When the hunter becomes the hunted...

Serial-killer hunter Nick Shade built his legendary career chasing monsters—sadistic criminals with a gruesome thirst for death. When he rescued Montgomery detective Bobbie Gentry from horrific captivity and helped her reclaim her life, he didn’t intend to be a hero. Or a target. But now a copycat murderer haunts him, and reuniting with Bobbie is his best chance at neutralizing the threat.

Bobbie can’t forget the nightmares of her trauma—or the man who saved her. Working with Nick to outmaneuver the person behind a deadly vendetta feeds her hope that there’s more to her world than ghosts and destruction. Maybe joining Nick’s search for a killer is about gratitude. Maybe it’s nothing more than cold revenge. But the only way they can protect themselves is to trust each other.

Praise for the novels of Debra Webb

“A hot hand with action, suspense and last, but not least, a steamy relationship.”

—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard

“Debra Webb’s name says it all.”

—New York Times bestselling author Karen Rose

“Compelling main characters and chilling villains elevate Debra Webb’s Faces of Evil series to the realm of high-intensity thrillers that readers won’t be able to resist.”

—New York Times bestselling author CJ Lyons

“A well-crafted, and engrossing thriller. Debra Webb has crafted a fine, twisting thriller to be savored and enjoyed.”

—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham on Traceless

“A steamy, provocative novel with deep, deadly secrets guaranteed to be worthy of your time.”

—Fresh Fiction on Traceless

“Debra Webb’s best work yet. The gritty, edge-of-your-seat, white-knuckled thriller is peopled with tough, credible characters and a brilliant plot that will keep you guessing until the very end.”

—New York Times bestselling author Cindy Gerard on Obsession

“Interspersed with fine-tuned suspense...the cliffhanger conclusion will leave readers eagerly anticipating future installments.”

—Publishers Weekly on Obsession

“Webb reaches into our deepest nightmares and pulls out a horrifying scenario. She delivers the ultimate villain.”

—RT Book Reviews on Dying to Play

Also by Debra Webb

MIRA Books

Shades of Death

The Blackest Crimson

No Darker Place

A Deeper Grave

Harlequin Intrigue

Faces of Evil

Dark Whispers

Still Waters

Look for Debra Webb’s next novel

THE COLDEST FEAR

available soon from MIRA Books.

For additional books by Debra Webb, visit her website at www.debrawebb.com.

A Deeper Grave

Debra Webb

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to all the amazing men and women who risk their lives every day to protect and serve the communities of this great nation as officers of the law. Though many of my fiction novels include members of law enforcement who are not good guys, I know that in real life these bad folks are the exception and not the rule. Thank you for all you do to keep us safe.

Only on the edge of the grave can man conclude anything.

—Henry Adams

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Booklist

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Extract

Copyright

One

Westminster Drive

Wednesday, October 19, 10:00 p.m.

Fern Parker turned up the volume until the music vibrated in her earbuds. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend her parents weren’t right down the hall screaming at each other. Ever since they moved into this shitty house in this shitty neighborhood all those two ever did was fight. It didn’t matter that she and her brother had lost nearly all their friends or that they couldn’t even go to the mall or any damned where else without being pointed at and whispered about. The worst part was moving to a new school. Fern hated the place, she hated the other kids and she hated the teachers. All her parents cared about was proving who was the guiltiest.

She hated them both. Hated her life.

Fern pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut a little tighter. God, she wished she had some weed. Maybe she’d have some later. He had bought it for her before. Last time it was beer. A smile softened her lips. He was so damned hot. Maybe tonight they’d have sex. He’d pretended not to want it as much as she did, but she knew. He was only trying to be a gentleman. Older guys were like that. She didn’t care that he was older. He was watching out for Fern and her family like a guardian angel. No one else cared.

He deserved something for all his trouble. Besides, Fern was tired of being a virgin. Tonight she was going to be bad. Just let her parents try getting in her shit for being bad. “I hate you both,” she muttered.

Something touched her arm and she jumped. Sage. Her crybaby little brother.

“What do you want?” she demanded, removing an earbud. He scared the crap out of her sneaking around like that. She should have locked her door.

“Can I sleep in your bed?” He stared up at her with those puppy dog eyes all shiny with tears. You’d think he was five instead of ten.

Hard as she tried not to care, she regretted yelling at him and for one second she almost said yes. She loved the little brat even if he made her so mad sometimes. He always got scared when their parents argued. Then she remembered the guy she’d promised to meet after her parents crashed. No contest.

“Get out of here!” She snagged her brother by the arm and escorted him into the hall. “Leave me alone,” she warned.

“Pleeease,” he whined.

“Go away!” Fern slammed the door in his face.

She felt bad again for about a second. He was her little brother and she loved him. She’d gotten in seriously deep shit sticking up for him. Her school record was ruined. She rolled her eyes. Who cared? It wasn’t like she was going to Harvard or Princeton now the way her father had always promised. She’d be lucky to get into a state school with financial assistance.

Her whole fucking life was falling apart and it was their fault. She glared at the wall that separated her bedroom from her parents’. The whole city knew the awful things they had done. All the jerks who’d ever pretended to be her friends had turned their backs when the government seized their home...froze their assets. A sixteen-year-old girl shouldn’t even have to know about those things much less be living them.

It wasn’t fair. Her parents had ruined her life. She and her brother would never recover from their bullshit.

Frustrated, Fern stormed from her room and down to the kitchen. Maybe she’d see if her father still kept a stash of beer in the garage fridge. She didn’t bother turning on a light. The layout of the house wasn’t that complicated. It was maybe a fifth the size of the home she’d grown up in. This place sucked in every way.

A quick twist of the dead bolt and she slipped into the garage. At the fridge, she opened the door, light spilled out around her and she spotted the Budweiser. She smiled and reached for one. Standing in the vee the open fridge door made, she twisted off the top and took a long, deep swallow. Something stung her neck. She jerked. Swatted at whatever it was. The half-empty bottle of beer hit the concrete, shattering and splashing foamy liquid over her legs.

“Shit.”

Before she could step away from the mess, an arm locked around her waist and a hand closed over her mouth. She told herself to struggle but her muscles wouldn’t work. The light from the fridge faded to darkness.

“Good night, princess.”

Two

Montgomery, Alabama

Thursday, October 20, 7:35 a.m.

Detective Bobbie Gentry adjusted the temperature on the dash. Last week it had hit better than seventy degrees every single day. As if the weather gods suddenly woke up and realized it was fall, last night’s low abruptly dipped nearly to freezing. Football weather, her father had called it. Her husband, on the other hand, would have picked up their little boy and swung him around, announcing that the cooling temps and changing colors of the leaves meant it was time for the fair to come to town.

Except those happy moments wouldn’t happen this year. James was dead. Their son, Jamie, was dead. And her folks had passed away years ago.

Bobbie was alone.

The good news was she had come to terms with the reality of her life...at least to some degree. Dying wasn’t her first thought when she woke up or whenever she thought of her little boy. Her heart no longer threatened to stop beating when she recalled her husband’s voice, or his touch or that sexy smile. At some point in the past few weeks she had stopped counting the days since her life, for all intents and purposes, had ended.

She was alone, but she was learning to live with it.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

She slowed for a traffic light and glanced at the detective in the passenger seat of her Challenger. “No one said you did, Bauer. Besides you’d do the same for me.”

Asher Bauer stared out the window, refusing to meet her gaze. “I dunno where you get the idea that I’m a nice guy.”

Bobbie tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. They’d had versions of this discussion numerous times before. Typically Bauer was a charming, keep-everybody-laughing kind of guy—unless he was in a mood. When he was in a mood, he considered himself the scum of the earth and wanted nothing to do with anyone. Like now.

“Maybe I think you’re a nice guy because you brought me flowers every week when I was in the hospital and in rehab.” She sent him a knowing look. “That was a lot of flowers.”

“Holt made me bring ’em.”

“Yeah right. Holt had nothing to do with those flowers and we both know it.”

Sergeant Lynette Holt wasn’t the type to suggest flowers. She barely remembered to order an arrangement for her wife when their baby was born. Bobbie wished she could turn off whatever switch had been tripped over the weekend. Last Friday Bauer had been psyched, looking forward to a trip to T-Town to watch the Crimson Tide play Texas A&M. It certainly hadn’t been the game. The Tide had crushed the Aggies. Maybe he and his date had a fight. Of course Bauer would deny he’d been on a date. Whether he called it a date or not he’d taken a female companion to the game in Tuscaloosa. They’d no doubt partied and fooled around. And, apparently, parted on less than amicable terms. He’d been in a mood since.

“I get my Mustang back this afternoon,” Bauer said, totally ignoring the flower comment. “You and Holt don’t need to worry about picking me up after today.”

“That’s great. You’ll feel like a free man with your wheels back.”

Bauer grunted in response. Three weeks ago he’d left for work and barely made it a mile when another driver T-boned him. Beyond hefty damages to his beloved car, he’d sustained nothing more than a mild concussion. The fact that he hadn’t had a drink since around ten the night before ensured he was stone-cold sober at the time of the accident—another lucky break. Bauer had spent the required seventy-two hours on medical leave before returning to work and for whatever reason he’d chosen not to get a rental to use while his car was in the shop. Holt had told him to take one of the Crown Vics but he’d played off the suggestion.

Bobbie wondered if he’d been afraid to get behind the wheel again so soon after the accident. Sometimes even people who took the most daring risks could get scared. She had asked him and he’d promptly disregarded the question in that same aloof manner he used to make people think he was arrogant. But he wasn’t. Bauer never talked down to anyone and he kept his troubles to himself. Case in point, even after two years Bobbie still didn’t know why his fiancée had committed suicide. Not that she could fault him for keeping certain things close.

We all have our secrets. She had plenty of her own.

“You make your meeting last night?” She braced for a sarcastic response. Asking an alcoholic if he’d gone to his AA meeting was tricky.

“Has a cat got an ass?” He raked his fingers through his hair and then stretched his neck from side to side. “Holt said if I missed a meeting I was going on leave.”

No cop wanted to be forced off the job, but Bobbie agreed with Holt’s edict. Bauer’s drinking had become more and more of a problem over the past year. He’d hit the wall a couple of months ago and started sneaking a drink at work when the pressure was on. Holt had ordered him to get his butt to Alcoholics Anonymous. He hadn’t argued. Apparently the accident had driven home the message that he needed to get his act together on and off the job. Bobbie figured he had realized that he might have avoided being hit if he’d been more alert rather than hungover. He hadn’t said as much, but a few of his comments hinted at the idea.

