“I thought you were getting a big dog,” Dan said.
“I thought I was getting a big dog, too.”
“He’s great.”
“Hey, did you hear anything about the new role yet?” she asked him.
“Zeus? Nope. I think the park’s getting nervous. Who knows? Tourism may plummet. There may never be a part, because there may never be a play.”
“Have you pushed Mike to help?” she asked him.
“Mike can’t do anything now. He’s finished with his part of it. He did recommend me, of course. And I did a damned good audition. So…” He winced suddenly.
“What?”
“I think Patti Jo was up for a part, too.”
She let out a long breath and stopped herself from telling him that she was sorry. He knew it already. And it wasn’t as if anything she said could make it better.
“Are you going to be all right going home tonight?” she asked him.
“Of course.” Dan glanced at her. “Are you going to be all right in that old house by yourself?”
“I’m not by myself,” she assured him with a laugh. “I have Killer.”
When they got back to the house, he went inside with her, and together they walked through the rooms, making sure no one was there and nothing was out of place. She really only did it to make Dan happy. She was certain Killer would have pitched a barking fit if there had been anyone in the house.
But she thanked Dan and gave him a good-night peck on the cheek, then locked the door behind him and went to bed feeling confident, the little dog at her side.
“Yup, kiddo, you get to sleep on the bed,” she told him when he sat on the floor looking wistfully at the mattress.
She lay down, amazed at how tired she was and just how ready she was to go to sleep. Then again, she hadn’t had much sleep since she’d moved in.
She was just dozing off when she felt the dog move. Felt him rise and heard him sniff the air. Suddenly he hopped down from the bed.
“Killer?” she whispered, too nervous to call it out.
She slipped out of bed and started down the stairs, feeling the heavy silence of the house. She started to call out his name again, but the sound died in her throat. When she reached the front hall, she hesitated, listening.
She heard a little whining sound. Not a bark. Nothing that sounded like either pain or agitation. It actually sounded…affectionate.
“Killer?” she said, and followed the sound into the parlor.
A scream froze in her throat.
A man was there.
Solid. Real. Sitting on the piano bench and stroking her dog.
He looked up, and her pent-up scream tore from her throat.
A look of distress crossed his features, and he rose, reaching out to her. “Please, don’t scream. Help me.”
She shook her head, another scream tearing from her lips. Because she knew who he was. Beau Kidd.
Except Beau Kidd was dead.
“Please…I need help,” he told her.
But she hardly heard him, because the world was spinning, fading. As she sank into oblivion, the last thing she heard was Killer’s whine of distress.
8
S itting at his dining room table, Jed spread out the files and notes he had accrued, the past on the left, the present on the right. And in the center, a list of the various commonalities he had come up with.
Most of the women were in the entertainment business in some way—but nothing sleazy like stripping or pole-dancing. But he still didn’t think it was their employment that had drawn the killer—or killers—to them.
The hair?
Every single victim had red hair or noticeable red highlights, whether natural or artificial.
The latest victim had last been seen leaving work.
He paused and flipped through his notes. Grace Garcia had last been seen leaving a shopping mall. He kept flipping. All the women had disappeared in parking lots, whether coming or going. None of them—and the police had searched their apartments thoroughly—had been abducted from home. The killer was taking them when they were in close proximity to the safety of their own cars.
Therefore the killer either appeared trustworthy or was someone all the victims had known.
The second option didn’t seem likely. No one had discovered any common acquaintances between the women killed twelve years ago, much less between them and the newest victims.
He found himself pulling out an old file concerning the investigation following Beau Kidd’s death. The detective who had written up the majority of the notes, a man named Bill Grimsby, had apparently taken Larry Atkins’s word regarding the final killing, but he had checked out Beau’s alibi for the death of the other woman he had dated. At the time she had been taken, he had been at his family’s home. His parents had sworn that he’d been there almost all day, a Saturday, helping his father take down the hurricane shutters, then had stayed for dinner.
Jed had wanted to interview Grimsby when he was writing his book, but had never gotten the chance, because Grimsby had retired and headed out on a sailboat somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.
