Pitch Black (23 page)

Alec eyed the other man warily, wondering if his reaction in the conference room had revealed more than he’d intended to about his relationship with their witness. “I know,” he said, wanting to place a quick call to Sam to give her a heads-up that Darwin might be back online this morning.

But it would have to be from the road. They were all anxious to get to the crime scene before too many people had gone through it. Alec needed to look at every inch if he wanted to try to imagine what the Professor had been thinking and feeling.

Thinking, yes. Feeling? The Professor? Probably not so much. He suspected the unsub didn’t have feelings, that he was completely detached from what he was doing. One step removed from the human race, as if they were his subjects, or his guinea pigs, free to be played with and disposed of at will.

He only wished they had stopped him before he’d had a chance to play his deadly game with the poor woman lying cold and dead on the ground in Baltimore.

Considering Sam had spent
the last couple of days wrapped up in a murder investigation, mourning the loss of a nice kid, and wondering whether she had attracted the attention of a serial killer, she probably shouldn’t have been so surprised to forget an important date. In most cases, such a lapse in memory could probably be expected.

Except, of course, if the date was her own birthday.

It wasn’t today. The official anniversary would occur tomorrow. However, this was the day her mother had decided to celebrate. Why? Because the older woman had a Saturday-night date and needed all of tomorrow to prepare. Who said mothers weren’t sentimental?

If it’s with someone she met online, I’m going to lock her up and throw away the key.

“So you will be there for lunch?” the older woman asked. “Eleven forty-five a.m. at Raphael’s, that lovely café I like on Charles Street?”

She shouldn’t have answered the phone this morning when it startled her awake a few minutes ago. Actually, she wished she hadn’t turned the ringer back on last night. She had thought, however implausibly, that Alec might decide to call her and fill her in on what that mysterious phone call from his boss had been about. But no, the only call had been this reminder from her mother. Which effectively removed any chance of Sam using the legitimate excuse that she had forgotten about today’s lunch.

“Samantha?”

“I’ll be there.”

“You won’t forget? I know how you are when you get busy doing that computer thing.”

That computer thing. Oh, her livelihood?

“I said I’ll be there,” she insisted. Then, knowing the reaction she would get, added, “I asked Tricia to join us.”

Tricia hadn’t committed to the invitation, mainly because she and Sam’s mother had their own mutual nonadmiration society. But considering how contrite Tricia had sounded when e-mailing and calling to apologize for the answering machine snafu, she’d probably show up.

Not that Sam had responded to her pleas for information about who had been there to hear the amplified conversation. Tricia had naturally assumed it was a man, but Sam wasn’t ready to go there yet, not even with her best friend.

“She’s such a wild girl, Samantha.” Her mother’s disapproval came through the phone loud and clear.

“That wild girl has been my best friend for two decades.”

“Well, it is your birthday. I suppose you should decide who you want to spend it with.”

Magnanimous. “She is so looking forward to seeing you, too.”

Her mother harrumphed. “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

Sarcasm had been her go-to defense for a year now, but she usually didn’t target it at her normally easy-to-get-along-with mother, who was only a pain in the ass because all mothers were a pain in the ass. And because she was a little lacking in the commonsense department. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right, and I’m sorry too. I know how close you two are. I’m sure Tricia can be on her best behavior for one lunch. She does know better than to do anything inappropriate, doesn’t she? Nathan cannot afford to be seen in the midst of a scandal.”

“Uncle Nate is a big boy,” Sam replied. Big and tough, with a reputation as one of the strictest judges in town. Scrupulously honest, but open to no bullshit, as criminals like Jimmy Flynt had learned. Nate had presided over Flynt’s state trial and had tried to dissuade Sam from talking to the man, being very protective of her. He might be a hanging judge on the bench, but she knew him as a quiet, loving pseudo-uncle.

“I told him to meet us at eleven forty and no later. I know it’s early, but it’s such a popular spot, that was the only lunch reservation available. Tell Tricia the same thing, will you?”

