Читать книгу Midnight Disclosures - Rita Herron - Страница 13

Mark hadn’t slept all night for thinking about Claire. He scrubbed a hand over his bleary eyes, parked in front of Claire’s cottage and climbed from his Thunderbird. Early morning sunlight fought for existence through the hazy sky. Mark could relate. Ever since he’d been carried from that prison camp and honorably discharged from the military, he felt as if he’d been slogging through a dark fog searching for his way.

Searching for a reason to live.

Claire.

Keeping her safe gave him purpose. But it was all tangled up with this new job and the past. Only she wanted nothing to do with him.

Perspiration dotted his forehead as he approached her front door. For just a moment, he allowed himself to move back in time. He had come to pick her up for their second date. He’d worn his uniform. She’d opened the door, her hair blowing in the breeze, her lips parted in invitation, her eyes lit with anticipation.

Tonight, those eyes wouldn’t be able to see him.

He braced himself for the disappointment, along with the war that raged within him over not touching her.

Finally, shaking off his own selfish need, he punched the doorbell. A second later, Claire appeared.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, Mark.”

When she swung the door open, she was still wearing a white linen nightshirt that caught in the morning breeze and fluttered around her thighs. Sunlight shone through the sheer fabric, giving him a glimpse of her sleek body, of golden skin, narrow hips, a flat stomach, then lower to the heat that had once sated his desires.

God help him, but he wanted to push up that gown and sink himself inside her now.

“Mark…I’m not dressed.”

“Obviously. Do you always answer the door like that?”

She jerked her head up, defensive. “No.”

He was just about to lecture her on the fact that a killer was stalking Savannah when he noticed she was shaking. Her face was pale, too. “What’s wrong?”

“I…I think someone was in my cottage.”

He gripped the doorjamb, instincts alert. “When?”

“Now,” she whispered, “or…maybe last night.”

He instinctively drew her against him, using his body as a shield between her and the inside of the cabin. “Are they still inside?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Fury iced his veins. Of course she didn’t. “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”

“No, let me go with you.”

She clutched his arm, and for the first time since he’d seen her again, she held onto him. He hated that fear had brought them to this point. “All right, Claire, but stay behind me. And if I say run, you damn well better do it.”

She clung to the back of his shirt as he drew his weapon and moved inside, her body pressed against him. The living room was dark, as was the rest of the cottage. Claire didn’t need lights, a bitter reminder of her condition.

He scanned the kitchen, then moved to the bedroom, his throat working when he saw the tousled covers and imagined Claire stretched out on the pale yellow sheets. Had someone been inside, watching her sleep?

The room was empty, though. So was her tiny bathroom.

Finally, he lowered his gun and turned to her. She stumbled into him, then pushed away to regain her balance. “Why didn’t you call for help?”

“I was going to, but then you showed up.”

He paused, calming himself, reverting back to professional mode. “Why do you think someone was inside?”

She took a calming breath and squared her shoulders as if she realized she’d shown a weakness. “The chair in my bedroom was moved from the corner.”

He frowned.

“Someone had to have moved it,” she clarified as if she’d seen his expression. “It’s important that I keep everything in its place.”

He knew it cost her to admit that.

“And in my bathroom…” she said in a low voice. “My perfume, cosmetics, they were all moved around, left open on the counter.”

“Anything else?”

She nodded and hugged her arms around herself. “Some scarves were missing from my drawers.”

Mark gritted his teeth. The other women had been strangled with scarves. Had the intruder taken Claire’s as a memento or did he plan to use them to choke his next victim?

“And…” her voice broke. “I found a rose.”

Dammit. The killer had also left a crushed rose in each victim’s hand.

His stomach churned as he spotted the flower on Claire’s pillow. Was it some kind of calling card to let her know she would be his next victim?

A FEW MINUTES LATER, Detective Black arrived to process the crime scene, although he’d told Claire he doubted they’d find any fingerprints. She belted a robe around herself and made coffee, then clasped the cup to her while the men combed her cottage.

“You didn’t hear anyone last night or this morning?” Black asked.

Claire shook her head. “No. I…I don’t know how I missed hearing him. I’m a light sleeper.”

Mark grunted in disapproval. “I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I,” Detective Black said. “As soon as we’re finished, I want you two at the station to review the case.”

Claire agreed, grateful when they allowed her to spray the air with freshener to absorb the pungent medicinal odor. Finally she took a shower. Taking refuge beneath the spray of hot water was heavenly, a place to gather her control, away from the all-knowing eyes of her former lover. She hated being vulnerable, hated having to admit she was unaware that someone had been in her bedroom while she was asleep.

The thought sent a chill through her that no amount of hot water could dissolve. She’d thought her other senses would compensate for her lack of sight.

Composing herself, she toweled off and dressed in a denim skirt and cotton blouse. Thankfully, the therapist at the rehab center had tagged her clothes, so she didn’t worry about looking mismatched. She blew her hair dry and twisted it into a clip, then added a hint of powder and mascara. Makeup was more difficult, but she’d practiced. A touch of lipstick came next. Heaven help her, but her hands were so shaky she almost missed her mouth.

