01 Only Fear (3 page)

July Fourth was Ethan Townsend’s least favorite day, and it was finally over. As his red-rimmed eyes bypassed his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, they found confirmation that it was indeed well past midnight—nearly two in the morning, actually, according to the clock high above the bottles of liquor that lined the wall. He tipped the final drops of Scotch down his throat and welcomed the burn as he silently toasted a welcome to July fifth.

He wasn’t unpatriotic. It was just that the day everyone else in America was consuming vast quantities of beer and apple pie and setting off small explosives to celebrate the birth of the nation, Ethan was recalling fireworks of his own. And the life that had been lost three years ago because of them.

The bartender announced last call, which was a joke because Ethan and only one other customer, who’d nursed his drink for a good hour now, were in the godforsaken place. It was a dive, but it had what he needed on the one night a year he truly needed it. Solitude and alcohol.

His gaze rose to the mirror, again skipping over his own image and resting on that of the man in the corner, whose eyes were on him. Apparently interpreting the eye contact as an invitation, the man stood and wove his way unsteadily around empty chairs and tables to join him. It seemed his precious solitude was about to come to an end.

“I knew it.” The man’s breath stank of stale beer and cigarettes as his beady eyes peered at him. His jowls shook as he nodded vigorously. “You’re that guy. The one from the TV a couple years back. The one that got that little girl killed.”

Grief twisted Ethan’s gut. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“No,” he insisted, stabbing a finger at him through the suddenly charged air. The bartender watched them warily from the other end of the bar. “It was all over the news for weeks. You are that guy.”

Ethan’s jaw, stubbled with a day’s growth of beard, slid to the side. Of all the rotten luck… His hair was longer than three years ago, skimming the collar of his shirt, and his eyes were red with exhaustion, yet this guy recognized him.
Fuck.
He didn’t want to explain or make excuses. Not to a stranger. He couldn’t even explain it away to himself. And there were no excuses.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t kill anyone.” He felt the lie fall from his lips like lead. The thump of it echoed in his head as it settled in his stomach. “It wasn’t my finger on the trigger.”

“Yeah, but,” the guy began, taking a step toward him, his finger still pointed accusingly.

Ethan’s hand clenched around his glass. If the man touched him, so help him God…

Probably sensing trouble, the bartender brought his tab then, and Ethan quickly signed, rising off his barstool as he did so. At six feet, he was a good six inches taller than the other guy. And a good thirty pounds heavier. Thirty pounds of muscle. The fight wouldn’t be fair, and this guy wasn’t worth a visit to jail.

“’Night,” he said to the man, interrupting his attempts to bring up the past. On steady legs he walked out and crossed several blocks at a brisk pace, trying to clear his mind. Attempting to muddy it with liquor had obviously not helped. Maybe focusing on something else would.

But a sweet face continuously thwarted him. Innocent, trusting brown eyes. Tendrils of soft blond hair curling around cheeks still plump with youth—cheeks spattered with blood.

Cursing, Ethan picked up the pace. His cell phone rang. Not many people would call him at two in the morning. He knew better than to ignore this call. “Yeah?”

“We’re meeting. Seven in the morning.”

“I’ll be there.” The other person hung up just as abruptly.

Ethan turned down another street. Downtown Chicago at night wasn’t the wisest choice for a stroll, but he was itching for a fight. For release. For something that would take his mind off a baby-doll face and enormous, sightless eyes.

A meeting at the Society would provide that. In the meantime, however, God help anyone who came across his path tonight.

“You’ve got to hear this.” Becca Haney bounced in and perched on the edge of Ethan’s desk, a small stack of folders clutched to her chest. She countered his pointed look with a wide grin, swinging her bright purple-stockinged legs and black Mary Janes as she continued with exuberance. “Come on. You could at least
act
the teensiest bit curious.”

