calls to his newsroom. The answers to his inquiries lead him back to Sammy. The guy was an egotistical, talented flake, matching perfectly the killer’s profile. Still, Dane needed proof before he pinned the string of killings on his ex-assistant. He’d never seen a sadistic side to Sammy and had even considered him a friend of sorts until he stepped over the line in the newsroom, invading the computers and changing his copy.
The coffee maker gurgled as it completed its cycle. Dane grabbed a couple of mugs from the cupboard. He needed a break from the high tension of sorting through the jigsaw of information.
****
By the end of Jill’s third call, she smelled the tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee. She had just finished touching base with the Bureau when Dane handed her a mug. The heat radiated through the ceramic, but she clung to the handle, watching the steam curl over her thumbnail and disappear.