Authors: Allison Brennan
TWELVE
N
ICK PULLED HIS LAPTOP COMPUTER
from the bottom of his overnight bag. He wasn’t a computer expert by any stretch, but it was the twenty-first century and he’d broken down and bought one a couple years ago.
He glanced at Steve’s closed bedroom door. His brother had come in late the night before while Nick tried to sleep on the couch. He didn’t let on that he was awake, and Steve quietly went into the bedroom and shut the door. It sounded like he was still asleep, which was good. Nick wanted to do this alone.
He set up his laptop on Steve’s desk and hooked in the Internet connection.
There was a family picture on the desk. Nick, Steve, their parents. Paul Thomas had his arm around Steve’s shoulders, Miriam Thomas had her arm around Nick’s. That’s how Nick always remembered the family. Nick was the outsider to his father. It must have been evident from the day he was born because his mother overcompensated when his father left for his monthly reserve duty.
But when Dad was around, the world revolved around Steve, and Nick was a distant star falling deep in Steve’s shadow. It had bothered him a lot when he was a kid. Except that Steve had always been good to him.
Nick poured coffee he’d brewed earlier, then opened the sliding glass door to let in the ocean breeze. He breathed in the unfamiliar salty air and listened to the squawk of the seagulls. They were loud scavengers, but they never pretended to be anything but.
The rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves rolling over the sand and even the annoying birds were somehow relaxing, so he left the door open and sat at his laptop. He didn’t have Angie’s Web address, but he knew it was part of the MyJournal community, so he started there.
After a half-dozen searches he found it. An entry dated today popped up and he frowned at the “Tribute.” The more he read the more uncomfortable he became. He wondered if the detectives had seen this.
He also wondered if one of the “S’s” was Steve. The older man. Coincidence? Maybe. But if the entry really was written by the victim’s friends, they would be here in San Diego. Nick didn’t believe it was a coincidence.
“I don’t make it a habit dating girls at the college. Angie was the only one.”
Nick’s heart sank as he realized Steve had probably lied to him. He hadn’t fully believed him at the time because Steve hadn’t looked him in the eye, but the evidence in front of him was still a blow.
Nick read as much of Angie’s journal as he could stomach, skimming most of it, until he found a few paragraphs in the middle of a long commentary about a variety of subjects. His heart twisted at the anguish in the few short lines.
I just received my first quarter report card. 4.0. That’s perfect. No one is surprised because I’ve always been a straight-A student. I couldn’t be anything but, right? I mean, people see what they want and we give them what they want to see.
Sometimes I want people to see the real me, to hear what I really say. But they don’t. This journal is a perfect example. Is this me? No, it’s not. It’s what you think I am, so I give it to you.
I don’t know me. I don’t think I ever have.
Hopeless. She sounded desperate and begging for something that even she couldn’t name. Her friends hadn’t seen it, and the men who lusted after her sexy writing certainly didn’t see it. Had Steve? Or had he been as blind as everyone else?
Nick focused next on the comments left by visitors to her site. Steve believed Angie’s killer had frequented her Web page. If that were the case, would he have commented? Positive or negative? There were several men who wanted her phone number. Some who wrote lewd descriptions of what they wanted to do with her. And many were downright mean.
Repent now, sinner, or you’re going to Hell.
I used to be addicted to sex. You can be cured.
Fucking whore.
Nick frowned at that last comment. He clicked on the ID and suddenly the page went blank.
404. Page not found.
He surfed around a bit, was able to view other pages, but Angie’s was gone.
The police must have worked with the MyJournal company to take down her journal. It was both a relief and frustrating to Nick. After reading the Butcher’s personal journals—handwritten, not online—he’d developed a feeling for how these sick predators thought. How they communicated. He’d hoped to read more of the comments and come up with something solid to take to Detectives Kincaid and Hooper. A profile of sorts, proof his brother was innocent. If he could use his experience with serial killers to narrow down the suspects, maybe they could get ahead of the game.
Hell, he would have given his right arm for something solid on the Butcher before twenty-two women had died.