It was really too early in the morning for this. With her sprightly manner, petite body and delicate facial structure, the girl—who was actually in her mid-twenties—reminded him of Tinker Bell. She pushed her rectangular, no doubt chic, black-framed glasses up on her nose. Her short, bleached-blond hair was spiked with purple tips today—to match the stockings, no doubt. One never knew what look Becca would choose. It changed with her mood, which ran the entire gamut—from happy to perky to exuberant. How anyone with such a small body could contain so much energy was beyond him.

Resigned to setting aside his crossword puzzle—which had really only been a poor attempt at a diversion for his pounding head until the meeting began—for a few moments, Ethan leaned back, his hands interlaced behind his neck as he studied her. “I’ll listen if it’ll get you off my desk.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she leaned forward. Her body practically vibrated with enthusiasm. “We’ve got a new case.”

“So I gathered,” he drawled as she waved several red folders in his face. “Why else would Damian have called a meeting so early the day after a holiday?”

She shrugged as if he expected an answer. “Mr. Manchester could just want to check in. Or there could have been a break in a case.”

Not likely. The entire team would have been called in right away in that event. So far, Ethan had only seen Becca and a glimpse of one other team member heading down the hall. Since Ethan hadn’t wanted human contact until absolutely necessary, he’d hidden out in his office. But Becca had other plans.

“It’s been weeks since we’ve had a new case,” Becca continued.

“And you’re excited about this one.”

Every case they had at the Society for the Study of the Aberrant Mind, shortened to SSAM or the Society by its employees, dealt with serial murderers or other violent criminals. Each one was interesting in its own way. Challenging, yes, in that the usual channels of law enforcement hadn’t solved them yet.

But they weren’t fun.

Then again, Becca had only had to deal with technology and administration issues and had thus far been removed from danger while she was in training for the more serious assignments. As the newest, and smallest, employee at the Society, she was too young and innocent to face the grim reality, anyway.

Ethan had faced too many hard truths in his thirty-eight years. Some days, like today, he felt ancient.

“Oh, yes. It involves one of my favorite celebrities.”

He rubbed his temples to ease the ache there, to no avail. “A celebrity?”

“Dr. Margaret Levine.” When he continued to stare at her, unimpressed, she rolled her eyes. “What, do you live under a rock? She’s got a radio show, here in Chicago. Chicago Great Lakes University hosts it.”

“And she’s a serial murderer?”

Another eye roll. Jesus, his head throbbed. He fumbled in a desk drawer for a moment, then thumbed off the lid to a bottle of extra-strength Excedrin and tossed a couple pills in his mouth, swallowing them dry.

Becca didn’t miss a beat. “No, of course not. She’s a
psychiatrist.
And she’s worried about one of her callers.”

Fucking great.
This
was what he got called in early for, to baby-sit some full-of-herself
celebrity
with a full-blown case of paranoia? He could be home right now, licking his wounds and wallowing in guilt. “Sounds like Damian’s doing someone a favor.”

Still, his interest was piqued in spite of himself. It was unlike SSAM’s founder to play favorites. They dealt with serious cases.

Serious, shitty cases where the body count of innocent victims sometimes reached into the teens or twenties.

Ethan frowned, ignoring the way it pulled at his temples, making his head throb even more. This Dr. Margaret Levine was probably an old friend who was getting a bit batty. After all, Damian Manchester was well into his sixties now—fit and healthy but, like the rest of them, getting older every day. Of course, Damian was far from batty. He was the most unnervingly observant, uncannily intuitive person Ethan knew. But his friends could possibly be older and much battier.

“He’s ready for us,” Lorena Castro said from the doorway.

So, a mindhunter was assigned to this one, though what an old celebrity needed with a profiler was beyond him. Ex-FBI and in her mid-forties, Lorena was a tough woman in many ways. Tough to get to know. Tough to beat. Tough, period. In a time when few women were FBI agents, and even fewer were becoming part of the FBI’s elite Behavioral Analysis Unit, the exotic dark beauty had persevered. No, she’d excelled. She’d become a mindhunter, a highly trained profiler who could analyze a crime scene and extrapolate the criminal’s behavior. Hell, she could probably predict if the guy wore boxers or tighty-whities based on how he committed a crime.