While Holt had taken some time off with her new baby, Bauer had been without a partner so he and Bobbie had worked together for a few weeks. Howard Newton—Newt—had been Bobbie’s partner since the day she made detective. Seven years. He’d been like a father to her. His death two months ago had left her reeling. She missed him something fierce. Always would. But life moved on whether you were ready for change or not. September fifteenth a new detective had transferred in from Birmingham and Lieutenant Owens, the Major Crimes Bureau commander, promptly introduced him as Bobbie’s new partner. Holt and Bauer had been partners for nearly a decade. It was only right that the new guy was assigned with Bobbie.

Like every other aspect of her life this year, finding balance with a new partner hadn’t been easy. She’d lost so damned much. Until recently she’d spent most of her time wishing for just two things: vengeance and death. She hadn’t expected to accomplish one without the other, and yet here she was.

No looking back.

“You got food in the house?” she asked, her voice sounding loud after the long span of silence. “We could go shopping after work.”

Bauer made a disgusted sound. “Like I said, I don’t need a babysitter.”

As much as she understood his frustration, she couldn’t deny being grateful that someone else was the object of the team’s scrutiny and concern these days. She’d done her time and endured more than her share of sympathetic looks and queries as to whether she was okay. Okay was something she might never again be, but she was moving forward. One slow step at a time.

She said, “I’ll take that as a yes.” She hadn’t noticed any weight loss. Obviously the man was eating. The dark circles under his eyes suggested he wasn’t sleeping as well as he should. Still, every sandy-brown hair was in place and he was dressed as if he was headed to a magazine cover shoot rather than the morning briefing.

Bauer exhaled a big breath. “I’m good, that’s all anyone needs to know.” He paused for a couple of beats. “I appreciate the offer, but I can do my own shopping.”

Bobbie braked for another traffic light. This time she turned to him. “I get it and I’ll gladly stop nosing into your business on one condition.”

He gave her an eye roll. “And what might that condition be?”

“If you need someone, you’ll call me. Deal?”

He made an impatient face, but he nodded his agreement. “Deal. Now get off my back.”

“You got it.” The light changed to green and she nudged the accelerator. Since she hadn’t exactly set the best example of reaching out to friends for help, she appreciated that Bauer didn’t mention as much.

He unclipped his cell from his belt, checked the screen and answered, “Morning, Sarge. What’s up?”

Unless Holt had decided to check up on him, there was a call. Bauer grunted in response to whatever the sergeant was saying. Bobbie concentrated on driving, tension working its way into her muscles. The city of Montgomery had been pretty quiet the past two months. The serial killer known as the Storyteller had wreaked havoc for a few days back in August but he was in hell now where he belonged.

Bauer ended the call and tucked his phone away. “We got two bodies over on the corner of Westminster and Woodmere. Devine is already on the scene. You can drop me off at CID and head that way.”

“Any details on what happened?”

“She didn’t tell me a whole lot. She was bringing me up to speed on a case in her neighborhood that blew up again last night.”

“The domestic abuse case?” Bobbie had a bad feeling about that one. The couple lived only two doors down from Holt. Every time there was a flare-up between them it was worse than the last. Holt had, unfortunately, let the escalating situation get personal for her. Like you have any room to talk, Bobbie.

Some things were personal.

Bauer nodded. “That’s the one.” He moved his head from side to side. “I don’t get why women stay in that shit.”

Bobbie didn’t, either. Not really. Although she had to admit that her own experience with being abducted, raped and tortured had changed her in ways she hadn’t expected, so she tried not to judge anyone else. Talk was cheap until it happened to you.

“How about you drop me off at the scene?” she suggested. “When I’m done there, I’ll hitch a ride with Devine.”

Bauer didn’t answer as she slowed for a U-turn.

“Any witnesses? Who found the bodies?” she asked, not wanting to give him time to come up with an excuse for why he couldn’t drive her car to the Criminal Investigation Division offices.

He shrugged. “Don’t know about any witnesses. Holt said the housekeeper found the bodies.” Bauer reached for the coffee he’d abandoned in the cup holder and knocked back a slug. “She did say it’s some creepy shit though.”

“I guess I’ll find out.”

Creepy was relative. After what she’d gone through with the Storyteller, very little surprised Bobbie. Still, adrenaline pumped hot and fast through her veins. There was a lot missing in her life. No matter that she’d stopped the monster responsible for that loss, the emptiness remained. Being a cop was all she had left. She worked hard to stay on her toes and to maintain focus. Being a cop was her life.

The case was all that mattered.

Westminster Drive

8:30 a.m.

Detective Steven Devine waited on the sidewalk outside the tri-level brick home now surrounded by yellow crime scene tape. The lawn was neatly kept with lush green shrubbery and large trees. The house was situated in a typical middle-class suburb in an older, quiet neighborhood. Any vehicles the owners drove were either gone or hidden away in the garage.

Bobbie waved to Devine, then greeted the officer maintaining the perimeter as she ducked under the tape. The presence of two Montgomery Police Department cruisers as well as that of the coroner’s van had drawn neighbors outside. So far Bobbie didn’t see any sign of reporters, which suited her just fine. She’d had her fill of the media over the past ten months. Be that as it may, as soon as word about the homicides hit the grapevine the newshounds would appear. Generally they weren’t far behind the coroner’s van.

“Morning, Bobbie,” Devine said, his good old Southern boy smile in place.

He was a couple of years younger than Bobbie’s thirty-two. Tall, lean and reasonably attractive with the kind of calming blue eyes that stirred trust, particularly in female witnesses. He kept his dark hair cut regulation short and his tailored designer suits professionally pressed. More important than all the outer trappings, his history as a homicide detective in Birmingham was impeccable. So far Bobbie couldn’t complain.

“Morning. What do we have inside?” Bobbie headed for the front door.

Devine’s long legs easily kept up with her hurried stride. “Husband and wife are deceased. The bodies appear to have been staged. Sixteen-year-old daughter and ten-year-old son weren’t home. The housekeeper says they frequently stay with friends.”

“We need to confirm the location of the children ASAP.” Worry tied a knot in her gut. If the kids were home at the time of the murders there could be more bodies showing up soon.

“Got someone working on that,” Devine said.

Bobbie frowned. “Is this a murder-suicide?”

“No, ma’am.” Devine paused at the door, his hand on the knob. “If you watch the news or read the papers you’re familiar with the vics, Nigel and Heather Parker.”

Bobbie doubted there was anyone in the state who hadn’t heard about the two. The identity of the victims added a whole new dimension to the investigation. Nigel Parker had apparently spent the past several years attempting to emulate the notorious Bernie Madoff. The wife, Heather, had started her own Ashley Madison–style service to accommodate her husband’s high-powered clients as well as the who’s who in the state of Alabama. The feds believed Heather had been using pillow talk to help her husband swindle his clients. Both empires had recently begun to crumble. Nigel’s diverting and skimming had been uncovered and Heather’s “little black book” had somehow landed in the hands of a national tell-all rag of a newspaper. Even the governor’s name had appeared within those torrid pages.

“So what are they doing here?” Bobbie surveyed the neighborhood a second time. The Parkers owned one of those luxury estates over on Bell Road. Most likely the feds had seized their property. Or maybe the family was simply attempting to live incognito.

“According to Mrs. Snodgrass, their longtime housekeeper, the reporters, the threatening calls and letters got to be too much. This is one of the rental properties Parker owned under a shell company so they moved here.”

Bobbie had caught a couple of clips from the FBI’s recent press releases on the local couple who’d made national headlines. In addition to Nigel Parker having received numerous death threats, shots had been fired at his home on at least one occasion. A homicide investigation involving high-profile victims was a nightmare case for any police department. Literally hundreds of potential persons of interest would have to be combed through. Not only would a lot of time be unavoidably wasted, the feds would be poking their noses and two cents’ worth into every step.

“We’ll have no shortage of persons of interest to interview and all sorts of help from the FBI.” The reality sounded worse when she said it out loud.

Devine chuckled drily. “No doubt. There’re plenty of folks who wanted to see this guy get his.” He jerked his head toward the street. “Uniforms are canvassing the neighbors. Coroner arrived about fifteen minutes ago. Evidence techs are processing the house one room at a time. I put in a call to Special Agent Hadden. Had to leave a voice mail.”

“Good.” Devine was meticulous, played by the rules and needed no prompting to get the job done—all of which made his initial action this morning completely out of character. “Why didn’t you call me when you first arrived on the scene?” Fair question. He’d clearly been here an hour or so.

“You had to pick up Bauer,” he offered. “Holt said she’d let you know.”

Frustration inched its way up her spine. Bobbie suspected the sergeant had her own reasons for not taking this one herself. Between the baby, new nightmare neighbors, and her need to keep Bauer on the straight and narrow, Holt was spread a little thin. Still, Bobbie would rather not see a crime scene after six or so other people had already walked through it.

“In the future,” she said as she pulled gloves from her jacket pocket and dragged them on, “you call me first regardless. No exceptions. Got it?”

Devine nodded. “Got it.”

“Let’s have a look then.”

Bobbie let that particular tension go. Her new partner had garnered plenty of homicide experience in Birmingham. No reason for her to worry about him handling the scene properly. It was the principle of the thing. She was his partner. He should have called her.

Over the past month she’d been impressed by his work ethic. Since he was single he was completely focused on the job. It was also nice that he didn’t try using the fact that he was a man to prove he was better at every turn. With his criminal justice degree from Western Illinois University and eight years on the force in Birmingham he’d already turned down the offer of a promotion to sergeant. And if his stellar credentials weren’t enough, he’d showed his softer side when he made the lateral move to Montgomery to be close to his elderly aunt. The aunt had no remaining family beyond Devine and his parents. Since his parents had a prestigious medical practice in Birmingham, a move would have been problematic. With no complicated ties, Devine had decided he’d rather relocate to Montgomery than see his aunt sentenced to a nursing home. How often did someone his age make such a big sacrifice?

His lapse in judgment this morning aside, he was a good partner.

But he would never be Newt.

Inside, the house wasn’t permeated with the usual smells related to violence. No bloody metallic odor, no hint of gunpowder in the air, but there was the lingering essence of death—that distinct uneasy impression that something bad had happened here. The living room, dining room and kitchen were one large open space. The furnishings likely cost more than the house. Every throw pillow was in place, every knickknack and piece of art expertly arranged. Two evidence techs were going over the space. Even the tiniest fragment of trace evidence could make all the difference to the case. Fortunately, MPD had a damned good forensic team.

A staircase went both up and down from the west side of the main living area, creating the three levels. The house sported ’70s style paneling, popcorn ceilings and parquet wood flooring. She imagined the Parkers hadn’t lived this modestly in several decades, if ever.