Seconds later, she was seated in Mark’s car, the silence stretching between them as jarring as the juts in the road that led to Savannah.

“I really wish you’d leave town for a while,” Mark said as they entered the police station.

Now that the shock was wearing off, anger plucked at Claire. “I don’t intend to be victimized,” she said in a firm voice. “And when this man entered my house and moved my things around, that’s what he did.”

“Claire…”

Mark’s husky tone reeked of concern, tugging at feelings she didn’t want to revisit. “I’m not going to argue over this, Mark. Now, let’s look at those police reports. I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

A sigh followed, his only reply.

Things turned even more awkward when they arrived at the station. She hated looking so helpless, having to take Mark’s arm as they climbed the steps.

Hated even more wanting not to release him.

Detective Black ushered them into a room, then spread the police reports of the two victims on the table. Mark began to study them, leaving her completely out of the loop and magnifying the fact that she was a burden now, not his equal.

“Read me the contents of the reports,” Claire said.

“You don’t need to know the details,” Mark said, that protective air vibrating around him.

Claire sighed. “How can I create a profile of the killer if I don’t know the facts?”

Mark hesitated, his reluctance obvious.

“You’ll have to be my eyes, Mark,” she said, frustrated that she needed him. “Now read me the report.”

He shuffled the papers, then read in a monotone. “The first victim, Dianne Lyons, was single, twenty-five, blond. She lived with her boyfriend and cat and worked as a waitress at a local diner in Savannah. She was found lying facedown in the sand at Serpent’s Cove, strangled and blindfolded with a scarf. Forensics is still analyzing the scarf.”

“What about the autopsy report?”

Mark exhaled in a rush. “Claire—”

“I need to know everything, Mark. I’m not going to fall apart.”

The papers rattled again. “Death by strangulation. No other injuries, no apparent signs of struggle, no foreign DNA found, including scrapings from under her fingernails.”

“So, she didn’t fight her attacker?”

“If she did, the M.E. didn’t find evidence. But she was injected with enough Percoset to make her sluggish, probably so she couldn’t fight.”

“That’s interesting. Some killers get off on watching their victims struggle.” Claire paused. “And Percoset? I wonder why the killer chose that particular drug and where he obtained it. Maybe he works in some kind of medical job, or perhaps he was injured and got hooked on pain killers while in treatment.”

“Or maybe he’s a junkie.” Mark drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ll make sure we follow up on all those theories.”

“She wasn’t raped or sexually assaulted?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Do the police have any suspects?”

“Boyfriend’s alibi stands up. He was with another woman at the time.” Mark’s foot tapped on the floor. “They’re still questioning friends, relatives, acquaintances.”

“What about the second woman?” Claire asked. A surge of emotions crowded her throat at the thought of the poor motherless baby left behind.

“M.O. is the same. She was found facedown, blindfolded and strangled. Again no signs of struggle, no DNA found, no sign of sexual assault.”

“Suspects?”

“Husband claims he was in a business meeting in Charleston. His story checks out.”

“How about her co-workers?”

“Nothing so far, but they’re still being questioned.”

“And the women didn’t know each other, or run in the same circles?” Claire asked.

“No mutual friends or acquaintances that the police have discovered. Dianne rented a small apartment in the low-rent part of town, Beverly and her husband own a home in the historic district. Dianne ran with the working class, Beverly with the society crowd. No mutual clubs, volunteer organizations, hell, they didn’t even shop at the same clothing or grocery stores.”

“Odd.” Claire considered the information. “Usually a serial killer typecasts his victims to resemble the person he lost or his abuser.”

“I know.” Mark shifted. “Your show seems to be the only common factor so far.”

Claire bit her lip, the idea that she might have attracted the killer and led him to these women too daunting to fathom. No, the show hadn’t drawn him to kill; it was the other way around. He was using the show to flaunt the murders and gain publicity. “There has to be a connection. We just haven’t found it yet. Keep looking.” She paused. “Are there photos?”

Mark’s foot began tapping again, a sign of distress. “Yes.”

“Is there anything distinctive about the way the women are lying? Are they posed?”

He shuffled the photos, obviously spreading them across the table. “Both victims were lying facedown. Clothes were wrinkled and dirty, but again, no signs of sexual abuse.”

“Are their arms behind them, above their heads?”

Mark sighed. “Stretched above their heads.”

“Hmm, they’re lying facedown, as if they’re ashamed of themselves, even in death.”

Mark stilled beside her. She could feel the tension in his body. And as much as she detested doing it, in order to understand the killer, she had to get inside his head. Try to think like he would.

“He calls them bad girls,” Mark said. “But these women aren’t prostitutes.”

“Still, they’re not perfect in his eyes.” Claire shifted. “The fact that there’s no sexual abuse is interesting. It suggests he may be impotent or disabled in some way. And the way the hands are stretched above them, it shows his sense of control and power, and their lack of it. He wants them to be submissive. He gets off on proving how strong he is.”

Mark’s tapping became faster as he continued examining the photos. “Dammit.”