Following Becca and Lorena into the conference room, Ethan saw Damian alongside someone he recognized from a previous case, Detective Noah Crandall of the Chicago Police Department. Ethan took a seat, nodding a greeting. Despite the early hour, Damian was impeccable in his expensively tailored dark suit and tie. But there were also telltale signs of a rough night. He’d seen them on himself in the mirror just that morning. Tired eyes, drawn cheeks, tight mouth.

“Becca, could you pass out the folders?” Damian asked. “The information was rather hastily put together—thank you, Becca—but I think you’ll find it a sufficient start.”

When Damian opened his folder to the first page, the others followed suit. Dr. Margaret Levine’s name jumped out at Ethan as he skimmed.

“The Voice of Reason?” He was unable to keep the disbelief from his voice.

“That’s her nickname,” Becca chimed in. “And she is. The voice of reason, that is. I’ve listened to her for months now, and she’s a genius. She really helps people.”

Damian gave a small smile, which was the only indication of happiness anyone ever saw from him. His gray eyes were always shadowed, and Ethan suspected the wrinkles around his mouth and across his forehead were due more to worry than age. But then, with Damian’s history, Ethan didn’t know how the man sucked in each breath or got out of bed in the morning, let alone ran a successful private business dedicated to catching serial murderers and other violent repeat offenders.

“Yes, she does.” Damian reached his hand into the breast pocket of his suit for the reading glasses he kept there. “She’s also a professor at Chicago Great Lakes University, so this case will be on our own turf. No extensive traveling.”

A professor at the university.
Jackpot.
That had to be the connection between Damian and this woman. She was some colleague there, from when Damian had taught business courses years ago.

“She graduated top of her class at Columbia, with a medical degree, then earned her certification in psychiatry before returning to Chicago. Worked at a state institution as well as teaching at the university before she became a full-time professor.”

“And she’s worried someone’s following her?” Ethan asked, itching to get to the meat of the current problem, and why it required his expertise in personal security. “Is there any proof? What threats have been made?”

“I wouldn’t have brought you in if there wasn’t proof.” Damian leaned back in his chair. “Detective Crandall will explain further.”

The sandy-haired, sharp-dressed detective next to Damian cleared his throat. “There were no overt threats made. However,” he continued when Ethan opened his mouth to speak, “there’s no doubt in my mind that Dr. Levine could be in danger.”

“Perhaps you could start with the caller at the radio station,” Damian suggested, shifting back in his chair to give Noah the floor again.

“Dr. Levine does a radio talk show on weeknights from eleven until midnight. It centers around psychological issues, and she invites listeners to call in with questions and stories.” Noah rapped a finger against one of the pages in the folder. “In here you’ll find a transcription of the end of last night’s show. Her final call was odd, and Dr. Levine reports she was a bit alarmed by the caller’s tone and message, but you’ll see she handled it smoothly.”

Ethan’s eyes scanned the first few paragraphs of the transcript, noting the caller’s preoccupation with fear. “Couldn’t this Owen just be a scholar itching for a fight over semantics? It’s almost like he’s correcting her grammar. Granted, it is about fear, but I still don’t see a threat.”

Damian’s lips twitched. “You always did rush forward, Ethan. Allow Noah to explain further.”

Ethan attempted to hide his impatience. “Please, by all means.”

Noah flipped a few pages ahead in his packet, then turned a photograph so that it faced Ethan. His nerves prickled at the obscene scrawl of the word
fear
repeated across white walls. The letters dripped, as if they’d once been wet.
Blood?

His gaze flicked up to Noah’s. “I assume this is Dr. Levine’s home?”

The detective nodded. “Her living room. She called the police at about one-thirty this morning.”

“After she called me and I helped her get in contact with the authorities,” Damian said.