Nick poured another cup of coffee, then sat back down at the computer to download a map to the police station. He was here to help Steve, but he felt for Angie Vance. She’d been confused, desperate, and very sad. No one in her life had seen that she needed help, maybe because she was so good at hiding her pain. But wasn’t that why he’d become a cop? To help young people straighten out their lives before it was too late?
It was too late for Angie, but he could damn well do something to help find her killer.
Behind him, a woman cleared her throat.
Nick stood slowly and turned. A tall, slender girl holding her own steaming mug leaned against the door. She had straight golden-blond hair that touched her waist, and worry lines creased her pretty face.
“How did you get up here?”
“I live next door.” She gestured to the half-railing that separated Steve’s apartment from his neighbor’s. “What happened to Steve? There’s a rumor around campus that the police were here searching his apartment. That they think he killed Angie.”
“And you are?”
“Ava James. You’re his brother, Nick, aren’t you?”
Nick nodded.
“Steve talks about you all the time.”
Nick hid his surprise.
“Where’s Steve?” she asked.
“Inside.”
“Poor guy. I can’t believe the police would ever think he’s capable of killing anyone.”
“Did you know Angie?”
She squinched up her nose as she sat on one of two Adirondack chairs Steve had positioned to view the ocean. “Yeah.”
“How long were she and Steve involved?” Nick asked, stepping onto the deck.
“A couple weeks. It didn’t mean anything to her, but Steve always falls quick.” Panic hit her face. “I shouldn’t say that to the police, should I?”
“Ava, you need to tell the police the truth. Lying will not help Steve.”
“It just looks bad, but it’s not bad,” she said quickly. “Steve got over her when she broke up with him, like he always does.”
Nick froze. “Always does?”
“Yeah. Jodi, then Katrina, then Deena, then whoever. Since I moved in eighteen months ago he’s fallen in love at least a dozen times.”
“Are they all from the college?”
“Of course. That’s where we hang out. There or at the Sand Shack or a couple other places. Deena works at the Starbucks next to the college. I liked her the best because I think she really cared about Steve, not like Jodi and Angie and the others, who just wanted to screw around with an older man.”
“What about you?”
She blushed, glanced down. “Steve and I are just friends.”
“Friends.” Nick felt ill again. If Ava was twenty-one, Nick would eat his Stetson. And all the other girls . . . how old were they? College age? Twenty? Eighteen like Angie?
Steve had told him Angie was the only one. That he didn’t make a habit of dating college girls. His brother had lied to him. He
was
the other “S” on the “Tribute” entry, no doubt about it now. Nick hadn’t realized that he’d harbored faint hope that his instincts were wrong.
What else had Steve lied about? And if he lied to him, his own brother, he had probably lied to the police.
Dammit! Why lie? Criminals think they can out-smart the cops, but the truth is that lies are uncovered each and every time. Especially verifiable information like who Steve publicly dated.
Criminal. He’d just thought of his brother not only as a criminal, but capable of rape and murder.
“What’s wrong?” Ava asked.
“Nothing,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a card. “Here’s my cell phone number. Please call me if you have any information about Steve, Angie, or anyone who didn’t like Angie. Or someone who gave her undue attention. Do you know her current boyfriend?”
Ava took the card and shook her head. “No, except what Steve has told me. The guy’s into drugs and a bad scene. Real ego trip. But Steve also thought Angie was about to break up with him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because of something he read on her journal. You’ve seen it, right?”
He nodded and wished he’d read the entries more carefully.
Ava blushed, averted her eyes. “It’s pretty risqué.”
Steve walked onto the deck shirtless, wearing only sweatpants. He yawned and sipped coffee. “Thanks for making a pot.” His face lit up when he saw Ava. “Hi, sweetheart!” He draped an arm over her shoulders, gave a squeeze, and kissed her cheek.
“You okay?” she asked, concern on her face.
She’s half in love with him,
Nick realized.
“I’ll be fine,” Steve said. “Nick came down to help. Once the police stop looking at me, they’ll focus their search on finding the real killer.”
Nick was disturbed by his brother’s casual comments. He wanted to confront him about the lies, but right now he needed more information. “We’ll talk later. I have to go.”
“Go where?”
