The Bride Collector (19 page)

Nikki took another sip and set her glass down on the etched-glass coffee table. “Because I would have pegged you more as the
kind who went after perfection. I mean, look at this place.”

“Well, yes, I like to keep things clean.”

“Clean? Okay, this is not clean.” She made a dismissive gesture with one hand to accentuate
not
. “This is immaculate.”

“I don’t like dust.”

“And what about your closet? Don’t tell me… All your socks are lined up. Sorted by color.”

Brad felt himself blush. Thankfully only two lamps lit the living room, providing some cover. He managed an apologetic smile.
“It makes things easier to find.”

“It’s more than that, though, isn’t it? The way you keep your office so ordered, the way you wipe down the counter at work,
the way you go over files again and again, reading and rereading. We have a term for people like you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Borderline obsessive-compulsive personality. Not OCD as in
disorder,
mind you, but personality. Big difference. Thankfully.”

He shrugged, feeling awkward.

“It’s okay, Mr. Brad Raines. I happen to find your attention to detail attractive and endearing.” She crossed to the drapes
in bare feet, having left her black heels by the door. “You like original. But you also like perfect. So which is it? Or is
that what the hold-up is, your search for that perfect original?”

She swept the drapes wide, and two images struck Brad at once. Nikki’s well-toned body, hugged by a short, sleeveless black
dress, silhouetted by Denver’s bright lights—a vision of its own kind of perfection.

And the piece of paper taped to the outside of the window.

Nikki gasped. Brad’s attention shifted to the piece of paper, and in the space of a single breath knew what it was. The Bride
Collector. The killer had found a way to tape a note to the outside of his window, five stories above the street.

Outside of
his
window? Why? How?

The possibilities crowded Brad’s mind. A ladder. A window washer on a ladder. He’d done it this way to avoid surveillance
cameras. A window washer in the middle of the day, or a repairman of some kind. A city worker. However it was done, it required
careful work.

This note, then, was important to the killer. Assuming it was from him.

“Brad?”

He broke from the thought gripping him, set his glass down, and stepped up behind Nikki. The white paper was dimmed by the
tinted glass, but it had been taped flat at the top and bottom with Scotch tape, and the Bride Collector’s handwriting was
unmistakable.

They’re trying to kill me, everyone is trying to kill me.

But the advantage of being God is that I get to change my mind. Why did you move my bride? My time. Have you killed Jack lately?
The snake waits in the garden, seeking a new bride to join him in the hole. Perfect twice. Me.

Paradise lost. It takes one to know one. To know the insane. When the jack is in the whole. Does jack want me to hide from
you? No, I’m not sick, I’m just better than you.

I’m the sunshine and you’re the Rain Man.

A chill bolted through Brad’s body. He stared at the writing, then reread the note.

What could he say? It was suddenly all very… personal.

“Flight of ideas, but hemmed in to make an odd kind of sense,” Nikki said, her voice shaky. “How did he get this note up here?
Surely he was seen.”

“We’ll canvass and take a look at any surveillance data in the area, but I’m sure he covered his tracks.”

“No one can see in here?”

“No.”

“But he obviously knows where you live. For all we know he watched us tonight. Or is watching us right now!” She sounded a
bit frantic. Not surprising, all things considered, but not typical for her.

Brad scanned the office building across the street. Most windows were dark, only a few lighted. A parking structure four buildings
to the right could make a decent perch for a man with strong binoculars. But none of that mattered. At night his apartment’s
glass would look black from the outside.

He snapped open his phone, called the agent on duty, and requested an evidence team join them as soon as possible.

Nikki paced in front of the window, hands on hips, rereading the note. “This is getting crazy. What do you think?”

It wasn’t like him to be easily disturbed, but this was significant. Brad set his phone on the sofa table, hands shaking,
then stared back at the note, trying his best to ignore the pins pricking his skin at the back of his neck.

Paradise lost.
The Bride Collector was referring to the Old Testament story of the snake in the garden. The fall of man, paradise lost.
But the coincidence between his use of the word and Brad’s connection with Paradise at the CWI was uncanny.