“The laundry room, a bathroom and a small den are next to the garage down there,” Devine said, indicating the seven or eight descending steps. “Three bedrooms and two baths are up.”

“Let’s see the bodies.”

Devine pointed to the second floor and Bobbie followed him up the carpeted stairs. She had a look at the first bedroom they passed. The purple walls were plastered with posters of rock bands and rap singers. The open doors of the closet showed a wardrobe of mostly black. Unlike the order she’d encountered so far, discarded jeans and sneakers were scattered across the floor. The laptop on the desk was open and displaying a stream of photos showing teenagers drinking beer and smoking God only knew what. Sweat formed on Bobbie’s skin as she crossed the room. The sixteen-year-old daughter’s bed was still made. Wherever Fern Parker was, she apparently hadn’t slept here. Maybe last night she’d decided to run away with a friend. Sixteen-year-olds were prone to impulsive behavior.

“Let’s put the laptop into evidence.” No one wanted to believe a child was capable of murder, but it happened.

“Yes, ma’am.”

While Devine called a tech up to the girl’s bedroom, Bobbie checked the closet and dresser drawers. She took a look behind the curtains and spotted what she had hoped not to find. Damn. Few teenagers went anywhere without their phones. “This may be her cell phone.”

Devine joined her at the window. He blew out a breath. “Damn. I missed that.”

Bobbie examined the phone. No text messages, no emails. “That’s why we always take a second look.” Even the best detective wasn’t infallible.

Devine reached for the phone. “We’ll start calling her contacts list now.”

Bobbie moved across the hall. The boy’s room was located opposite the sister’s. Blue walls and loads of Legos set the theme for the space. Shelves were crammed with books and superhero action figures. Bobbie reminded Devine to take the boy’s laptop into evidence, as well. If the younger Parker had a cell phone he hadn’t left it behind. Like the sister’s bed, this one hadn’t been slept in, either.

Down the hall the bathroom was clear. Bobbie hesitated at the open door to the parents’ bedroom. The room was elegantly decorated, the furnishings unquestionably from their former residence. The massive bed took up most of the floor space. Bobbie entered the room and moved closer to the bed. Both victims had been marked with what appeared to be blood on their foreheads. Heather was marked with an A, likely for adulteress. Nigel’s forehead bore a T, probably for thief. Both appeared to be sleeping peacefully but the ashen skin and blue lips belied the facade of serenity. Heather’s long blond hair spread across her pillow. She wore a lacy black nightgown. Nigel’s brown hair was tinged with gray along the temples and looked as if it had been neatly combed after he was placed in the bed. His upper torso was bare. A cream-colored silk sheet was turned down at their waists.

Bobbie drew back the covers to reveal the rest of their bodies. Heather’s gown hit the tops of her thighs. Her husband wore paisley print silk boxers. Beyond the strokes of blood on their foreheads, there was not a single speck of blood visible on the vics or the linens, no immediately observable physical injury. Not the first defense wound on their hands or arms.

Devine joined her at the bedside. “Brace yourself for what you’ll find under those high-end nightclothes. It’s been a day or two since I saw anything this bizarre.”

“Has the coroner given any preliminary conclusions on cause of death?” Her partner hesitated and she shot him a look. “I’m hoping your hesitation and that look on your face isn’t about me.”

Like everyone else, Devine knew her history. Poor Bobbie had been broken to pieces by a depraved killer who destroyed all that she loved. She still saw the looks and the questions in the eyes of some. Had time and all the surgeons and shrinks been able to put Bobbie back together again? She might never be the same woman again, but she was damned well as good or better at being a cop.

He shook his head. “It’s me.” Her partner passed a hand over his face. “The victims were taken to the garage. Based on the blood and...other stuff left behind down there that’s where the murders took place.”

Bobbie considered the couple posed in their bed. Heather was average height and had a slim build, but her husband was tall and likely weighed a good one-seventy-five or -eighty. The killer had to be strong enough to handle getting the bodies down to the basement, and then back up to the bedroom again. Otherwise they had two killers on their hands.

“Each vic,” Devine continued, “was disemboweled through a horizontal incision to the abdomen.” He tugged the waistband of Parker’s boxers down just enough to show a neat row of sutures. “All the organs were removed, including the lungs and heart. After the killer was finished, the incisions were closed, the bodies washed, dressed and placed as you see them now.” He gestured to the woman. “Hers is the same.”

A year ago Bobbie’s first inclination would have been to wonder what kind of sick animal would do something like this. Now she knew the answer all too well, so instead she asked, “Were the victims conscious during this procedure?”

“Don’t know yet. If so, there’s no indication of a struggle. The arterial spray patterns suggest their hearts were still beating at the time the primary incisions were made.”

Jesus Christ. “What tools did he use to do his work? Were they here already or did he bring them with him?” Her voice was steady when she spoke though her heart pounded a little faster. Cops weren’t expected to be immune to this kind of horror, but Bobbie’s actions were still under the microscope. She couldn’t afford the slightest outward indication of being shaken. “Are the organs still here?”

There had to be one hell of a mess in the garage.

“Whatever he used, he took it with him. I found a couple of steak knives in the kitchen but nothing that would do this with any efficiency.” Devine glanced at the victims as if he hated to discuss what was downstairs in front of the couple, and then he looked Bobbie straight in the eye. “The organs are here. He—whoever did this—took a bite out of each of the hearts.”

Bobbie surveyed the Parkers once more. Something about the MO felt familiar. Hadn’t she read about a similar case maybe eleven or twelve years ago? “We’ll need impressions made from the bite marks if possible.”

“Dr. Carroll mentioned that already,” Devine said.

“Seppuku.” The word rolled off the tip of Bobbie’s tongue as the old headlines flashed through her mind.

She had been in college—a sophomore if she remembered correctly. A serial killer had disemboweled his victims in a manner similar to the technique used in the Japanese samurai honor code ritual. The gruesome ceremonial death was carried out against those who, in his opinion, had shamed themselves. The killer had chosen victims from the local headlines—in Chicago maybe—who were suspected of gross wrongdoing. Bobbie vaguely recalled one had been a hedge-fund manager who stole from his clients—not unlike Nigel Parker. Another had been a teacher accused of having sex with two of her students—one of whom committed suicide during the trial.

“Wait.” Devine touched his forehead as if he’d experienced an epiphany, as well. “I remember that case. But the Seppuku Killer executed himself—” he shrugged “—ten or so years ago. He fell on his sword right in front of the detectives who’d cornered him.”

“His only shame was in being caught.” More of the details from those gruesome murders filtered into Bobbie’s thoughts. Like these, his victims had been posed in their homes or offices. She turned to her partner. “We should have a look at that case. I think he was active in the Chicago area. This may be a copycat.”

“I’ll make a call to Chicago PD.”

“Excuse me, Detectives.”

Bobbie’s gaze shot to the door where a uniform—Officer Leslie Elliott—waited. The younger woman looked pale despite her mahogany complexion. “You found something?”

“Officer Elliott,” Devine offered before she could answer, “was following up on the Parker children’s whereabouts.”

Elliott nodded. “The boy didn’t show up at his friend’s last night. They haven’t heard from him since yesterday afternoon. We just called the six contacts in the girl’s phone and not one of them has seen or heard from her since around ten last night.”

A new rush of cold slid through Bobbie’s veins. “Where’s the housekeeper?”

“She’s on the back deck,” Devine said. “She didn’t want to stay in the house.”

“Talk to her again,” Bobbie told her partner. “Since we can’t confirm the kids are okay we need to issue Amber Alerts. The killer may have taken one or both.” As Devine hurried from the room, Bobbie glanced at the other woman. “Good work, Elliott. Why don’t you show me to the garage?”

The officer’s shoulders squared and she nodded. “This way.”

Downstairs in the family room Devine had ushered the housekeeper back inside and the two were now seated on the sofa. Face crumpled in pain, Mrs. Snodgrass glanced at Bobbie as she and Elliott moved through the room. Bobbie wished she could provide some reassurance about the children, but at this point there was no way to know what to expect.

Best-case scenario the two had run away and hidden somewhere. Worst case...the killer had taken them.

A short hall at the bottom of the second set of stairs led past the laundry room–bathroom combo and a small den before exiting into the garage. As soon as Bobbie opened the door to the garage the stench of blood and feces had her holding her breath. In the two-car garage a refrigerator, its door ajar exposing the soft drinks and beer inside, stood in the storage area to the left of the steps. The paneled walls had been painted white long ago, age making them appear more off-white. One overhead light, a two-bulb fluorescent, flickered lending an eerie feel to the space.

A Mercedes SUV and BMW sedan were shoehorned side by side. Bobbie walked around the short wall that separated the parking area from the storage space. The first thing she spotted was the arterial spray on the dingy white wall. Streams of blood ran all the way down to the floor like crimson tears. Dr. Lisa Carroll, the coroner, was crouched near a large pool of blood.

“Be careful of the glass.” Carroll pointed to the fridge. “A beer bottle was dropped there. We haven’t gathered up the pieces yet.”

Bobbie glanced at the shattered brown glass. “I guess our perp got thirsty.”

“I imagine he did,” Carroll agreed. “This definitely took some time.”

Carroll and Bobbie had attended Booker T. Washington High School together. They’d never actually been friends, but Bobbie was happy to hear the younger woman had accepted the position left open by the retiring coroner last month. It was a part-time job and most of the doctors in the area didn’t want to steal the time out of their busy schedules. Carroll was hardly more than five foot two and probably didn’t weight a hundred pounds soaking wet. Back in school she’d been a wallflower and pretty much stayed to herself. Hard work and relentless determination had won her numerous scholarships. Bobbie wondered why a woman so focused and driven had chosen to be a general practitioner rather than a surgeon or some other specialist.

Carroll exhaled a big breath. “Well, everything appears to be here.”

Bobbie surveyed the pile of organs stacked in the center of the blood. Partial shoes prints were visible near the edge of the wide coagulating puddle. Before she could ask, Officer Elliott said, “The evidence tech took photos of the shoe prints, but they’re smudged.” She pointed to where the prints abruptly disappeared about two feet from the pool of blood and other bodily fluids. “Detective Devine and I concluded that the killer probably took off his clothes right there.”

Bobbie agreed. The pattern of smudged prints and the smears of blood suggested as much. The killer had planned these ritual-style murders down to the last detail, brought fresh clothes and a bag for the stained ones. No question about premeditation.

“The shower in that bathroom we passed—” Elliott hitched her thumb back toward the direction they’d come “—is as clean as a whistle but one of the tech’s checked the drain. The killer must have cleaned the bodies there and took a shower before he left.”