“Out.” Nick left Steve and Ava on the deck, not trusting himself to control his temper.
He grabbed his gun, holstered it, pulled on his jean jacket and hat, and left.
Carina paced, not from nervous energy but because she was so mad at the three girls who sat in front of her that she wanted to throttle them.
“What were you thinking?” she repeated for the umpteenth time.
All three had the sense to look ashamed.
She and Will had pulled the girls from their classes and they now sat in the dean’s office, evicting him for the joint interview. In passing, Carina noticed the numerous degrees, awards, and photographs—reminiscent of Steven Thomas’s apartment but more appropriate in the large, opulent, and brightly lit office.
She was scared for these girls. They hadn’t seen Angie’s body. They didn’t know what had been done to her. “Don’t you know there’s a killer out there? Do you want to be his next victim?”
“Detective,” Will warned quietly, and Carina turned around and took a deep breath.
More flies with honey.
She heard Nick Thomas’s deep, sexy voice in her head. Where had that come from?
“Abby.” Will sat across from the scared girls, his calm, firm demeanor a better fit in this situation. Carina’s half-Cuban/half-Irish temper sometimes helped, sometimes hindered. “We’re simply concerned about your safety. Putting sexually suggestive photographs of yourselves for the whole world to see was not smart.”
“I’m sorry,” Jodi said. “We’re all sorry. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” She was blushing and didn’t look Will in the eye.
Carina sighed and said, “The fact remains that we haven’t arrested Angie’s murderer and we don’t know if you’ve all put yourselves in danger.”
Will nodded. “We don’t want to be investigating another murder. These cases can take a long time to build. This isn’t television. Smoking guns are rare. That means that we need to go through all the evidence carefully, investigate alibis and backgrounds, interview witnesses. We put all the information we gather together and see if it points to a suspect. If it does, then we dig deeper and make an arrest. Finally, it’s up to the District Attorney’s Office to decide if there is enough evidence to warrant prosecution.
“Sometimes,” he continued, “we’re confident we know who the killer is, but we don’t have enough evidence to arrest him. Sometimes it takes years to build a case.”
“And sometimes the killer is never caught,” Carina said.
The girls looked contrite. “We’re sorry,” Abby said. “Really. We’ll take down the page,” she quickly added.
“We’ve already had it removed, your entry and Angie’s entire journal.” Before the girls’ “Tribute,” Patrick had suggested they keep the site up in case the killer wanted to go online and gloat, or taunt the police or someone else. Now they couldn’t without risking Abby, Jodi, and Kayla. Though they hadn’t given their identities, if the killer knew Angie, he would be able to figure out who her friends were. At least that had been their theory an hour ago.
“Each one of you needs to be careful,” Carina said sternly. She glanced at Will, who nodded. “Abby, Kayla, you may go. Jodi, we’d like to talk to you alone for a minute.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“No, we just have some questions.”
“Can’t we stay? For moral support?” Abby said.
Will shook his head. “We need to talk to Jodi alone. But we may be talking to each of you later. Stay safe, okay? If you get any weird vibes, like anyone is watching you or you meet someone who gives you that funny feeling, call me. Anytime, no matter how minor you think it is.”
Kayla and Abby reluctantly left. Jodi bit her thumbnail. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “You’re not going to tell my parents, are you?”
“You’re over eighteen,” Will said. “We have no reason to speak with your parents.”
She noticeably relaxed. “You didn’t know Angie. You only saw her journal. I know it looks bad, but it really wasn’t as bad as it looks. She was a great person.” Tears sprang to her eyes.
Carina squeezed her hand. “Jodi, no one deserves what happened to Angie. You don’t need to convince me that she was a good person. I’m not judging her, or you, or your friends. Finding her killer is my only priority. Okay?”
Jodi’s lip quivered, but she nodded.
“Jodi, we need to know if S-two on your post was Steve Thomas.”
Jodi’s eyes widened with surprise. “How’d you know that was me? I didn’t use my name!”
Carina reached out and touched the ends of her hair. “Hair.”
“Oh.”
“Jodi, this is important,” Will said. “Was he Steve Thomas?”