“Paradise,” Nikki said.

“Yeah. Paradise. Who’s Jack?”

She faced him, face drawn. “He knows you went to see her?”

“Not necessarily. But he clearly knows we moved the body.”

“Let’s assume he is referencing her, Paradise.” She spoke quickly, tense. “So first he makes some oblique reference to the
women in your life, possibly me. Then you go to CWI with the body of his victim, and he goes to great lengths to leave a note,
this time with a direct threat. So what, his fixation is now
you
? Every woman you come in contact with?”

It wasn’t uncommon for pattern criminals to develop unhealthy fixations with those they saw as adversaries. In psychopaths’
minds, the blame for their ruined lives lay not with their behavior but with whoever threatened their ability to engage in
that behavior.

“He knows I’m trying to stop him. He sees me as a competitive threat, and in his world, that means women.” Brad glanced at
her. “How does that sound?”

“It’s tough to know how the insane think.” She faced him. “Tell me more about Paradise.”

“What do you mean?”

“Humor me. I mean, you’ve seen her, what, three times now? You spent half our dinner talking about her. If I didn’t know who
she was, I might be jealous.”

What?
The revelation came out of the blue.

“She’s part of the case. We only discussed her for a few minutes.”

“Whatever, I’m just saying. Not that I have the right to be jealous.” She forced a sharp chuckle. “Listen to me, I’m pathetic.
She’s…”

“She’s what? A mess? Is she? Unlike us?”

Nikki’s right brow shot up. “Come again?”

It was his tone. In one moment he had dismissed Paradise, and in the next he was sounding desperate to defend her. In some
strange way he felt like he
should
defend her. She was defenseless. Abandoned by a world that had brutalized her.

“Come on, of course I feel for her.” There, he’d said it. “Who wouldn’t? She’s a victim of the monster in all of us.”

Nikki nodded. “I feel sorry for them, too. But there’s a difference between empathy and affection. I hope you understand that.”

“Actually, I don’t think it’s either empathy
or
affection.” He studied the note again. “I think it’s more respect.”

“In what way?”

“She sees things I don’t. She’s the fastest study I’ve ever met. A natural.”

Nikki broke off her stare. “I can see that.” But her tone wasn’t reassuring.
I can see that
rather indicated that she saw something totally different.

“I’m just a little unnerved by all of this.” She waved at the note. “Point is, this guy isn’t kidding around. He’s pressing
through with this, and he’s not even thinking about quitting.”

“Unless…”

She walked up to him and read the note over his shoulder. The scent of her perfume was still pleasant, a hint of spice in
flowers. Her breathing came soft near his ear. “Unless what?” The sound of her voice, light and clear. He was a fool, wasn’t
he? In so many ways Nikki was the perfect woman for him. He should be pursuing her now, regardless of the case.

Brad cleared his throat. “Do you know what’s crazy?”

She took two breaths before answering. “Us.”

“Here we are, facing the work of a psychopath who’s killed five women, two of them in the last week. We’re both staring at
a note threatening me, and instead of breaking the note down, we’re posturing.”

She sighed. “You’re right. Sorry, it’s all the stress. I hardly slept a wink last night.”

“Well, you have the day off tomorrow. Take it. Go see your mother. Meanwhile, there’s a squad car outside your apartment.”

“This guy doesn’t strike me as the kind who would let that stop him.” She waved it off. “Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.
So, back to the original question: Unless what?”

“I was thinking, unless he’s changed his mind. Instead of another woman…”

“He’s got you in his sights,” she finished. “He’s turned this into a game with you.”

“‘I’m not sick, I’m just better than you,’” he read. “‘I’m the sunshine, you’re the Rain Man.’”

Nikki picked up her glass and took a sip, lost in thought. Swirled the wine and took another. “‘Takes one to know one.’ Does
she trust you?”

“Who?”

“Paradise. She’s young and impressionable.”

“Only a few years younger than we are.”

“Not in experience. She’s probably taken with you. Starstruck even.”

True. Paradise’s lack of subtlety in her dismissal of him had in fact signaled her affection for him. The thought had returned
to him several times since.

