The Scum of All Fears: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 5 (5 page)

I sighed, frustration close to winning out over being
sensible. “You know Riley. You know he’s not like that.”

She stared at me, dead serious. “All guys are like that.”

Wow, I’d known Sharon how long now? I had no idea she’d react like this when I told her I had a job interview in Kansas.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree then.” I desperately needed to change the subject before Sharon planted any negative thoughts in my head. I knew Riley. I knew he wasn’t that guy. I stood and stretched. “You know what? I’m tired. I should be running.”

“Think about what I said, Gabby.”

I nodded, but I had no intentions of thinking about something that wasn’t true.

***

By the time I got home that evening, I was bone tired. Not only had the scenes been physically grueling to clean, but the emotional toll
the threats had taken on me was bigger than I wanted to admit. Then there was the conversation with Sharon that I’d rather forget. Yet it continued to echo in my mind.

I was ready for a long, hot bath and a re-run
of
Psych
.

I dropped my purse by the couch and started toward my bedroom. I stopped mid-step by my desk
, which was located against the wall in the Great Room, and stared down at the mess there. A mess I’d left, and an organized one at that.

Why did I feel like something had been moved?

I glanced over the papers, folders, and sticky notes cluttering the top. There was my new laptop. I’d bought it only a month or so ago. It was the first thing I’d purchased when I got my job with the medical examiner. Little did I know
then
what I knew
now
.

There was also an old Slim Jim canister that I’d covered
in crime scene tape that held my pens and some spare change. My diploma hung on the wall above it, along with a framed copy of the newspaper article about me. Then there was a picture of Riley and me at my college graduation. My filing cabinet was overstuffed with business invoices, purchase order forms, and receipts.

N
othing appeared to be out of place. So why did I feel so unsettled?

I sat down for a moment and stared, trying to pinpoint the
origin of my unease.

I picked up a couple of papers on top.
Just some bills. Underneath that was . . . a list of my clients that I’d printed out.

Bringing th
e paper up closer to my eyes, I focused on the words. This week had ended up being so busy that I printed out the addresses of all my job sites, as well as my schedule for cleaning their homes, just so I could keep everything straight and organized.

Someone couldn’t have . . .

I shook my head. No. No one saw this list. No one got an idea on how to leave me messages at crime scenes based on this paper.

Then
Riley’s words came back to me.
No one ever knew how Milton Jones got in and out of the homes. It was still a mystery to this day.

What if he’d gotten into my apartment without leaving a trace?

I shook my head again, feeling like I’d taken a crazy pill. Milton Jones had not gotten into my house. He was in California. Hiding.

That woman who’d disappeared last night had been taken by someone else.
It was a tragic coincidence, but a coincidence all the same.

A deranged serial killer was not after me.

He was not leaving messages for me at crime scenes in some kind of vast conspiracy to get revenge on Riley.

I refused to believe that.

But if I refused to believe it, then why was I having second thoughts about my bath? Why did I have the strange urge to call Riley and see if I could hang out at his place for a while . . . like until Jones was back behind bars? Even being with Clarice would be better than being in my apartment alone at the moment.

Just then, s
omeone pounded at my door.

I grabbed my butcher knife and
tried desperately to formulate a plan of action.

CHAPTER
6

“Gabby?
Are you there?” someone called from the hallway.

My hand—the one without the knife—
went over my heart. Riley. It was just Riley.

I
put the knife down before calmly walking to the door, unlocking all four locks, and pulling the door open.

I had to st
op myself from falling into Riley’s arms like a damsel in distress. No, I was a damsel who’d charge my way into trouble and fight for myself. But even tough damsels sometimes wanted to be cared for and protected, even if we didn’t want to admit it.

Riley
wrapped his arms around me as soon as I opened the door. I didn’t argue, but instead nestled my head into his chest. My heart still drummed a beat steady enough for a prisoner to walk to his death by.

“What’s wrong?” Riley pulled back until he could see my eyes.

I rubbed my temple, wondering just how crazy I was about to sound. So, instead of sounding crazy, I went with a more watered down version of why I was jumpy. “My crime scenes are playing with my head.”

“Maybe you should stay with someone tonight,” he suggested.
“Doesn’t Sharon have an extra room?”

“I’ll be fine.”
I walked to the couch, Riley following behind. I couldn’t handle talking to Sharon any more tonight.

“
Staying with someone would just be a safety precaution.” He lowered himself beside me. “It wouldn’t be a wimpy thing to do.”

“You know me too well.” I hated appearing weak.

“Sometimes you have to swallow your pride.”

Pride did come before
a fall. I sure didn’t want my fall to be at the hands of Milton Jones. “I’ll double check my windows.”

Riley’s
tie had been loosened and, again, his sleeves were rolled up and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. Catching up on work after being away for a week had obviously exhausted him. Starting your own law practice could exhaust anyone, or so I’d heard.

I filled him in on my day, leaving out my suspicion that someone had riffled through the papers on my desk.
I couldn’t confirm it; all I had was a hunch. Science wasn’t about instinct, though I was never one to dismiss gut feelings. If I told Riley my theory, he’d have the cops over here. I stuck with the eerie crime scene message instead.

Riley loosened his tie even more.
“Those messages don’t fit Jones’ M.O. He was too meticulous, too careful.”

“
If it’s not Jones—and I don’t believe it is—that would mean we have two psychos on our hands. One is hard enough to handle.”

“Jones is
gone, Gabby. No one knows where he escaped. In this day and age where everything is on video, he’s vanished. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

“Have you considered
that whoever snatched that woman in Norfolk was a copycat?”