“I’m sure Devine also told you about this,” the coroner said.

Bobbie turned to Carroll who held a heart in her hand. She pointed to an obvious chunk that had been bitten from the organ. “He mentioned that, yes.” Damn, what a mess. “Do you have an estimate on time of death?”

Carroll blew her black bangs out of her eyes. “I’m going to say somewhere around midnight based on body temperature and the stage of rigor the bodies have reached. That said, I haven’t examined them as closely as I’d like. I felt this—” she gestured to the blood and body parts “—needed to be addressed first.”

Bobbie understood. “Thanks. I’ll check in with you later today.” She turned back to Elliott. “Let’s have a look at that shower.”

As Bobbie followed the officer back into the house her cell vibrated. She pulled it from her belt. If she was lucky it would be about the kids. Let them be safe. “Gentry.”

“Detective Gentry, this is Lawrence Zacharias.”

The name didn’t ring a bell. If this was another reporter or writer who’d managed to get her number she was going to have to break down and take a new one. Enough was enough. She was not selling her story. “How can I help you, Mr. Zacharias?”

“I represent Dr. Randolph Weller. I’m certain you’re aware of who he is.”

Hearing the name disrupted Bobbie’s equilibrium. She stalled and propped her hip against the washing machine to brace herself. She held up a hand for Elliott to give her a moment. Elliott turned her back and pretended to study the shower. Bobbie appreciated the gesture.

Randolph Weller, also known as the Picasso Killer, was one of the most prolific serial killers alive today. In addition to being a vicious murderer who’d killed his own wife and buried her in the backyard, he was also a celebrated psychiatrist. Other than the fact that he was in solitary confinement in an Atlanta federal prison for his crimes, Bobbie knew little about the man save one stunning fact: he was Nick Shade’s father.

Had something happened to Nick? Her pulse accelerated into overdrive. Memories of the enigmatic man who’d helped her survive that final showdown with the Storyteller whispered through her. She hadn’t heard from Nick Shade since that day in the cemetery...the same day Newt was buried. Bobbie felt confident the serial-killer hunter the FBI preferred to pretend didn’t exist was on the trail of another murderer no one else had been able to catch. As strange as it seemed, considering they’d worked together for only a few days, she missed him. An unexpected bond had developed between them.

Didn’t matter. Nick Shade was long gone.

“Detective?”

“Yes.” Bobbie hated the uncertainty in her voice.

“Dr. Weller would like to see you.”

If he’d announced that Weller was Santa Claus she wouldn’t have been more surprised. How would Weller even know she existed? She supposed it was possible he’d read about how she’d survived the Storyteller.

Wait, she understood now. Weller probably had some way of following Nick’s work. If so, he would know Nick had helped her end the Storyteller’s reign of terror. God knew they’d both been all over the news back in August.

“Detective, are you still there?”

Bobbie straightened, curiosity overtaking the uncertainty. “I’m sorry, Mr. Zacharias, I’m a little confused. Why would he want to see me?”

“He insists that it’s imperative he speak with you in person as soon as possible. It’s about his son, Nicholas.”

When Bobbie hesitated yet again Zacharias added, “Dr. Weller believes Nicholas is in grave danger.”

Three

Atlanta Federal Prison

5:30 p.m.

Bobbie had left for Atlanta as soon as she and Devine had found the missing boy. Ten-year-old Sage Parker had been hiding in the attic. The closet in his parents’ bedroom had a full-size access door that opened onto additional floored space over the back porch. He claimed he hid there a lot lately and last night he’d fallen asleep in the dusty, too warm space. Last month when the shit hit the fan in the news and his parents started screaming at each other all the time he’d found solitude in the attic among the boxes of stored Christmas ornaments and toys he and his sister once played with together.

Finding the boy alive and well was the only good news they had so far. Sage had no idea where his sister was. None of her few friends had seen her and, according to those same friends, she currently had no boyfriend. Fern Parker had vanished. Bobbie hoped she had taken off as teenagers will sometimes do when angry with their parents. The alternative didn’t leave much hope for her survival.

Other than being hungry and a little dehydrated from spending twelve hours hidden in the heat of the attic, Sage was unharmed. He insisted he hadn’t heard or seen anything. Bobbie wasn’t so sure the kid was being completely honest. She’d pushed as hard as she felt comfortable and he’d stuck with his story. After dinner his parents had begun their usual routine of screaming profanities at each other and his sister had gone into her room, slamming the door in his face. Eventually his parents had taken their screaming match back downstairs and Sage had sneaked into their bedroom and through the closet to the attic. The child admitted he hadn’t wanted to go to his friend’s house because he worried about his parents and sister, but he couldn’t bear the screaming so he hid. He’d fallen asleep and hadn’t awakened until he heard the sirens, then he’d been too afraid to come out of hiding.

Bobbie had ridden in the ambulance with him to the ER. The physician on call had suggested Sage stay twenty-four hours for observation just to ensure he was okay. His mother’s sister who lived in Nashville had been called. She’d arrived before Bobbie left for Atlanta. Bobbie hadn’t told Sage his parents were dead. She’d left that painful business to his aunt. To ensure the boy’s safety, a uniform had been assigned to his room. The FBI was sending one of its agents to serve as part of his security detail as well.

Poor kid had no idea what lay ahead of him. His entire world had been shattered. There was no way to save him from the hurt of learning to live without his parents. At the moment though, the most pressing concerns were keeping the boy safe and finding his sister. If the killer learned a possible witness had survived his killing spree he would want to rectify that oversight.

After the boy and his aunt were settled into a room at Baptist Medical, Bobbie had hit the road. She’d arrived at the prison nearly forty minutes ago and had been pacing this small waiting room since. Her patience was quickly running out. She should be back in Montgomery looking for Fern Parker and whoever killed her and Sage’s parents.

Bobbie stopped her pacing and shivered as if a cold wind had passed through her. Not so long ago she’d been in the precarious position the Parker children were in. The serial killer she had survived had wanted to finish what he’d started. She clenched her teeth and dropped into the nearest chair. No one was going to get to that little boy or his sister—assuming they could find her and the bastard didn’t have her already—as long as Bobbie was breathing.

Devine had conducted face-to-face interviews with the teenagers on the short contacts list in Fern’s cell phone. According to those few, there was a long list of newly unfriended teenagers on Facebook and Instagram who should be interviewed as well. The feds had already pushed their way into the homicide investigation and were interviewing potential suspects who had been wronged by either Nigel Parker or his wife. The FBI’s involvement was understandable since the Parker fraud case had been theirs. If Fern had been abducted they would be lead on that aspect of the case. Special Agent Michael Hadden from the Montgomery field office would work as a liaison between the MPD and the agent in charge, Ronald Vincent, of the Parker case. Hadden promised to provide any names of persons of interest the MPD didn’t have in an effort to ensure all bases were covered.

Bobbie had tasked Devine as liaison with Hadden. Chief Peterson had made it clear that his detectives and the Montgomery Police Department would remain lead on the investigation until the homicide aspect of the case was solved. According to the chief, Special Agent Vincent, who’d come all the way from New York, hadn’t been too happy about it but he’d let it go quickly enough. As much as Bobbie wanted to focus solely on who had decided to use a dead serial killer’s MO, her top priority was to find Fern.

The possible motives for the murders were easy enough to deduce. Both Nigel Parker and his wife had made serious enemies. Nigel by stealing from his clients; Heather by having affairs with at least four of those married clients and arranging secret lovers for many more of her husband’s friends. Fern was the big question mark in Bobbie’s mind. If the killer was levying vengeance, what had the girl done to deserve to be taken? What was her shame? Or was she simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, ending up collateral damage? Until she was found all they had was speculation.

“Detective Gentry.”

Bobbie pushed aside the troubling thoughts and focused on the tall man dressed in a guard’s uniform who had entered the waiting room. When she’d arrived she had gone through the usual routine of signing in and then turning over her handbag, badge, weapon and all other personal items the same as any other visitor. Eventually she had been sequestered to this small private room.

“That’s me.” She stood, smoothed a hand over her jacket. She felt more than a little naked without her department issue Glock at her waist and the backup piece she kept strapped to her right ankle. She’d left her backup piece as well as the knife she carried in the trunk of her car. Leaving her Glock in the car was out of the question.

“I’m Malcolm Clinton. I apologize for your wait. The warden had to approve your visit and he was in a meeting when you first arrived,” the guard explained. “Apparently Mr. Zacharias failed to mention that you’re a detective.”

“No problem. Can I see Weller now?” Another zing of anticipation rushed through her. The two-and-a-half-hour drive from Montgomery had given her plenty of time to come up with a number of questions she wanted to ask the infamous doctor. She had every intention of requiring his cooperation if he wanted hers.

“Yes, ma’am.” Clinton gestured to the door. “This way. We have certain procedures as you likely know. The inmate will be fully restrained during your visit and there will be two guards outside the door. If at any point you feel uncomfortable or if an issue with the inmate arises, all you have to do is call out and the guards will assist you.”

Bobbie had visited her share of prisoners, mostly in county lockup. A federal prison like this one was a first for her. “I understand.”

She followed Clinton along the somber corridor, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. As much as the knowledge that Randolph Weller was a sadistic killer sickened her, she wanted to know all she could about Nick. If he was in trouble, she owed it to him to help in any way possible. He was the main reason she was still breathing. On top of saving her life, he had helped her to see a life beyond the vengeance she had wanted so badly.

Gaylon Perry, aka the Storyteller, had murdered nearly two dozen people and no one had even come close to figuring out who he was much less catching him. Nick Shade had learned more about the psychopathic serial killer than anyone else. After discovering one of the victims had survived, Nick had come to Montgomery to wait for him. Like Bobbie, he had known the Storyteller would be back for her—the one that got away. Nick was the only reason she had survived that showdown.

“Let the guards know when you’re done,” Clinton said, drawing her attention back to the present. “You’re not to touch him or pass anything to him. He’ll undergo a full cavity search after your visit.”

Bobbie had no desire to get any closer than necessary. “Does he have visitors often?” The answer didn’t really matter, she was curious about one particular visitor.

“The only visitors he has are the two agents from the FBI who show up every week or so.”

“His son doesn’t visit?”

If Clinton was surprised by her question he kept the reaction to himself. “In nearly fifteen years his son has been here only once and that was about two months ago.” The guard eyed her for a moment before unlocking the next door. “Are you working on a case that involves Dr. Weller somehow?”

Under normal circumstances visitors for a serial killer like Weller would be strictly controlled. Based on the attorney’s call Weller was evidently allowed some amount of leeway for his ongoing cooperation with the FBI. Bobbie wondered what other privileges the monster had managed to negotiate. As much as the idea sickened her, every cop understood the value of a good source.

