Pitch Black (10 page)

Some chapters of her life just needed to remain closed, including that one. So there was no way she could ever be comfortable getting too friendly with this man, no matter how attractive he was, with his handsome face, sandy blond hair, and solid, strong body.

“I would have called, but I was driving by here on my way out to take a deposition.” He lifted a gloved hand, extending a large manila envelope. “My assistant reminded me of this a few days ago. It’s about to expire. I wasn’t sure if you were ready to take it.”

She eyed the envelope, feeling like she was face-to-face with a poisonous snake. Because she had no doubt about what it contained. “I told you I didn’t want it.”

“I know. I just wasn’t sure if you’d change your mind. You are entitled to this money under the terms of the divorce. Actually, you were entitled to a lot more, and you could have gotten it if you’d demanded it.”

She didn’t want her ex-husband’s payoff money any more now than she had a year ago, when their divorce had been finalized. Frankly, she hadn’t expected Rick to hold on to the certified check that had shown up a few weeks after the final decree came through.

“I haven’t changed my mind.”

“I understand. Still, you do need to be the one to do something with it.”

She contemplated tearing the entire envelope in half, check included. But she suddenly hesitated, realizing that while she didn’t want any money from the Dalton family, others might.

“Wait.” Grabbing a pen from a table by the door, she yanked the envelope from him, tore it open, and scribbled on the back of the check, not even glancing at the numbers on the front. “There. Will you make sure the Red Cross gets it?”

A small, admiring smile widened his mouth and he nodded once. “Yes, I will.” He took the check from her and tucked it back in the envelope. Then, his voice lowering a little, he murmured, “Are you doing well?”

“Fine,” she replied, steeling herself for what she knew was coming next. God, she didn’t want to come right out and tell the man why she wasn’t interested.

“I was wondering, now that it’s been a year, if perhaps we might—”

Suddenly her phone rang, and she was literally saved by the bell. Sam eyed it, then offered him an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, I’m expecting an important call. Thanks so much for stopping by—I hope that money does some good for people who need it.” Meaning it, she added, “It’s nice to have it over with once and for all.”

“Samantha,” he said, glancing back and forth between her and the phone, speaking quickly and obviously uncomfortable at being rushed, “would you like to go to dinner with me?”

There was no easy way out of this. No simple explanation. So she had to provide a simple answer without even offering one. Her tone as gentle as her expression, she murmured, “I don’t think so. But thank you very much.”

Rick stared, hopefully seeing the finality in her face. Finally, he replied, “You’re welcome.”

Without giving him a chance to say more, Sam reached for the phone. She waved good-bye to Young as she picked it up without even glancing at the caller ID.

Noting the lawyer’s broad shoulders were perhaps a bit slumped as he walked away, she felt her heart twist. Maybe she’d been a little abrupt, but getting the message across that she wasn’t interested was like pulling off a bandage: best done quickly.

The phone tucked into the curve of her neck, she shut and locked the door as she mumbled, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Dalton? This is Martin Connolly.”

She hesitated, not placing the name.

He cleared his throat, then, with a note of irritation in his voice, added, “I’m the warden at the Maryland House of Corrections. You visited here?”

“Of course,” she said, suddenly remembering the warden, whom she had met when she’d gone to interview Jimmy Flynt for her book. The older man had been a bit pompous, a bureaucrat through and through. Flynt’s defense attorney, Dale Carter, had told her Connolly had completely turned the previously troubled facility around during his tenure.

“I’m calling about your package.”

She sank into a chair, realizing he meant Jimmy’s letters. “Yes?”

“I assume you intentionally returned them? That they weren’t delivered to an incorrect address?”

“That’s right. I’m sorry, I should have written to explain. Frankly, I wanted them out of here.”

“Very well. Before I destroy them, though, I wished to assure you that no mail ever leaves this facility without thorough screening. If you were concerned you might read something inappropriate, you needn’t have been.”

“That wasn’t it. I just needed to cut the connection. I don’t want to encourage Mr. Flynt into thinking we have any sort of personal relationship.”