Sam had wondered more than once why Nate still put up with being bossed around by his late partner’s widow. There was only one explanation: she suspected he had feelings for her mother. The hope that she’d someday see him in that light and return the sentiment had to have been what kept the man coming around all these years, through other men, other marriages.

He must truly love her. But her mother was too flighty to see him as anything more than the stodgy, reliable big-brother figure who’d hovered in the background for so very long.

“I must run. Can’t wait to see you, honey!”

“Me too, Mom.”

On most occasions, she didn’t mind seeing her family. Hers had always been a small one. Her grandmother’s death had made it even smaller, as had Sam’s divorce. So Nate’s and Tricia’s presence had become even more important, and she usually wanted nothing more than to share holidays and special events with them.

Frankly, though, she’d rather skip today. Tomorrow too. What was so great about turning thirty-one? Last year’s birthday—thirty, and two weeks divorced—had been bad enough. Now a whole year had gone by and she was no closer to being “back to normal” than she had been when hitting the big three-oh. She had begun to wonder if “back to normal” was overrated.

It’s not.

Hearing that voice in her head, she paused, gave it some thought, and suddenly realized her attitude had begun to change. Maybe because of Alec, who was certainly not overrated. Thinking about him, and about those unexpected moments they’d shared last night, she knew he was anything but.

The nearly imperceptible quake in his voice when he’d told her about the shooting, the tenderness in his eyes when she’d told him about her marriage—they had done something to her, made something begin to thaw. So had their single kiss, which had left her more aware of herself as a woman than she’d been in a long time.

It wasn’t just sex. She’d almost felt like she could start coming to life again, begin the process of moving on.

Sam smiled, letting the truth of it flood her. A return to warmth and vibrancy and sensuality was not overrated. In fact, for the first time in what seemed like forever, she was starting to look forward to rejoining the land of the living. Not fully yet, not with this awful investigation looming and a psycho talking to her. But beyond that, into the future. The long-term one that meant a return to the world she’d shut out.

Moving on
. What a simple concept. And what an exciting one.

Throwing back the covers with a laugh, she greeted the day a lot more pleasantly than she had in a long time. After a quick shower, she picked out something to wear that would meet her mother’s conservative standards and Tricia’s outrageous ones.

Venturing to the kitchen, she made some coffee, then sat at the table to jot some notes for the new book. By hand. It wasn’t until she had filled a page that she acknowledged what she had been doing: avoiding the living room, avoiding her desk. All so she could avoid the computer on her desk. Contrary to her daily routine, she had never even flipped the thing on, even though she’d hooked it back up last night.

Within a half hour, she had the shakes, Internet withdrawal setting in so badly she was almost sweating. But she remained torn, wanting to check in, wanting just as much to stay checked out of the awful situation in which she had found herself.

Coward. Just get it over with
.

Alec had called and left her a message while she was in the shower, saying Darwin had not posted to her message board overnight. But there was still that twinge of concern. Not to mention the awful possibility the psychopath would decide to try educating her by personal e-mail, rather than posting publicly.

Yet she couldn’t steer clear of the cyber world forever. Bad enough the need to check her site, her regular blogs, and her e-mails; she also needed to look up the damn address of the restaurant. She hadn’t seen an actual hard copy of a phone book in a couple of years.

So, with her heart somewhere in the vicinity of her larynx, she sat at her desk and flipped on her connection to the rest of the world, hoping one particularly vile part of it had not once again reached out and connected to her first.

The team had caravanned
up to Baltimore in three cars. Unfortunately, sometime during morning rush hour a tractor trailer had devoured a MINI Cooper on the beltway. Two northbound lanes and the shoulder were blocked, and a ride that had taken about an hour yesterday took almost three this morning.