Jed put the file down and picked up the phone to call Jerry.
“Got anything?” Jerry asked glumly when he picked up.
“Yeah, but mostly just the obvious. We know he likes redheads, but beyond that…These women are walking away with someone they trust. They know him, or he has the ability to make them believe in him, just like we said earlier.”
“There has to be a connection,” Jerry said disgustedly. “We’re doing the legwork. Asking all the right people the right questions. But the last two victims…they were happy as little larks, heading home, then…they were reported missing, their cars found abandoned…and then…well, you’ve seen the way they ended up. So far, we haven’t got squat.”
“You’ve got enough to save a few lives,” Jed told him. “You need to speak with your public affairs person. Warn women matching the description not to go anywhere alone and not to trust strangers, no matter how harmless they seem. Get it on the air. It might to do some good.”
“Yeah,” Jerry murmured.
“What?”
He could almost hear Jerry sigh at the other end. “People will ignore us, think they’re safe, think they know better. This killer—he’ll find another victim.”
“Make it hard on him.”
“The thing is…”
“What?”
“If he doesn’t kill again, if he doesn’t make a mistake somewhere along the line, we’ll never catch him,” Jerry said.
Jed was silent for a long moment, then asked, “Jerry, do you know anything about Bill Grimsby? I know he retired, but have you heard anything about him coming back to the States?”
“I don’t know anything, but you might want to call Larry Atkins.”
“Why would Larry know?”
“Hell, no one ever told you when you were writing that book?”
“Told me what?”
“Bill Grimsby and Larry Atkins were tight. In fact, I think they’re distant cousins or something like that. Give Larry a call. Maybe he can tell you where Bill has gotten himself off to.”
How the hell had he not known that, and how the hell had that fact been ignored? Jed asked himself in shock. The officer verifying the facts regarding another officer who had fired his weapon and killed his own partner had been a buddy—maybe even a relative—of that same officer?
Surprised, disturbed and angry with himself as well as everyone else, Jed somehow kept a civil tone as he told Jerry to have a good night, then rang off.
He drummed his fingers on the table, wishing he still smoked.
How the hell had that information been ignored?
Everyone had wanted the case to go away. People wanted to sleep nights. They had all wanted it to be true that the killer was dead.
He looked at his watch. It was late. But not late enough. And since he was never going to sleep, what the hell? Might as well drive.
She felt Killer’s cold little nose against her cheek. Frowning, she struggled to open her eyes.
When she did, she gasped, ready to scream again as she struggled to get up, desperately trying to get away from the man who was hunkered down by her side, an anxious expression on his face.
He couldn’t be real, she told herself. She had utterly lost her mind, and no dog was protection against that. Her poor little dog of one day was owned by a woman who was totally insane, living in a fantasy world where the dead came back to life.
She stared at him. “Go away. I do not see you,” she begged.
“But you do see me. And you saw me before.”
“Never.”
“You didn’t see me, all those years ago?”
“What are you talking about? No—don’t answer me. I’m getting up, and I’m leaving. Hell, I’m going to have myself booked into a lunatic asylum.”
He reached out, as if to help her rise.
“No,” she cried softly.
Killer barked happily, as if this were some kind of a game, and looked from her to Beau Kidd.
Beau Kidd.
Impossible.
But it was Beau Kidd. She knew his face. Was it from the newspapers? It had to be. They had never met. And she had never seen him before.
Except…
Except at the foot of her bed the other night. Except at the table at the café. Except out in her yard, when she’d passed out. Passed out and been found in the morning.
By Jed.
Who was certain she was crazy, or at least emotionally disturbed.
She stared at him and told herself that she had to be dreaming, that in reality she was still passed out on the floor.
“Go away. You’re dead. You can’t be here. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. Now, go away,” she repeated.
“You do know me,” he said stubbornly. “And,” he added softly, “you know damned well that I can be here.”
“What?” she murmured.
He smiled. He had dimples, and he was very good-looking. And she was insane.