“Wise,” he said. “He’s not the kind of man you want for your friend or your enemy. I think you’re right in ending any contact.” He hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether to continue, then added, “Mr. Flynt may seem harmless, friendly, and cooperative now that he’s safely locked away. But I fear he does still have substantial reach. The man has contacts, friends on the outside who might do favors for him.”

She tensed. “Favors? Should I be concerned?”

Another hesitation, as if he wanted to warn her but didn’t quite know what he was warning her against; then he said, “No, no. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. I just wanted to reiterate that I think you’ve done the right thing. I’ll destroy the letters and make sure no more are forwarded.” Another brief delay, then he mumbled, “Though perhaps it’s wise not to let Jimmy know that.”

His audible concern did little to make her feel better. Sam thanked him, hung up, then sat down to absorb all that had happened in one short morning.

She’d had a terse conversation with an FBI agent whom she couldn’t stop thinking about.

She’d refused the attention of a successful, handsome attorney.

She’d given away a small fortune.

She’d been warned that a convicted felon who seemed to have a thing for her might be keeping tabs on her from his prison cell.

All before one o’clock.

Well, there was one silver lining. All those little issues had now been dealt with, and she shouldn’t have to worry about a single one of them ever again. Which was fine by her.

Mostly fine.

Because, if she was completely honest with herself, knowing she had shared her final conversation with Special Agent Alec Lambert wasn’t fine with Sam at all.

As Lily Fletcher
walked through the parking garage Wednesday evening, finally having let Brandon convince her to go home after another long day, she saw a large form lurking in the shadows. She instinctively tightened her hand around her key ring, then laughed at herself. She was at the FBI headquarters building, for God’s sake, and she was armed. Why on earth was she reacting like a woman leaving a twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart, who needed to defend herself with a sharp jab of a key?

She hesitated when she realized the person standing by her car was Special Agent Tom Anspaugh. Something big must have happened for him to stake out her vehicle.

“Hello, Anspaugh,” she said as she reached him.

“Where have you been? I’ve been calling.”

“I know.” Anspaugh had tried to reach her in her office hours ago. She’d been away from her desk. He’d also tried her on her cell. Seeing his name on the caller ID, she’d ignored it. She had promised Wyatt she would not allow her real job to come second to any side investigations and meant to keep her word.

Anspaugh didn’t seem to give a damn whether Wyatt approved of what she was up to or not. In fact, she suspected he’d like nothing better than to think Lily was less than loyal, or that her work on the other CAT could inconvenience Blackstone’s team.

“I’ve been very busy. We’re working on a case,” she explained out of courtesy, not about to let him put her on the defensive. “That came first.”

“Oh, right, hunting up phantom killers who attack through the Internet. Is Dr. Horrible sending electric shocks via DSL to strike down anyone who touches his keyboard?”

Jerk
. “What is it you want?” she asked. “Has something happened?”

“Yeah. And I want you . . . in on it.”

She had the feeling the hesitation between his words had been intentional. Anspaugh had never made a move on her, but she’d seen the way his stare sometimes lingered, noticed how frequently he found an excuse to touch her. Like now, as he moved a bit closer.

She intentionally stepped around him. Even if she wasn’t a block of solid ice beneath her warm skin, with no interest in being close to anyone ever again, she would have recoiled from that particular touch. Anspaugh might be good-looking in a big-jock-football-player way, but she truly couldn’t stand his type.

“Lil?”

God, she hated that nickname. “What happened?”

“You know we were finally able to sift through the history of Satan’s Playground and isolate a general geographic area of Lovesprettyboys.”

Her stomach knotted, as it always did when she thought of him. “You said as much earlier.”

“He’s somewhere near Richmond, which is where we’ve focused our investigation. We’ve been monitoring message boards, chat rooms, anything that would draw residents in a hundred-mile radius, particularly kids.”

“And he showed up?”

“We think so.”

“My God,” she whispered.

He stiffened. “You sure you’re okay talking about this? I mean, with everything else?”

He hadn’t been part of the team that had investigated her nephew’s case, but he knew about it. Few people working crimes against children didn’t. It wasn’t every day that kind of tragedy touched one of the bureau’s own.