Under the circumstances she saw no point in concealing her reason for the visit. “His attorney, Mr. Zacharias, called and asked me to come. Apparently Weller has a message for me.”

Clinton’s gaze narrowed. “You are aware that Weller is a psychopath who murdered forty-two victims, including his own wife?”

“I’m aware of his crimes,” Bobbie assured him.

“Before being incarcerated he was a highly respected psychiatrist,” the guard went on. “Let me be frank with you, Detective, you cannot trust him in any capacity.”

“Don’t worry. I learned that lesson the hard way.” Sometimes she didn’t even trust herself. Like now. Her hands shook when she had no reason to be afraid or even nervous for that matter. She squeezed them into fists.

Apparently satisfied with her answer, Clinton opened the door and waited for her to go ahead of him. As he’d said, a guard was stationed on either side of the interview room door. Bobbie thanked him and before she entered the room where Weller waited she took a breath. Once she opened the door and walked in, she didn’t hesitate.

“I’m Detective Bobbie Gentry.” She paused a few feet away from the chair on her side of the table standing in the center of the room. “You requested a meeting with me.”

Randolph Weller’s arms were manacled to the belly shackle at his waist. Beneath the table his ankles were chained together, and then to the floor. The table was long and narrow. A chair sat on either side. Four other chairs waited at the south end of the reasonably large room. There were no windows. Only the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lights illuminated the space.

Bobbie didn’t wait for Weller to speak as he seemed satisfied to study her for the moment. She took the final few steps, pulled out her chair and sat down directly across from him. She had Googled Weller and read all she could find on the investigation that took place fifteen years ago after his own son turned him in. Weller’s gray hair had receded with age. Unflattering lines carved across his forehead and creased his mouth. His skin was ashen from the lack of sunlight, but it was his eyes that disturbed her the most. Deep, dull hazel that looked more gray than hazel, like the headstones in the old cemeteries back home. Those eyes hadn’t stopped analyzing her since she entered the room.

“Please accept my sincerest apologies for staring,” he said, his voice deeper than she’d expected and oddly soothing. “You are a remarkably beautiful woman.”

Bobbie barked a stiff laugh. “I’m sure you didn’t ask for this meeting to flatter me. What is it you have to tell me?”

“I can see why my son became so obsessed with you.”

Bobbie kept her jaw locked tight, opting not to respond in word or expression. If he wanted information about her and Nick’s relationship, he could ask his son.

Who are you kidding, Bobbie? The two of you barely know each other.

Images of Nick’s hands on her skin flickered one after the other through her mind, making her pulse react.

Weller smiled as if he’d read her mind. “Your eyes are simply incredible, Bobbie. May I call you Bobbie?”

Her heart abruptly stumbled. Another serial killer had been fascinated with her eyes... I couldn’t resist you. “I’m not here to make small talk with you, Weller. You said Nick is in danger. Explain your concerns and I’ll do what I can to help.”

Weller stared at her for long enough to have her wanting to shift in her seat. She refused to let him see that he unsettled her the slightest bit. The man was far too perceptive and decidedly different than she’d anticipated. His voice wasn’t merely deep it was elegant, like dark, rich silk. His brilliance was as well-known as his heinousness and yet even the way he sat, despite being shackled in that generic chair, gave him an air of sophistication. There was something about the set of his mouth that reminded her of Nick and she loathed the idea that anything about this psychopath did so.

“Bobbie Gentry.” He seemed to savor her name as if tasting a new wine. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Your father had a crush on the lovely country music singer with that same name? You have the trademark long dark hair and the exquisite high cheekbones.”

Evidently he intended to get around to what he wanted to tell her about Nick in his own time. Considering his only visitors were FBI agents who wanted to pick his brain, she imagined he hoped to indulge in the rare opportunity to socialize. She could waste time fighting him or just play along.

“Actually, Gentry is my married name. My husband and I used to laugh about the irony since I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

“Your dead husband.”

Bobbie flinched. He knew damned well her husband was deceased. “I’m confident you’re aware he was murdered by Gaylon Perry.”

“Your mother died when you were such a tender age,” Weller went on without responding to her comment. “Is that why you spent more time at work than at home with your own child? Did you want to protect him from the kind of pain you suffered when you lost your mother?”

Fury ignited so fast inside her she barely stayed in the damned chair. “I won’t play head games with you, Weller. Say what you have to say or I’m gone.” Bastard. Snippets of her life before a monster just like this one had stolen it sifted through her mind.

“Now, now, Detective. Surely you can do me the courtesy of showing respect. After all, you’re the reason my son will likely die sooner than later.”

Her traitorous heart did another of those stuttering stumbles. “You keep talking about how much danger he’s in yet you’re not telling me anything. I can’t help Nick unless I understand the potential danger.”

“For years he lived in the shadows,” Weller began, his voice low, his gaze distant. “I suppose I inspired his need to rid the world of my kind, one killer at a time.”

“It’s nice to know your perceptive powers are as keen as ever, Doctor.” She poured all the contempt she could summon into the words. The bastard murdered Nick’s mother and allowed him to believe she’d abandoned him. Damn straight his actions motivated Nick to become the hunter he was.

“Touché, Detective.”

She waited for him to continue when she should be back in Montgomery looking for a missing girl and interviewing persons of interest in a double homicide. Her gut twisted at the idea that a ten-year-old boy was now an orphan and his sister could very well be dead or dying. No matter that the job was all she had, sometimes she hated it. More than anything, she hated the sadistic killers like the one seated less than three feet away.

“Nick has always been particularly careful not to get involved on a personal level.” Weller sighed. “Until you. Now he has dug himself a deeper grave than even he knows.” He paused for effect. “Since I’m quite certain he won’t listen to me, I’m hoping he will listen to you.”

Bobbie considered his words for a moment. “Who do you believe has targeted him?” Despite her efforts to control her respiration, her heart beat faster and faster as she waited for his response. The list of questions she’d intended to ask had vanished. She could only think of how she might possibly help Nick.

“I doubt you’re aware of what I’m about to share, and I’m certain our fine friends at the FBI will be quite interested in hearing.” He glanced up at the camera in the far corner. “I’m certain they’re listening even now.”

Bobbie didn’t have to wonder. An inmate like Weller wasn’t allowed a private conversation except with his attorney. He was too smart not to know this. Whatever he had to say, he wanted those listening to hear.

“Like any other community, professional or personal,” he began, “there are communications between those who share, shall we say, an admiration for the art of death.”

“Like murdering your wife and burying her in the backyard?” Bobbie bit her lips together. The words had burst from her mouth before she could stop them. She knew better. She’d been a cop long enough to understand how this worked. Antagonizing the man wouldn’t help her gain any ground with him.

His gaze was razor sharp when he met hers. “There are things I’m not proud of, Bobbie, and the crude manner of her death is one of them. If I could do it over again, it would have been far more civilized.”

Jesus. What a twisted piece of shit. “I’m sure your son would appreciate the sentiment.” The barb was intentional this time.

Ignoring her remark, he went on, “There is a council of sorts. An esteemed group of highly educated overachievers. The Consortium they call themselves.” The beginnings of a smile touched his lips. “At one time I was quite revered among its members. Sadly time changes all things.”

“A consortium of serial killers.” It wasn’t a question. She just wanted to make sure she heard him right considering her head had started to spin at the mere concept.

“Correct. They share the occasional weekend conference. Primarily to discuss territorial issues and the need to clear up a situation that might pose a threat to one or more of their members.”

“Like Nick.”

“Precisely. He’s taken several high-level killers out of the game in the past decade or so. The Consortium has reason to be concerned.”

“They want to stop him.”

“They will stop him,” Weller corrected with a succinct nod.

The certainty in his words sent a spear of ice deep into her chest. “How do you suggest I prevent that from happening?”

Delight or something on that order twinkled in his eyes. Bobbie was immensely grateful Nick had gotten his dark eyes from his mother. This man’s were utterly soulless and far too seeing.

“You would sacrifice yourself toward that end?” The idea seemed to amuse him.

“I’m a cop,” she returned, “it’s what I do.”

“I’m not quite sure you comprehend the scope and magnitude of what I’m conveying to you, my dear Bobbie.”

“Why don’t you break it down for me then?” A blast of fury had her clasping her hands in her lap. She would not permit him to see how easily he rattled her.

“The Consortium is made up of the world’s most cunning and manipulative minds. They haven’t been caught for a reason. They take great care in every move. They cultivate connections that contribute to their success. Absolutely nothing is left to chance. They cannot be stopped.”

Bobbie wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the conversation. She wanted to get up and walk out. Somehow, she couldn’t do either. How was she supposed to help Nick from a danger she couldn’t measure much less find?

“Then why bother telling me?”

“Nick needs to see that he cannot win. It is imperative that he give up this quest and disappear before they find him.”

Bobbie shook her head. “He’ll never do it.”

“Then you must help him see the error of his thinking.”

“I have no idea how to reach him.” She had the number he’d used to call her but she’d never attempted to contact him. She imagined he changed numbers frequently. “How am I supposed to get a message to him?”

“Now,” Weller said, smiling as if she were a child and had just said something completely foolish, “the answer to that question is one you already possess. The message was relayed to both you and my son this very morning in a rather unoriginal however gruesome manner.”

Now she understood. “Seppuku.”

“Well done, Bobbie,” he conceded with a nod. “The Seppuku Killer was the first Nick took out of play.”

“The Seppuku Killer committed suicide.” Even as she said the words, she understood the man staring at her was privy to something she was not.

“The FBI had been looking for him for years,” Weller countered. “An anonymous tip gave the authorities his location. He merely made the choice to take his life rather than face the consequences of his lifestyle.”

“If Nick provided the anonymous tip, why would he leave a killer armed?” The Seppuku Killer had been holding a samurai sword when the police arrived. Nick would never send the police into a trap.

“My son almost always gives his prey the option of taking their own lives or facing prosecution.”

Before she could respond, he added, “He has never taken a life. That’s why he left the military and never pursued a career in law enforcement.”

“He won’t risk taking a life under any circumstances for fear of becoming anything like you.” She hadn’t intended to say the words aloud, and judging by the look on Weller’s face she’d hit the nail on the head.

“He’ll come to you, Bobbie. He will want to protect you. The Consortium has waited a very long time to find a weakness it can manipulate to reach him. You are that weakness.”

Before she could summon a response, he added, “Understand that they will show no mercy. He will suffer greatly before he dies.”

Dread or uncertainty—maybe both—expanded in her chest, but she refused to let him see it. Instead, she tossed the ball back into his court. “What plan of action would you propose I take to stop them?”