And this woman had thought to call Damian Manchester first, of all people. Ethan filed that tidbit away under Interesting. Maybe Ethan and his fellow SSAM employees had been wrong about the man’s apparent lack of a social life. A man had needs, after all, and Damian had been alone and single—in that order—for a long time. Rumor had it his marriage had crumbled under the weight of painful events, leading to an unsurprising divorce.

“So you think the same guy who called in to the show is responsible for the vandalism.”

Noah nodded again. “They had just finished discussing fear on her show. It’s too much of a coincidence. Besides, he called her after she got home and discovered the message he left for her.”

Message?
The man acted as if it was a grocery list left out on the counter by a roommate or something.
Please pick up eggs, bread and butter at the store.
No, this was so much worse. Ethan was ashamed he’d questioned the existence of a threat at all. They were lucky the old lady hadn’t had a stroke when she’d walked in.

“Why would anyone do this to Dr. Levine?” Becca asked. “Her objective is to
help
people.”

“She’s the sort to attract this kind of attention, unfortunately,” Noah said. “And Owen, a fairly regular caller to the show, is a bit strange.”

“What do you mean, ‘she’s the sort to attract this kind of attention’?” Ethan asked.

Damian responded. “Public personality, practically a celebrity, intelligent, attractive.”

Ethan almost choked.
Attractive?
Well, perhaps the man with ironclad emotions had a woman friend after all.

Damian motioned to Becca. “If you’re ready to play it, Noah was able to obtain a recording of last night’s conversation from the radio station manager, Steve Marconi.”

Everyone waited quietly, intent on Becca as she opened a laptop and pushed a couple buttons.

“Happy Fourth of July, Owen. It’s been a while,” a female said as the recording began. With the first few words, Ethan leaned forward, the husky voice bringing goose bumps to his skin. Was this Dr. Levine? Christ, the woman’s vocal cords alone could arouse a man. He reminded himself she was older, at least in her fifties if she knew Damian, and forced himself to listen to the content, not the voice. But it was damn hard.

“I’ve been around, listening. You missed me.” The smooth male voice spoke with confidence, just a bit mockingly.

“That’s Owen,” Noah pointed out. Ethan nodded, wanting to hush the man. He just wanted to hear more from Dr. Levine.

What followed sounded like friendly banter on the surface, but something wasn’t right. And the doctor knew it. Her words were normal to the average listener, but Ethan, who was trained to pick up on anything odd in his surrounding environment, detected a thread of nervousness beneath the calm exterior.

Leaning forward, he closed his eyes to absorb the nuances that underlay the conversation. The mention of predators and prey brought his eyes open again.

When the so-called Owen snapped back at her, saying, “Don’t mock me,” Ethan saw the concern on Damian’s face for his friend, who was beginning to sound scared. Dr. Levine covered it well, but to those who had been trained in studying behavior, fear was simple to detect. A sharply indrawn breath, a slight waver in the voice.

“I’m an avid student of the human psyche,” Owen continued with a laugh, his mood apparently turning on a dime.

And then Dr. Levine was, wisely, closing the discussion for the night, signing off with a tag line about treating yourself gently. Christ, what kind of feel-good nonsense was that?

At a nod from Damian, Becca closed the laptop. The mood of the room was somber as each person processed the conversation.

“I’d say we’re looking at a stalker,” Lorena offered, finally speaking up.

Sighing, Damian gave a tight smile. “I was thinking the same thing. This man has called the show on several occasions.”

“And he called her Maggie, trying to put himself on intimate terms with her. Is she certain she doesn’t recognize the voice?”

“Yes,” Noah answered. “Other than the other calls he’s made to her show. According to Maggie, Owen has called in dozens of times over the past year, always expressing fairly strong opinions.”

“Tell them the rest, Noah,” Damian urged.

“We think this isn’t the worst he’s done. His reaction to her topic of fear, combined with the way he desecrated her apartment last night, was similar to crimes that have remained unsolved. For a decade.”

“Crimes?” Ethan prompted, but the hair on his neck was already rising. From the look on Damian’s and Noah’s faces, he knew these were no ordinary
crimes.