“She’s not that naive,” he said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on it. You’re a good-looking, powerful man, and you needed her. That’s pretty strong medicine.”

“So now we’re back here again? What’s the point of this?”

Nikki walked over to the note. “Maybe she knows more than she’s telling you.”

“Not consciously.”

“You can’t know that, not yet.”

The thought was offensive, but he couldn’t dismiss it entirely. He could, however, give Paradise the benefit of the doubt.
“I doubt it.”

She turned to him. “Then show them the file. Let them read the notes. I said it before, and now he’s said it:
It takes one to know one
. It may only be circumstantial, but CWI is now directly tied to this case, and for all we know the key is locked in Paradise’s
mind. Use them all.”

Brad had already considered the possibility, however thin the reasoning. Roudy would certainly agree to it. But Paradise was
another issue.

“I doubt she’d agree to see me—”

“Oh, please. You have her wrapped around your finger! She’s playing you.”

“I don’t think you understand. She’s not like that.”

“She’s a woman. I get women. Turn on the charm, ask with a twinkle in your eye, she’ll agree, trust me.”

“You’re actually suggesting I lead her on?” He turned away from her and shook his head. “I couldn’t do that. She’s… No.”

“I’m not suggesting you lie. One way or another you have to find out what she knows. What she saw when she touched the body.
She’s your only lead.”

“I can’t just pry her open and read her mind!”

“Listen to you, Brad. Why so cautious suddenly? This isn’t like you.”

She was right, of course. He didn’t know why he was so annoyed by her suggestion, but the thought of disturbing Paradise,
regardless of the reason, felt wrong. She’d suffered enough already.

He dropped down on the couch and stared at the note plastered on the outside of the window.

“Earn her trust. Get her to lower her guard,” Nikki said. “She might know more than she realizes.”

TWO FULL DAYS
had passed since Paradise attempted and then utterly failed to encounter the dead. Roudy had emerged from his black fog that
first afternoon, and by sundown he was back to his pestering self. She’d spent the night alone in her room, with the door
locked, ignoring the
tap, tap, tap
of her friends who kept stopping by and knocking. They weren’t rude enough to pound, but the taps might as well have been
screams of ridicule.

“Come on, Paradise, what did we tell you?”

“I could have helped them, Paradise! I am the one they really want.”

“He only wants in your pants, Paradise! What did I tell you?”

“Go away!” she finally cried.

Twenty minutes later they were back.
Tap, tap, tap
.

But Paradise wasn’t insane. Nor was she mentally ill. She had some issues with phobias relating to her past, and she was bipolar,
yes, there was that. But she wasn’t psychotic and she wasn’t crazy. Slowly, she managed to pull herself out of the deep hole
into which she’d thrown herself after escaping the mortifying ordeal in the kitchen.

As the night quieted she grew annoyed with her pouting and forced herself out of bed. She took up her yellow notebook and
pencil and continued her work on
Lost Highways,
the novel she’d begun to write two weeks earlier. It was mostly scratching at this stage, just ideas and sentences haphazardly
written on the page, a guide for when she was ready to begin the actual story on the computer.

There was a significant difference between thinking and writing. Writing wasn’t just the translation of interesting ideas
to paper. It was its own kind of thinking, which seemed to kick in only when the pen made contact with the page, or her fingers
touched the keyboard.

But tonight, not even that faithful connection seemed to yield any useful thoughts or emotions. She gave up after an hour.

Hungry, she warmed a bowl of noodles in the microwave. She lived alone in a one-bedroom unit that was comfortably if sparsely
furnished. A twin bed and a desk in the bedroom; a brown sofa in the living room; a small kitchen area without a stove, but
it had both refrigerator and microwave, all she ever used.

She spent half an hour on the Internet using the small gray Compaq computer the center provided all residents who could conduct
themselves appropriately in the virtual world. They didn’t want someone who was deeply depressed posting suicide videos on
YouTube, now did they? The computer was her gateway to the world, but she found little in the world that really interested
her, so she used it primarily to research topics of interest, like mental illness and religion and nature.