“You cannot possibly. All you can do is stop him. He will listen to you. He will do whatever necessary to protect you.”

Bobbie shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ve overestimated our relationship. We hardly know each other.”

“I know my son. In all these years he has not allowed himself to draw so close to anything or anyone...until you.”

She’d heard enough. Bobbie stood. “If I can reach him, I’ll pass along the warning.”

She turned away from Weller’s too-seeing eyes and headed for the door. She needed air. The very scent of the bastard on the other side of the room was making her feel ill.

“Make no mistake, Detective Bobbie Gentry.”

She paused at the door and slowly faced him once more.

“Do not romanticize your relationship with my son. However desperately he wants to be a hero, there will come a day, soon I fear, when he will be forced to kill. When that time comes he will learn the deep, dark secret he has denied for so long.”

Rather than give him the satisfaction of a response or a moment longer to analyze her, she turned her back and banged on the door.

“Once he has experienced taking a life,” Weller continued.

She didn’t want to hear another word. She pounded on the door again. “I’m done in here.” Open the damned door.

“He will not be able to resist killing again and again.”

Weller’s warning followed her out the door.

Gardendale Drive

10:30 p.m.

Bobbie slowed to a walk as she turned up the sidewalk to her house. D-Boy rushed to the front door ahead of her and waited, panting, tongue lolling after the long run. Bobbie stepped up onto the stoop and jammed her key into the lock. Before opening the door, she reached down and scratched the animal behind his ears. “Good boy.”

The brindle pit bull had belonged to a former neighbor. The single mother and her children had moved last month and she’d happily agreed to let Bobbie have the dog. For the most part Bobbie had been taking care of him since the day he moved into her neighborhood, and now he belonged to her. The first order of business had been a trip to the vet for a checkup and for shots. She had learned that he was two years old, had no health problems and showed no signs of abuse. Every evening since bringing D-Boy home she had worked with him, teaching him simple commands of obedience. So far he was an attentive student and a quick study.

Inside the door she silenced the security system and listened to the sounds of the place she called home. Though the day had seen a high of sixty degrees, it was only about forty outside now. The absence of the steady hum of the air conditioner left the house silent. The vague scent of scrambled eggs and butter from the breakfast she’d prepared that morning lingered in the still air. The security system was another new addition. The chief had been so happy when she had it installed that he’d insisted on paying for the first year of service. Rather than argue with him, she’d surrendered to his need to be the protective uncle. She’d learned over the years to choose her battles carefully.

Ever patient, D-Boy stared up at her. “Go ahead, boy,” she said, giving the animal permission to have a look around. Once he’d padded through the two bedrooms and one bath, he trotted to his water bowl in the kitchen. The first night she’d brought him home he’d watched her check the house and he’d been performing the duty himself since.

Nick had told her in August that she needed a dog. At the time she couldn’t possibly have allowed anyone or thing into her life. As if she’d spoken the thought aloud, D-Boy hustled back to where she stood. Water dripped from his mouth as he studied her expectantly. He was accustomed to her full attention in the evenings. Her unexpected trip to Atlanta had disrupted their routine.

Bobbie smiled. “I could use a drink myself, buddy.”

Door locked, she headed to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water. D-Boy followed close on her heels. She checked his food and water bowls and then she latched the doggie door she’d had installed in the back door. Though she doubted anyone would get beyond the door with D-Boy in the house, no need to leave an open invitation. A quick shower and she intended to hit the sack early. Today had been a long one and tomorrow was stacking up to be even worse.

Her thoughts ventured to the meeting with Randolph Weller. The man was pure evil. How had such a sick bastard created a son his complete opposite?

He will not be able to resist killing.

Bobbie refused to believe that DNA made monsters as some believed. Maybe the twisted genes passed along tipped the scales in rare cases, but she rejected the idea that it started there. Every person was unique. No matter that Weller was a killer, that didn’t mean his son would be one any more than her mother’s singing like an angel in the church choir gave Bobbie the ability to carry a tune.

Weller might be an expert on human nature but he couldn’t see the future.

She flipped on the hall light as she made her way to her bedroom. At the door to the spare bedroom that had until recently remained empty, she paused. D-Boy glanced back at her and waited. Seven or eight boxes sat in the room, a couple of them open. The familiar ache that started deep in her chest was one she was reasonably certain would be with her the rest of her life.

The boxes contained important things from her old life that she couldn’t bear to part with. Her son’s favorite blanket. Her husband’s beloved vintage Foo Fighters T-shirt. Photo albums and videos. The locket that had belonged to her mother and her mother’s mother before her. The folded flag from her father’s funeral.

Bobbie Sue Gentry was thirty-two years old and those few boxes, about two feet by two feet each, represented the best of her life to date. Her old life. She couldn’t live that life anymore, couldn’t be that woman. Most people didn’t understand. Sometimes she thought Bauer might, but maybe not. Those boxes were all that remained of her early history, her marriage and her family.

She turned away from the door and continued on to her bedroom. Her old life was dead and buried. Her penance for survival was to carry on. Why not devote her life to being the best cop she could be? Perhaps one day it would include something more than her job, but not now. The idea that she could even conceive such a notion was relatively new and still a little hard to swallow.

She was a work in progress.

Bobbie removed her backup piece and the ankle holster and placed both on the bedside table. The knife she kept strapped to her left shin landed there next. She’d stopped carrying a stun gun tucked into her bra. The one she’d owned had ended up in evidence and she’d never bothered to claim it or to buy another. She didn’t need it now. She toed off her sneakers and peeled off her sweat-dampened clothes.

With a pair of clean panties and her backup piece in hand she padded across the cold wood floors toward the bathroom. D-Boy followed. She flipped on the bathroom light and he took his position outside the door. She smiled. He was a good guard dog.

She went inside, closing and locking the door behind her. With her .22 on the closed toilet lid, she turned on the shower and waited for the warm water to make its way from the water heater at the other end of the house. Her face was flush from the three-mile run. She’d gained a little weight the past couple of months. Not a bad thing, according to the doc when she’d had her required department physical last week. With her forefinger she traced the thin, barely there line that looped around her neck. The nylon hangman’s noose she’d worn for three weeks had left a gruesome scar. She’d had plastic surgery to remove it in hopes of preventing the inevitable stares and questions from everyone she met.

As steam started to fill the air, her fingers trailed down her chest, tracking the scars. So many scars. Her palm flattened on her belly. Below her waist her right thigh and calf were riddled with ugly marks from him and from the surgery to repair the damage he’d wielded. Bauer teased her about being the bionic woman with all the hardware in her leg. She angled her head and peered at the reflection in the narrow full-length mirror behind her.

She read the words tattooed on her back, the meaning curdling in her gut.

Over and over she cursed herself for the path she chose to take.

The pain a reminder of those devastated for her sake.

The Storyteller had tattooed those lines on her flesh. Her story. She could have had them removed but she needed to look at them every day. She never wanted to forget. Just thinking about the psychopath who had tortured and raped her for better than three damned weeks made the bones in her right leg ache. The Storyteller had left a trail of bodies, including her husband’s, across the southern United States over the past thirteen years. He was the reason her little boy was dead. The bastard might never have been caught except that having a victim survive to identify him had marred his record and he hadn’t been able to resist coming back to correct that anomaly. Bobbie had been that victim and she’d been waiting for his sorry ass to return. Images from those final moments in that dilapidated shack in the woods flashed one after the other through her head.

She’d made sure he got what he deserved.

Her choices were the reason she would never hold her baby again. She would never make love with her husband again. Her old partner would never call her “girlie” again. She stared at the long scars on the backs of her wrists. At first she had wanted to die, too.

She exhaled a heavy breath, only then realizing how thick and damp the air in the room had grown. No looking back.

She climbed into the shower and let the hot water sluice over her weary muscles. Tomorrow and the day after and the day after that she would do all in her power to be the best cop possible.

The image of Nick Shade edged into her thoughts. Her hands stilled on her skin, body wash slipping away. She wondered where he was. If Weller wasn’t playing some sadistic game, Nick was in danger.

Tomorrow she would try to reach him.

She hurried through the rest of her shower and quickly dried off. On second thought, why wait until tomorrow? Why not call him now? If the number he’d used previously was still in service, they could talk tonight. Now.

Wrapping the towel around her body, she grabbed the .22 and left the steamy bathroom, headed for her bedroom. D-Boy trotted after her. Her cell was already vibrating loudly in the quiet room. She reached the bedside table and grabbed it up. Devine’s name flashed on the screen. She couldn’t pull the charging cord loose and hold on to her towel, so she bent forward to answer, pinning the towel with her forearm. She placed the .22 next to the knife once more.

“What’s up?” Her pulse thumped a little harder with anticipation. There could be a break in the case or another murder. Anticipation fired through her. Maybe Fern Parker had been found.

“I didn’t wake you, did I? Damn. I just realized how late it is.”

“No, no. I was in the shower.” Bobbie dropped onto the side of the bed. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve spent the past six hours going back through what we have. I’ve called every name on Fern’s contact list again and then called every person suggested by anyone on that list. For the last two hours I’ve focused on the parents. Despite all that work I’m left with nothing more than a couple of new names. I want to go over them with you. Do you mind? My mind is racing with possibilities on this damned case. I don’t think I’m going to sleep again until it’s over.”

“Sure.” Bobbie pushed the wet hair back from her face. She was always ready to talk about the case. This was the first homicide she and Devine had caught as partners. “Let’s hear ’em.”

“Wait, how did your appointment go?”

Bobbie cringed. She’d told her partner she had a doctor’s appointment. “Good,” she lied. “I have to wait for some of the test results, but I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“Nothing like having the doc give you a clean bill of health.”

Thankfully he moved on to the names he wanted to discuss. Bobbie felt guilty for lying to her partner but sometimes it was necessary. As soon as she and Devine had finished she would call Nick.

She owed him more than she could possibly hope to repay.

Four

New Orleans

11:30 p.m.

Nick Shade waited in the darkness for another full minute. The shotgun house he’d been watching for the past two weeks was dark. The woman who called the place home was always in before dawn. Like a vampire, she didn’t make public appearances during daylight hours.

He had been tracking the Executive Executioner for two months. Finding her had been a little trickier than he’d estimated. The Big Easy was the forty-year-old former schoolteacher’s preferred hunting ground. She’d left victims all the way from Houston to Tallahassee, but New Orleans apparently held some significance for her. It wasn’t her hometown though. Adele Pratt was from Jackson, Mississippi. She had been a daddy’s girl all the way up to the day he’d dropped dead in his office. Her father had been a low-level ad man at a major firm where he worked ridiculously long hours in an attempt to keep the boss happy. Adele had been murdering ruthless businessmen like her dead daddy’s boss for nearly a decade.

