Pitch Black (9 page)

Sam certainly wasn’t stupid enough to reveal any information about an ongoing criminal investigation. Still, part of her needed to vent, to release some of the anguish and rage she’d felt since learning Ryan had been murdered. So when she put her hands on her keyboard, she did not add to the article in progress. She instead opened a blank document.

And ranted.

W
endy Cramer had a secret.
A delicious, wonderful secret.

She was in love.

She had never experienced that emotion before. Not really. She couldn’t call the feelings she had for the newscaster on channel nine love. After all, she knew him only from the TV; she’d never really spoken to him, even though he spoke to her every night at five and eleven.

This was different. This was real. And not only was she in love, but she had the feeling he loved her too.

Most miraculous of all, he was a duke or a lord. Maybe even a prince. He hadn’t said.

Bona fide royalty.

Rafe hadn’t wanted to admit it at first, so she knew he wasn’t making things up. She’d been the one who’d focused on his screen name, who’d read between the lines of his comments in the chat room where they’d met. Only after they’d e-mailed several times had he told her the truth about himself, so used to being betrayed he hadn’t trusted her immediately.

“I can be trusted,” she whispered as she lay in her narrow bed Wednesday morning. The luxury of sleeping in on a workday had come at a perfect time, since she’d had the most wonderful dreams and would have hated for them to end with the shrill shriek of an alarm. She’d taken the next three days off from her job as an answering service operator, and was free to drift in and out between those sweet dreams and sweeter reality. Thoughts of Rafe had filled her mind, swelling her imagination since their last conversation late the night before.

She flung back the covers, not trying to hide her giggles. Her roommate, Sarah, had left two hours ago and couldn’t overhear. Good thing, since Sarah was already suspicious, asking why Wendy was online all the time and who she was instant messaging with. Her friend found it odd that Wendy had requested the rest of the week off, using valuable vacation time so soon after the holidays.

She trusted her friend, really. But even somebody as nice as Sarah could accidentally let something slip, exposing the prince—or duke or whatever—to danger. So it was best to do as he asked, keeping their online relationship a secret from everyone for the time being.

But not for much longer. Soon there would be no reason for the secrecy. They would be together, a normal couple. She had to get over her shyness and her silly fears and do what her heart had been telling her to do. There was one step to take before they could move on with what she knew would be the most important relationship of her life.

She had to meet him face-to-face.

As she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she wondered if he would notice the few strands of gray in her dark brown hair or the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. She hadn’t lied about her age when she’d first begun to chat with inXile in a chat room a few weeks ago. She really was in her mid-thirties, as long as you considered thirty-eight to be the end of the mids.

Besides, he clearly didn’t care about things like age or looks or the fact that she was a small-town girl at heart, still half-scared of her own shadow even after ten years of living in Baltimore.

He was patient, kind, and warm. Everything she’d ever dreamed of. The perfect man. Hers for the taking. She just had to step out there and take him.

“Soon,” she told her reflection. This vacation time had been about getting herself ready, mentally and physically. Starting with a visit to the beauty salon for a color job. Maybe even some highlights. Then a trip to the mall for some new clothes.

She had to look perfect. Even if the world could never know her love was a prince, deep down, Wendy wanted to look good enough to be his princess.

And once she was ready, she’d take a deep breath and set up a meeting with her destiny.

Last night,
after completing his long second day on his new job, Alec should have gone home, had a beer, thought about how much he missed the dog he no longer had, thanks to the girlfriend he no longer had—her he
didn’t
miss—then grabbed a bite and read over his case files.

He hadn’t. Instead, he’d had something else to focus on, something to read other than dry reports and files. Her book. Samantha Dalton’s.

“Damn, she’s good,” he told himself as he flipped through its pages again in his office Wednesday morning. The first time, he had read it in one long sitting. Today, he’d gone over it again more slowly, making notes and jotting questions.