Claire’s hands tightened in her lap. “What is it?”

“The rose. It’s red just like the one on your pillow this morning, except this one is dead, crushed, the petals scattered around her body in the sand.”

Claire inhaled sharply. So it was the killer who had been in her cottage. Why had he left her a live rose when he’d left his victims holding a dead one?

MARK FISTED his hands around the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. The killer had definitely been in Claire’s bedroom watching her sleep this morning, touching her things, dropping a flower on her pillow as if marking her as his next victim. He’d known it, but seeing the photographs of the women in death had still sent a shock of reality through him. For a moment, Claire’s face had replaced those of the victims.

He’d damn near lost it.

Grappling for control, he reminded himself that the killer hadn’t warned any of the other victims. Maybe he didn’t plan to murder Claire, maybe he was just using her….

He wished to hell he could believe it.

Tires squealed as he took the turn. Claire’s hands were clenched around the seat belt, her sightless eyes wide and staring into space. Guilt forced him to slow the car; he was scaring her. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s going to be all right, Mark.”

He tossed out a sardonic chuckle. “How can you be so calm?”

“You’re frantic enough for both of us.”

He laughed again, but his laughter held no humor. Claire had always been calm in the face of a storm, the reason she was such a good psychologist, where he’d let his temper rule his actions.

Except on the battlefield. He had to rein in his emotions to do his job, and he had done it. The controlled soldier, meticulous with details, focused on the hunt when tracking down a war criminal, religious about tamping his personal feelings.

Except for the night he’d lost his men. Then he’d fallen apart.

But he had to maintain his control now.

Because Claire was involved. This battle was personal. She was in danger.

“You can drop me off at the center,” Claire said quietly.

“Not a chance, Claire. I’m going in to start questioning the staff.”

“Oh…right.”

He neared the Coastal Island Research Park’s main facility, and slowed, frowning at the cluster of people gathered around the front steps. “Is the center hosting some special event today?”

“No, why?”

“There’s a crowd out front.” He parked and cut off the engine, scanning the group. “Dammit. The press is here, too.” He opened the car door, furious. Claire stepped out with her cane, and he halted. “Wait here, Claire, let me see what’s going on.”

“This is my business environment, Mark. I’m going with you.”

He scrubbed his hand over his chin and met her in front of the car, then grabbed her hand and placed it on his arm. “Then hold on.”

She tensed, but finally acquiesced, and he led them through the throng until they were close enough to hear the speaker. He recognized Ian Hall, the Director of CIRP, from the photos Devlin had shown him. Cameras were trained on him, while he held a microphone in his hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate your time today,” Hall said. “On behalf of CIRP, I want to publicly express our concern over the two young women who phoned Dr. Claire Kos. She’s a valuable member of our team, and has done an outstanding job combining her practice and lecturing on various topics, the very reason she was chosen to host the radio talk show. CIRP is doing everything in our power to help the police investigate these violent deaths.”

“Although the police haven’t verified they’re dealing with a serial killer,” a lanky reporter said, “all evidence suggests that fact.”

“I heard they’re calling him the Midnight Murderer,” another reporter said.

More reporters jumped in, shouting questions at once.

“Is Dr. Kos available to speak to us?”

“Yes, where is she?”

“Does Dr. Kos know the identity of the Midnight Murderer?”

Mark shoved Claire behind him. “I can’t believe this. He’s milking the crimes to get publicity for CIRP.”

“I can assure you,” Hall continued, “Dr. Kos is doing everything possible to assist the police. I will arrange an interview for her when we speak again.”

“Like hell you will,” Mark muttered.

A tall reporter in front of him turned and noticed Claire’s cane. Seconds before she pounced, her eyes turned hawkish. “Dr. Kos is here now! Let’s hear what she has to say.”

The other reporters elbowed their way toward them like vultures. Mark encircled Claire with his arm and pushed through the crowd. “Dr. Kos has no comment.”

“Mark—”

“Come on, Claire, you’re not going public.”

He dragged her up the stairs, fending off hands and microphones, then shot Ian Hall a threatening look. “Get inside, Hall, we have to talk.”

Hall gaped, but recovered enough to paste on a smile for the camera. “That’s all for today, but thank you for coming. We’ll keep you posted.”

One of the reporters grabbed Mark’s arm. “Sir, are you a policeman? FBI?”

“He’s Mark Steele,” another reporter shouted. “He’s the guy who survived that explosion overseas.”

Mark gripped Claire harder. Dammit, he hadn’t thought about being recognized.

“Lt. Steele, can you tell us what happened to your men?”

Mark gritted his teeth and pushed the horde of reporters away.

“Mark?” Claire angled her head to him in question.

He had refused all interviews so far. He didn’t intend to talk now and open his wounds to the public.

“Get inside, Claire,” he barked.

Hall ducked inside behind Mark as the crowd moved forward. Mark shut the door, then yelled at a security guard to bar anyone from entering.

Ignoring the reporters’ references to himself and pleas to talk to Claire, he turned to Hall. “What the hell are you trying to do, get Claire killed?”