“I’m fine. Tell me what happened.”

“One we were watching was a site with a bunch of message boards for kids involved in a community program in Williamsburg. Sports, after-school activities, stuff like that.”

Classic pedophile territory. She sucked in a breath of freezing air, then, shivering, tugged her coat tighter.

“We’re not certain. But there have been a few comments this one supposed kid has made that sound like some things our perp said in the transcripts from Satan’s Playground. He didn’t use the same handle, of course. He’s been posting as Peter Pan.”

The boy who never grew up, who wanted only to be with his lost boys. Sick bastard.

“That’s not an ID a child would choose.” The Peter Pan fantasy was one grown men enjoyed. Certainly not seven-year-olds who were much more into superheroes like Iron Man.

“No, I guess not,” Anspaugh said. “We can’t know for sure this is the same guy, but there doesn’t seem to be much doubt he’s a pedophile. So either way, we want him.”

“How can I help?”

He smiled down at her, as if she’d offered to do him a personal favor. In truth, she would find it hard to turn on a light if he asked her for personal reasons.

“We’ve had no luck drawing him out. One of my agents has been posting as an eight-year-old boy, but he can’t get anything started with this prick.”

“He’s going to be incredibly careful, of course,” she said. “He would never engage with someone who sought him out. Every pedophile in the country knows those sites are monitored.”

“We haven’t directly engaged him,” he said, an edge of irritation in his voice. He wasn’t the type who enjoyed being questioned or corrected.

She ignored him. “So we’d need to come up with a reason for him to seek us out. Something to draw his attention to us, over all the other kids using the site.” Many of whom were probably perverts trolling for victims themselves. At least, so thought the pessimist in her.

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Which brings me to my point.”

“What?”

“I checked out the Peter Pan story, read the book looking for an opening.”

Probably the first book he had cracked open since his last college English class.

“Yesterday, when I heard Cole call you Tiger Lily, it all sorta clicked.”

She immediately followed. “That name might interest him enough to say hello. As long as we’re not too obvious about casting the bait. For instance, if I post on a board he has never commented on as Peter Pan, he might not immediately suspect a setup.”

“Right.”

The idea wasn’t a bad one. No, she still didn’t see a real seven- or eight-year-old boy wanting other “big” kids to think he was into Peter Pan. However, girls might still enjoy picturing themselves as fairies like Tinker Bell, or Indian princesses like Tiger Lily.

“Wait,” she said, suddenly realizing what she had overlooked. “Lovesprettyboys is into boys. Most sexual abusers are pretty discriminating in their predilections.”

“I know.” Anspaugh fidgeted. “But it might work anyway, if he’s just trying to get in with any kid right now, hoping it’ll lead to the right type.”

She wondered if he truly believed his own spiel. Or if he had already decided this Peter Pan was not Lovesprettyboys, but wanted Lily’s help and figured she’d offer it more readily if she had a personal stake in the case.

Believing he had to manipulate her into wanting to catch a scum who preyed on children, boys or girls, said a lot more about Anspaugh than it did about her. None of it good.

Still, she would help, no question about it. If by chance this Peter Pan was the same monster she’d become obsessed with finding five months ago, when she’d first entered Satan’s Playground, all the better.

“If he responds to Tiger Lily and shows serious interest in her, we’ll know we’re dealing with someone else,” she murmured, rubbing her temple as she thought it out. “If, on the other hand, he responds and shows interest in the younger brother Tiger Lily complains about . . .”

Anspaugh barked an approving laugh. “I like the way you think, Fletcher. What a waste, you working for Blackstone.”

Her tone frigid, she bit out, “Another crack about Wyatt and you can find somebody else to help you. Got it?”

He fell silent, visibly shocked by her words and the way she’d said them.

She couldn’t believe the man hadn’t noticed her loyalty to her boss by now. Wyatt had given her the opportunity to do something she truly needed to do—help solve violent crimes—in the one way she was skilled to do it—via her computer expertise. Nobody else would have given her the chance, especially not fresh off her family tragedy.