Alec had come from the BAU, not the Cyber Division, but he had always considered himself pretty savvy when it came to securing his private info. After reading Sam’s book, however, he had begun to realize he knew almost nothing about the subject she was so passionate about. Phishing, sure, he’d heard of it. But SMiShing? Pharming? Spoofing? Ponzi? Keylogging? Matrix schemes? Philing? Pump-and-dumps? The list was never-ending. Though he didn’t see himself ever getting caught up in one, it was all too easy to see John Q. Public clicking on the wrong link and offering some thug the keys to his entire financial life.

The book was well written and informative. But it also had a snappy, ironic zing to it, which made him more curious about its author.

Samantha Dalton interested him, the puzzle of her life confusing. Her looks had been obvious, her personality not so much. Her loud friend had made it sound like she was single, and Sam had mentioned an ex, yet she had insisted on being called Mrs. Unless she had just moved in, he couldn’t imagine a recent breakup, because there’d been no sign of a man in her shoebox-size apartment crammed with feminine furniture and feminine laundry.

God help him for his moment of insanity when he realized he was sitting on a pair of her skimpy cotton underwear.

“Forget her,” he told himself as he sipped his coffee—his third cup of the morning.

But he wouldn’t forget her writing. Her book had exposed the possibilities. If the Professor really was luring his victims using the latest Internet scams, there was almost no limit to what he could do. Given the statistics Samantha Dalton quoted, there were an untold number of people who fell for these things every single day.

Would all of them drive to meet a stranger in the middle of a blizzard? Probably not. But it didn’t take all. It took only one. Or two, as poor Jason Todd and Ryan Smith could attest.

Why did they do it?

Not just Jason and Ryan, but all of the Professor’s victims. What had made them trust a stranger they’d met only on the Internet? And how did the unsub know who would respond to which lure? Both of those things could be very important to figuring out the identity of the killer.

In her book, Sam had mentioned interviewing a number of victims of cyber crime, as well as perpetrators, so she was a step up on him in understanding the motivations of these people. Which meant she could be a big help.

Knowing it might not do any good, he still found her number in his notes and dialed it.

She answered on the third ring, mumbling a distracted, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Dalton? This is Special Agent Alec Lambert. Do you have a moment?”

“Sure, what can I do for you?” she said, clearing her throat. Her voice sounded husky, with an I-just-woke-up note of sexiness that his whole body responded to.

“Did I wake you?” he asked, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut rather than admit he’d been thinking about her in her bed.

“Yeah, pathetic, I know. I’m a night owl. If you’d called at three a.m., you would have heard me chipper and perky.” She sighed. “Well, maybe not chipper. And definitely not perky. Haven’t had that word used in a description of me in a long time.”

Perky
wasn’t nearly a good enough word to describe her. Sexy. Wounded. Intriguing. Any of those would be much better, not that he was about to say so.

“How can I help you?” she asked with an audible yawn.

He forced away thoughts of everything but the case. “I’ve been reading your book.”

“You and every other cyber crimes nerd who wants to shut me down.”

“Actually, it’s just the opposite. I’m hoping you can help me.”

He quickly explained what he was looking for, still not sure she could assist him, but unable to regret making the call. That one dig, which sounded so much like the woman who’d written the entertaining book he’d read, made it entirely worthwhile.

“So you’re basically asking what kind of person allows himself to be victimized in this way. Didn’t we talk about this yesterday?”

“I mean beyond the non-cyber-savvy, vulnerable elderly person, or the teenager who wants to get rich quick. I’m looking for the psychological slant of victims and perpetrators.”

She didn’t respond at first. Through the phone, he heard her moving around. A quick visual of her in that nightshirt shot through his mind, but he shut it down.

“I think with the victims, it’s an it-won’t-happen-to-me philosophy,” she finally said. “People always truly believe good things can happen to them—like winning a lottery jackpot despite having a better chance of contracting Ebola. Conversely, the bad things are always reserved for someone else.”

True.

“So despite the warnings all over the news, they are still convinced they are much too savvy to be taken in by a fake Rolex hawked by a guy on the corner. . . .”

“Or a check-kiting scam for something they sold on eBay,” he said.

“Exactly. It’s the innate desire of people to believe they’re smart that gets them every time. At least, that’s what Flynt says.”