Nick reached above his head and stretched his back. He’d been waiting and watching for hours, day in and day out. It was almost time. His prey was on the verge of taking her next victim.

Adele Pratt didn’t know it yet but she was finished.

For the first thirty years of her life she’d never shown the slightest reported penchant for violence, and then one of her students shot herself right in front of Adele. Something happened to her in that moment when a fifteen-year-old decided she couldn’t deal with her demanding and ironically high-level executive father for a moment longer. Adele’s family hadn’t heard from her since that day. They all thought she’d gone off somewhere and taken her life. But that wasn’t the case. Nick had found poor, sweet, reserved Adele. She had been busy giving all those demanding men like her father’s old boss and her former student’s father what she believed they deserved—a truly nasty death after hours of slow torture.

She had lured in her latest prey and, if she followed her usual MO, tomorrow night she would make the kill. Oil tycoon Race Cashion had no idea what a lucky man he was. Adele, aka Alana Jones the Executive Executioner, was about to retire permanently.

The day’s thick humidity had eased a little with the darkness, but the air was still far too suffocating for Nick’s liking. Halloween was approaching and the city had spent the entire month celebrating death in all its grim beauty. Nick stood and stretched again. The rocking chair he’d vacated eased back and forth once, then twice. The elderly man who lived in the house Nick used for a vantage point was sleeping off his nightly drunk. He generally started around five and by ten or so he was down for the count. Nick had to give him credit, he had good taste. The bourbon he inhaled night after night was some of the best the average man could buy and likely exhausted the biggest portion of his retirement check. Each night Nick tucked ten bucks into the coffee can over the stove. The old guy had cut a hole in the lid and used the can like a piggy bank where he kept his change. By the last week of the month the mound of quarters, nickels and dimes was probably all he had left. This month when he removed that lid he was going to have a nice surprise. It was the least Nick could do for the use of his back porch.

He picked up his backpack and slipped across the narrow yard, using the overgrown shrubbery for cover. There were a few preparations he needed to make before Adele returned home. He approached her back door, listening for any sounds of trouble. Picking the ancient lock was too easy. People who renovated historic homes should never rely on the security of a century-old lock. He silenced the alarm and then reset the system with the code she’d written on a sticky note and stuck to the wall above the keypad. It wasn’t that Adele was too dumb or flighty to recognize the recklessness of leaving the code in plain sight. Not at all. The woman was highly intelligent. She simply wasn’t afraid.

Maybe she really wanted someone to come in and end her misery.

The house was quiet. Adele didn’t own any pets and she never had company. No friends, not even her targets were allowed in her home. Nick had searched the place thoroughly and discovered the photographs and trophies from her kills. During that thorough search he’d memorized the layout of the interior, which allowed him to move about inside now without the aid of light. The back door entered into a small laundry room, which led into a long narrow hall. Beyond the two doors in that hall, one leading into a bathroom and the other to the master bedroom that had once been two bedrooms, was the remaining space that served as the kitchen, dining, and family room. If the lady of the house followed her usual routine, she would arrive home shortly and take a bath. After a long soak in the tub she would go to bed.

Adele lived lavishly. Fine clothes and jewelry and a top of the line Lexus. The men she murdered supported her in high style and they had no idea they were paying their own murderer. Nick removed his backpack and started to unzip it when the purr of her luxury sedan broke the silence.

She was early. He shouldered his backpack and took a position in the elaborate bathroom. Down the hall the key turned in the lock with a concise click. As soon as the door swung inward the alarm began its urgent warning. She entered the code, silencing the system.

Her soft laughter filled the air. “You are too wicked,” she teased.

Nick stilled. Was she speaking on her cell phone?

“You bring out the devil in me.” The male voice was deep and slurred.

Nick swore silently. He recognized the voice—Race Cashion. Had she moved up her timeline? Why deviate from her MO and bring the man she intended to murder here? Maybe she had a little something extra planned for Cashion. Nick mentally ran a couple of adjustment scenarios and decided on an alternate plan of action of his own.

More playful back and forth echoed through the house. Cashion was obviously inebriated. Adele’s actions didn’t make sense. She never murdered a victim in her home. Like a fox she hunted and slept alone with the two being mutually exclusive. Maybe tonight was about a last-minute opportunity to milk this kill for more money—retirement money perhaps. Whatever the case, Nick’s task had just grown considerably more complicated.

Adele led her prey to her bedroom, not turning on a single light. Suited Nick fine. His eyes had already adjusted to the darkness. He spent the next fifteen minutes listening to frantic, drunken sex. When Cashion muttered something about the bathroom, Nick readied to put him out of commission.

He moved soundlessly to the side of the door as it opened. Cashion shoved it closed as he reached for his dick. Nick closed one hand over the man’s mouth and simultaneously wrapped an arm around his throat in a sleeper hold. Cashion struggled for three or four seconds, but he was far too wasted from the alcohol and physically spent from the sex to put up a real fight. Nick lowered his naked, unconscious body to the floor and eased back to the door.

Adele would be waiting. To deviate from her usual pattern was not unheard of, but to commit the murder where she lived was risky. Perhaps she was ready to move on, adopting another alias and home. Or maybe she had sensed someone was watching her and decided to act out of character just to see what happened.

Nick opted to wait and let her come looking for her lover.

A full minute elapsed before she called out her lover’s name. When Cashion didn’t answer she flipped on the light in her bedroom and came to the bathroom door, pushing it open. She stood naked in the open doorway staring down at the man.

“Fucking useless bastard,” she grumbled as she moved toward him.

Nick slipped behind her and she stalled, her body going rigid as his shadow fell over her.

“Hello, Adele.”

Before she could whip around and charge him, he grabbed her and pulled her against him, one hand closing over her mouth.

She kicked and elbowed frantically as he carried her back into the bedroom. She squirmed and twisted, but her slight frame was no match for his. On the bedside table he spotted the hypodermic needle she used to disable her victims. These days more serial killers than not used drugs on their victims. The ease of purchasing injectable drugs on the internet or even on the streets made their work far less complicated. Clearly she had planned to finish Cashion tonight. As if she’d read his thoughts, she stilled in his arms. It wasn’t necessary to be a mind reader to know what she was thinking, but he wouldn’t use the drug on her. The risk of overdosing was far too great. Adele wasn’t getting off that easily.

“When did you notice you were being watched?” he asked, curious. He dared to loosen his hold on her mouth.

“I didn’t.” She inhaled a big breath, her breasts moving against his arm. “Yesterday my neighbor thanked me for the money I’d been leaving in his coffee can.”

Nick laughed. That was what he got for trying to help the old guy out.

“Who hired you?” she demanded. “Let me go and I’ll pay you twice whatever you’re being paid.”

Keeping a firm grip on her, Nick moved toward the bed. She squirmed, elbowed and kicked in earnest. “I’m afraid,” he said between her attempts to head butt him, “you can’t afford me.” He tossed her on the bed.

“I could scream,” she warned as she tried to scramble away.

“You could—” he snagged her easily “—and the police would likely be summoned. Then I’d have to show them all those trophies you’ve kept from your kills.”

When he started to cover her mouth once more she clamped her teeth down on his hand. He growled and yanked his hand away. As he shouldered off his backpack, she fought even harder and spewed curses. He manacled her slim wrists in one hand and kept her pressed against the mattress with his forearm as he fished for the duct tape in his pack. He grabbed the edge of the tape with his teeth and pulled.

“Bastard,” she muttered. “What are you? Some sort of bounty hunter?”

“Not exactly.” He flipped her onto her belly. She tried to squirm away, but he held her in place. He wrapped her wrists tightly in duct tape, binding them together. She muttered more curses against the pillow as he ripped off another length.

He reached for her legs. She quickly spread them apart and arched her butt upward. “Don’t you want some of this before you do whatever you came here to do?” She laughed. “They all want it so badly until they realize just how much it’s going to cost them.”

“No, thanks.” He pulled her legs together and bound her ankles tight despite her wiggling. With her arms and legs secured, he rolled her onto her back and readied to place a strip of tape over her lips.

“Who are you?”

“No one you know.”

Nick pressed the tape over her mouth while she glared at him. Then he rolled her to her side and wound several layers of tape around her neck. He pulled her calves toward her back, forcing her body into an arch, and then wound more of the tape around her ankles, effectively hogtying her. She groaned and grunted and struggled but couldn’t move more than an inch or so without choking herself.

That would do.

He returned to the bathroom as Cashion was struggling to his feet. Nick put him down again. “Tomorrow you’ll understand that this was the luckiest night of your life.”

Nick bound Cashion as he had the woman in the other room. When that was done he went to her walk-in closet and removed the faux drawer that hid her keepsakes. He brought the photos and the trophies into the bedroom and spread them around her on the satin linens. No matter how she pleaded when the police arrived the photos and newspaper clippings would tell the tale.

Nick used her cell to call 9-1-1. He gave the operator the address and left the phone line open as he tossed it onto the bed. Three minutes later he was in his car and headed away from her street. He hadn’t driven a mile when blue lights barreled past him heading toward the scene he’d left behind.

Tomorrow the Executive Executioner’s capture would fill the headlines, print and electronic. Nearly a dozen homicide cases would be solved.

One less serial killer to take lives.

Nick pondered the other names on his ever-growing list. His cell vibrated before he could decide on his next hunt. He dug the phone from his pocket and checked the screen. The name gave him pause.

Malcolm Clinton.

He’d only met Clinton on one occasion and that had been two months ago. Clinton was a guard at the prison where Randolph Weller resided in far better circumstances than he deserved. For an agreed-upon fee, Clinton had promised to call Nick with the names of any visitors beyond the usual FBI profilers who wanted to pick the monster’s brain. This was the first time Clinton had called. The idea that his father hadn’t had the first visitor who wasn’t FBI in all that time made Nick inordinately happy.

Or, even better, maybe the bastard was finally dead.

He accepted the call. “You have an update for me.” His pulse reacted to the anticipation pumping through his veins.

“Yes. Dr. Weller had a visitor this evening. I had to pull a double shift so I couldn’t call until now.”

“I’m listening.”

“It was a woman his attorney called for him. A detective from Montgomery.”

Tension slid through Nick.

“Detective Bobbie Gentry,” Clinton said.

“How long did she stay?” Why the hell would Bobbie visit him? Nick couldn’t fathom any reason she would visit Weller.

“Not more than fifteen minutes. She seemed a little distracted or unsettled when she left.”

Nick glanced at the time on the dash. “What time was this?”

“About five thirty.”