When they arrived at the scene, Alec noted the chaos. Uniformed officers from the city’s police department guarded the entrance. Somebody had gone through a whole lot of crime scene tape circling the fenced lot. Onlookers ranging from suit-wearing businessmen to dockworkers milled around on the street. Guys in hard hats clustered in small circles, wondering when they could return to work. Also wondering what she had
looked
like, you know, afterward.

He could almost hear them.

Stokes swung the car directly behind Wyatt’s, getting out quickly, her badge already in her hand. Alec followed suit, but moved more slowly.

“Well?” she asked, impatience evident in her inflection.

“Go ahead,” he said, waving her forward. He wasn’t really paying attention, already completely focused on following the path the victim—and possibly her killer—must have taken.

He hadn’t circumnavigated the site, but judging by the severed chain on the ground and the residual fingerprint powder on the post, this was where the detectives believed the suspect and/or the victim had entered. He walked through, his gait slow. His footsteps crunched on the frozen dirt as he stepped past shards of woods and masonry nails. With every step, he pictured the scene, thinking the victim’s thoughts, thinking the unsub’s.

He doubted the Professor had incapacitated the woman and brought her here against her will. Even late at night, anybody could have driven by; a late worker could have left one of the nearby businesses. This wasn’t like the woods or an enclosed warehouse, where he could knock out his victims and then position them.

Lured her here, somehow. Fraudulent investment?

No, she wasn’t the type. Nor would she have come here late at night for a job interview, like the warehouse victim.

Personal then.

Come, it’ll be special. Wait until you see the view.

He walked on, his head down, careful to avoid the marked evidence. Usable footprints would probably be doubtful, given the amount of activity on an average construction site. But he wasn’t about to make the forensics guys’ job any harder.

The bits of information continued to churn in his brain, coming together like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit and had to be repositioned. At some point, the entire puzzle would take shape, but for now, he simply played with the pieces.

A thirty-eight-year-old operator. Lived with a roommate. Unmarried.

A spinster? Maybe a dating-service scam?

Reaching the exterior walls of the building, he heard Wyatt and the others talking to the local detectives. Again, he barely listened, continuing to move toward the core of the facility, to the construction elevator in which the victim must have risen to meet her doom. Mulrooney and Taggert watched him in visible curiosity, but Wyatt merely nodded as he passed.

She’s anxious. Nervous. It’s night, off the beaten track. The top of the building? Are you sure it’s safe? I’m afraid.

He reached the elevator. Inside, a tech continued to swab the grating, yawning widely as he went through the motions by rote. “You need to go up?”

“When you’re through.”

“I’ve cleared a zone to haul people up and down,” the other man said.

“Find anything?”

“Got some prints; ten to one says any that aren’t from the crew are from the victim.”

He wouldn’t take that bet.

“Stay in that area, okay?” the man said, pointing to a corner.

Alec entered as directed, turning to stare out at the water through the side grates as they slowly ascended to the top of the building.

Slow. It’s so high. Choppy water. Cold and black like a night sky without stars, falling away from my feet. Lights across the harbor? Far away. No one can see. All alone. Private.

Perfect.

The victim’s impression? Or the killer’s?

The higher they went, the easier it was to see. Not just the panorama—the water, the shoreline, the ships—but the past. The crime.

Come with me; I’ll show you the city as you’ve never seen it.

She trusted him enough to trespass on a closed construction site.

She’s willing but she’s nervous, excited. He keeps her calm. Earns her trust. How?

He slowly turned in a complete circle, trying to imagine what she’d felt, what she’d thought as she had been drawn inexorably closer to that date with death.

Did you ride up with her, calm her fears, then strike her into unconsciousness?

That didn’t sound like their man. The Professor’s past crimes had an element of detachment. His letters claimed his hands—and conscience—were clear. He’d never killed anyone, never hurt them, just put them in situations to kill or hurt themselves. Like incapacitating the boys in a car accident before putting them out on that ice to fight for their lives. Impersonal.

She rode up alone. He told her to come up to meet him and she did it.