“Who?”

“James Tucker Flynt.”

“The name sounds familiar.” He tried to place the memory.

“It should. Your agency busted him several years ago. He did five years in federal prison; now he’s locked up on state convictions in Maryland. He was a pioneer in the Internet fraud movement.” Her voice dripped disgust. “One of the founding fathers, you might say.”

He thought about it. “I think I remember that case.”

“He’d be so pleased,” she said. “He’s charming, in an aw-shucks way. You can almost see how people fell for his shtick. And the ego is something to behold.”

“You
know
him?”

“I interviewed him, and his attorney, when I was writing my book. Who better to reveal how these scams work and what the dangers are than someone who invented and ran them, and the man who defended him?”

“He actually talked to you about his crimes?”

“Yes. Like I said, ego. Plus I guess he doesn’t get many visitors; the warden said Flynt has turned down other journalists, but he heard I was young and attractive, so he accepted.” She sighed audibly. “I think he likes me a bit too much. I get letters from him just about every week.”

“You actually went to a maximum-security prison to talk to this man,” he said, dumbfounded by the idea.

“Medium-security.”

Semantics.

He stood and stared at the stained wall of his office, the phone held tightly in his grip. Something inside him rebelled at the very thought of the beautiful, intelligent woman walking into a prison to talk to a scumbag like Flynt. But he kept his reaction to himself. “And the letters? What do they say?”

“I have no idea. I stopped opening them. In fact, just a few days ago I decided to try to get the message across to him, so I put them all in a large envelope and mailed it to the warden with ‘refused by addressee’ written on the envelope.”

Okay, so she was handling the situation with the same common sense he’d seen in her book. Still, the idea that she’d gone there, started a relationship with a scummy criminal, bothered him. A lot. “Was your book was worth exposing yourself to someone like that?”

“I didn’t
expose
myself,” she snapped. “But yes, the project meant a great deal to me. I have a background as a journalist, and I’m used to doing whatever it takes to get the story.”

Knowing he had offended her, he muttered, “I see.”

God, he had blown this. He had let his completely unexpected reaction to her mold his responses to things that were none of his business. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. Thanks for your help.”

“You’re welcome, Agent Lambert. Good luck to you.” Her voice no longer sounded sleepy and sexy, but decidedly cool.

Yeah, he’d definitely blown it.

She didn’t ask him to call back if he needed more assistance, didn’t hint in any way that she was bothered they would likely never speak again. That should be a very good thing. Yet, as he ended the call and hung up, Alec couldn’t help wondering if he’d just missed out on something pretty fantastic.

After a brief,
restless night, and an annoying morning phone conversation with a sexy FBI agent who had passed judgment on the choices she’d made regarding her book, Sam wasn’t in the mood for company. Especially not male company. Still, when someone knocked on her door at around noon, her first thought was of Agent Lambert, and her pulse doubled its speed.

Her second thought was that she hadn’t put the Do Not Disturb sign up. So she might instead be getting a visit from her nosy, chatty neighbor, whose “Bal’mer” accent was so thick Sam sometimes didn’t even understand what the woman was saying.

Feeling kind of like the guy who’d opened the door not knowing if he would see the lady or the tiger, she turned the knob. And found herself face-to-face with option three. The lawyer.

“Rick?” she murmured, both surprised and wary.

“Hello, Sam,” he said, stepping closer to the doorjamb, shivering a little as he tried to avoid the bitter January wind. She lived in a complex with open buildings and her door was at the end of what sometimes seemed to be a wind tunnel.

Let him in,
her polite mother’s voice whispered in her head.

But she couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t. No matter how much she respected Rick Young, who’d done a great job handling her divorce, she could never get past the thought of him being privy to all the painful, ugly details of the final days of her marriage. Sure, he was nice, and he obviously liked her. But this man had read the awful things her ex had said about her. He’d seen the disgusting pictures—vivid proof of her husband’s infidelity. He’d heard her break down and weep during mediation. He’d witnessed her at her very lowest point.