“It seems too coincidental that a copycat would emerge now, just as
Jones has escaped. I don’t buy it.” He shook his head, leaving no room for doubt.

“This has got you really worried, hasn’t it?”
I squeezed his forearm.

“What he did to those women . . .”
His lips drew into a tight line.

He didn’t have to finish. I knew what he’d done. I’d read about it online. It was the stuff nightmares were made out of.
Methodical torture. Drawing out death for as long as possible. Things I couldn’t bear to think about.

“On a happier note, we have a new landlord
, and Bill McCormick wants to marry her.” Yeah, I know. It was a rough subject change. But unless I turned the topic onto something else, I was going to start thinking about pain and people not being treated as humans. I didn’t want to go there right now.

Riley shook his head
like someone had just splashed him with cold water. “What?”

“It’s true. She came by and introduced herself today. Her name is
Rose. She’s got this 80s rock vibe going on, and she wants to have a cookout for everyone here tomorrow.”

“Mr. Sears never did that.”

“Nope, he sure didn’t.” Mr. Sears barely showed up when there was a pipe leak or when an appliance broke. Most of us here had learned to take care of issues ourselves. There were advantages and disadvantages to his hands-off approach.

“
You said the cookout is tomorrow? Isn’t that when your interview is?”

So Riley d
id remember. He hadn’t brought the job possibility up since I first mentioned it. He didn’t talk a lot about what it could mean for us, but I wondered if he was worried that I might accept the job. Of course, he’d told me it was a great opportunity, but how great was it if it meant we’d live seventeen hours apart? And, if he wasn’t worried about me moving, then how much did that mean he cared for me?

Was Sharon right? Did he think his career was more important than mine? I had a hard time believing it.

I was much better at deciphering science than I was figuring out my emotions. Or figuring out men, for that matter.

“My interview is
actually on Wednesday. They called and asked if we could move it back a day. I’ll squeeze it in between jobs.”

He leaned back and propped his feet up on the coffee table. He looked tired. Really tired.
Now wasn’t the time I wanted to have a conversation with him about whose job was more important or who should sacrifice for the other.

“Did you eat dinner? Can I make you something?”
I
thought
I had some Ramen noodles somewhere in my pantry.

“I’m good. Just a long da
y. I should probably get to bed.”

Truth was that I wanted him to stay, but I knew he couldn’t for more than one reason. Riley stood and
headed down my hallway instead of toward the door.

I shoved my eyebrows together.
“What are you doing?”

“Checking all of your windows.” He moved from room to room, nudging and shoving and double-checking. Finally, I guess he was satisfied.

“Be careful. Promise me.”

There was a time to be careful. And then there were times when careful would get you nowhere.

“I’ll keep my eyes wide open,” I told him.

And I would be careful, I decided
, in a manner of speaking. I’d
carefully
figure out the mess around me until I got some answers.

***

I tossed to the other side of my bed as a night of restless sleep got the best of me. The sheets were knotted at my feet. My pillow had been punched more times than Mike Tyson’s face. Sleep and my body were just not cooperating tonight.

My thoughts were going haywire.

They jumped from Milton Jones to the eerie messages at the crime scenes to my interview with the Kansas Medical Examiner. I thought about Riley, our future together, about everything I’d leave behind if I moved. I thought about my desk, the papers there, and the possibility that a serial killer could be taunting me.

Before I’d gone to bed, I’d opened my Bible and read from 1 Peter.
Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know that the family of believers throughout the world is undergoing the same kind of sufferings.

I wasn’t saying that there was a killer out there who was secretly the devil. But I did feel like there was someone out there
looking for lives to destroy. I hoped I could stand strong in my faith throughout this storm.

Finally, I threw my legs out of bed and stood.

My alarm clock told me it was only 5:30 a.m. Way too early to be getting up. But I just couldn’t lay down any longer.

I shuffled into the kitchen and flipped on my coffeemaker. I’d set it la
st night before I went to bed. Without any coffee, my mind was too groggy in the morning to make coffee. I know, I know . . . it was a tough life. I was hoping to add “I promise to make you coffee every morning” somewhere in Riley’s wedding vows.

Five minutes later, I had a steaming cup in front of me, topp
ed off with some sugar and cream. I flipped on the TV and found a news station.

A story about Milton Jones was on. Of course.

I should have changed the station, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Instead, I listened as the reporter talked about the precautions people out in California were taking. That same, familiar fear had crept into their lives. Some had even planned vigils in honor of the man’s past victims.

California seemed so far away. Yet, at the same time, it seemed so close.

How many miles? I
pulled my cell phone from its charger on the end table and checked the distance. Two thousand, six hundred and some miles. To drive straight through would take one day, plus sixteen hours.

That didn’t seem all that far.

Faces of Milton’s victims flashed on the screen. I’d seen some of them before when I did my Internet search. They were all young. They were all pretty and ambitious and had a full life ahead of them.

Until Milton Jones had snatched it away.

I was pretty sure Lifetime had already made a movie about him. No joke. It had been called “The Milton Jones Story.”

I
reminded myself not to watch any Saturday night specials on the man. No, I didn’t need a film to increase my wariness. Life was doing a fine enough job on its own.

Finally, I flipped the TV off
and drank my last sip of coffee. Enough was enough.

I
had to get to work. I walked over to my desk to check my schedule for the day.

What I saw there made my
heart stutter a beat.

It was a picture of me.
With Clarice. Leaving the crime scene yesterday.