“Thank you.” Nick ended the call before Clinton could say more. He tossed the phone onto the seat. “What’re you up to, Bobbie?”

He’d kept up with her since he left Montgomery. As hard as he’d tried to forget her, he could not. She showed up in his dreams when he slept and in his thoughts when he didn’t. He’d learned Bobbie had a new partner, a Detective Steven Devine. Nick had done a thorough search of Devine’s background and found nothing troubling except that he was single and close to Bobbie’s age.

The idea of her spending long hours each day with the guy grated on Nick. He’d watched her interactions with Howard Newton—the partner she’d lost. The bond had been palpable. Would she forge that same sort of bond with the new guy? Wasn’t that what cops did?

None of your business.

He shook off the thoughts. He had more pressing concerns. Why would she visit Weller?

There had to be something going on. He’d been mostly out of touch the past forty-eight hours. When he closed in on his prey, it was important that he not be distracted. Even a major homicide case wouldn’t explain why Bobbie would go to Weller. Whatever had happened, it had to be specific to a serial killer she believed Weller would know, and even then the FBI would likely insist any questions be funneled through their channels.

Nick glanced at his phone and resisted the temptation to call her. Five or six times in the past two months he’d pulled out the one video of her he’d kept and watched it just to hear her voice. The video had been made before her abduction by the Storyteller. She’d been in the backyard with her husband and child—the husband and child the Storyteller had stolen from her. Nick kicked himself every time he watched. What kind of fool was jealous of the life a dead man had lived? And yet, Nick watched the video over and over, the life depicted in those captured moments making him yearn for things he could never have.

“This is your life,” he reminded himself. There was no need to pretend otherwise. Feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t get the job done.

Nick made the trip across town to the low-rent motel he’d been staying at since his arrival in New Orleans. He backed into the parking slot directly in front of his door. Inside, the dark room smelled musty but it was cool and quiet, two things he required on a hunt. He closed the door and turned on the light.

The reports and photos he had gathered on the Executive Executioner lined one wall. He knew many things about Adele. Where she was born, where she’d lost her virginity, how she lured her prey. His research was always in hard copy. He didn’t have to worry about a housekeeper stumbling upon his work since he always made an arrangement with motel management. He cleaned up after himself and picked up fresh towels and linens at the front desk. There was some risk using this method but not nearly so much as leaving electronic tracks for his friends in the FBI to follow.

Now that the hunt was done, he would pack up his research, drive to some place well outside the city and burn the whole lot. But first he had to know why Bobbie had visited Weller.

He opened his laptop, entered the passcode and then searched the news for the Montgomery area. The first headline to top the Google search gave him the answer.

Seppuku-Style Killings Take the Lives of Wealthy Montgomery Couple

He read the story, noting that Bobbie was the lead detective on the case. According to the reporter’s inside source, the murders were carried out in the same MO as the Seppuku Killer from the last decade. Had to be nothing more than a copycat. But Bobbie having shown up to visit Weller after being assigned the case was far too big a coincidence to ignore.

Nick closed the laptop. If someone was trying to send him a message, he or she had known exactly how to get his attention.

He would shower, grab a few hours of sleep, and then he was going to Montgomery.

To Bobbie.

Five

Baptist Medical Center

Friday, October 21, 7:00 a.m.

Bobbie watched Sage Parker sleep. According to the uniform who’d just gone off duty, the boy had a bad night. Nightmares had disturbed his sleep. Bobbie’s heart went out to the child. No matter that his aunt had arrived yesterday to be with him, he was alone in a way every child feared. Both parents had been taken from him in one fell swoop; his sister was still missing. Every hour that passed diminished the expectation of finding her alive.

When she was twelve years old Bobbie lost her mother, but she’d had her father. Her father hadn’t passed away until she was in college, but his sudden death had been extremely difficult to accept. Not because she had loved him more than she had her mother, but because his death had been like losing her history. There was something intensely painful about losing the roots that bound you to this life. Sage Parker’s pain had only just begun.

She sighed, resisting the impulse to sweep a lock of light brown, very nearly blond, hair from his forehead. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks. His fingernails were dirty from playing the way little boys play. Digging in the dirt and pocketing rocks were two of his favorite things to do, according to his aunt. He was a climber and had the broken collarbone to prove his fearlessness. He would need all the courage he owned to get through the next couple of years. His parents were gone, murdered. He’d have to leave his friends and all that he knew and move to Nashville, assuming his aunt was willing to take him, and start over again.

Then and there Bobbie silently made two promises to the kid. She would find his sister and she would get the person or persons responsible for devastating his life. His parents, no matter their sins, deserved justice. Sage deserved the ability to move forward without looking over his shoulder or wondering for the rest of his life.

Marla Lowery, his aunt, appeared at the door, her coffee cradled in both hands. Bobbie stood and, with one last look at the boy, walked toward the door.

“I thought I’d get some breakfast while he was resting,” Marla offered in explanation for her absence.

The officer on duty when Bobbie arrived had told her as much. The FBI agent had taken a break, as well. “I’m sure you’re exhausted.” Bobbie flashed a smile at the new uniform who’d come on shift a few minutes ago.

Marla peered into her coffee cup. “I’ve been thinking about what you asked me.”

Bobbie gestured to the hall and moved away from the door of Sage’s room. She preferred not to have him overhear anything that might upset him more than he was already. When they were a couple of yards away, she asked, “About Fern?”

Marla nodded. “My oldest said Fern has been at war with several students at her old school. She was...” Her voice stalled and her lips quivered. “Receiving a lot of hate messages on social media.”

Marla had three children, all girls. The oldest was about the same age as Fern. “How long have these problems with the other kids been going on?”

Based on her social media accounts, Fern had a love-hate relationship with most of her friends the past few months. She had made quite a list of enemies. Bobbie had interviewed her principals and teachers at both the old school and the new one. The sixteen-year-old’s recent behavior was completely at odds with the rest of her school experience. She had always been a straight-A student. Her teachers loved her, or at least they had until the real trouble started about three months ago. Fern’s behavior became erratic and angry outbursts were suddenly the norm. Her grade-point average slipped. She started to dress and speak differently as if she wanted to be someone else.

“My daughter said Fern confided that the school was threatening to expel her.”

Bobbie had learned as much from the school counselor. “Was there anyone in particular Fern couldn’t get along with?”

Marla shrugged. “I have no idea. I really can’t believe she changed so much. Six months ago she was the sweetest, most thoughtful girl you would ever meet. And so smart. Suddenly she was sporting all those body piercings and wearing black and using horrible language. I can’t imagine what happened to make her turn so rebellious and mean-spirited.” Her lips trembled and tears welled in her eyes. “Or maybe I can. God only knows what the kids have suffered with what their parents have been going through. I’m ashamed to say we’ve only seen them twice in the last year. Heather and Nigel were always so busy and then all the legal trouble started.” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have allowed that much time to pass between visits.”

“We all get busy sometimes,” Bobbie offered. “You spoke to Heather regularly?”

“One of us called the other every three or four weeks. She never even hinted there were problems at home...beyond what’s in the news obviously.” She frowned. “Fern’s problems at school couldn’t be the reason for...this. These are children we’re talking about.” Her lips worked for a moment before she managed to say the rest. “You don’t think Fern or one of her classmates had anything to do with their deaths.”

Fern was missing. There was no sign of forced entry into the Parker home and no indication of foul play related to her disappearance, both of which didn’t look good. On top of that the girl had issues at home and at school. She wouldn’t be the first teenager to murder her parents, but Bobbie was relatively certain the killer wasn’t Fern or one of her friends. As true as that was she wasn’t prepared to pass along those conclusions yet. The bottom line was the students Fern angered had parents. There were few things more ferocious than a parent determined to protect his or her offspring.

“In truth it’s too early to say. We’ll operate under the assumption she’s a victim until we have evidence to suggest otherwise,” Bobbie hedged.

Randolph Weller’s words rang in her ears. She ignored that warning voice. She had an obligation to conduct the investigation of this case the same way she did all others. Weller’s input would not be a part of the process until she had reason to believe it held merit. The whole idea of a consortium of serial killers was over the top to say the least. She hadn’t decided whether or not he was playing her somehow.

“Six months ago I would have said there was no possibility Fern would be involved in anything like this.” Marla glanced at the door of her nephew’s room. “Now, I don’t know.” Her gaze rested on Bobbie’s once more. “Is it true that Heather was running a...sex service of some sort disguised as a dating service?”

Bobbie wanted to tread carefully there. “This investigation has a lot of unknowns, ma’am. We’re nowhere near ready to say who was doing what. Give us time to get the facts straight before we pass them along to you. Frankly, that aspect of the case is more the FBI’s purview.” The pain in Marla’s expression prompted Bobbie to add, “We both know that sometimes people do things they don’t want to do for reasons we might not readily see or understand.”

“The FBI questioned me about Nigel.” Marla shook her head as if trying to deny the ugliness. “I can’t believe he robbed all those people. We’ve known him for twenty years and he always seemed so nice. Heather never said a word.” She drew in a deep shuddering breath. “I’m just glad our parents didn’t live to see this.”

Bobbie understood Marla meant the illegal activities the Parkers were allegedly involved in and the vicious murders, not to mention a missing child. Whatever the age or the circumstances of death the truth was no parent wanted to survive a child. She knew this better than most.

A scream rent the air. Bobbie whipped around and rushed toward Sage’s room, her hand on the butt of her Glock. The uniform stationed at his door was already at his bedside.

As soon as Bobbie’s brain assimilated the fact that the boy was okay, she analyzed the scene. A male dressed in scrubs, a nurse she presumed, stood back from the end of the bed, his hands out to his sides, patient chart on the floor as if he’d dropped it. A plastic caddy that contained a blood pressure cuff and other medical tools sat on the foot of the bed. Sage was curled into a protective ball as close to the headboard as he could get, the sheet pulled up to his chin.

“I just need to take his vitals,” the obviously shaken man said, looking from Bobbie to the uniform.

“Let’s see your badge,” Bobbie ordered.

Marla hurried around the bed to comfort her nephew. “He’s been doing this since I got here. Every time a man enters the room, he gets upset.”

Thomas Brewer, LPN. Bobbie compared the photo to the man whose face was a couple shades paler than the one in the photo. A match. She passed the badge back to him. “Why don’t we have a female nurse take care of him?”

Brewer bent down and picked up the chart. “I’ll make a note in his chart. I don’t know why they didn’t do that already if this happened before.” He reached for the caddy and Sage gasped. His aunt made soothing sounds and smoothed his ruffled hair.

Bobbie nodded to the officer. He followed Brewer into the corridor and returned to his post. “You don’t need to be afraid, Sage. We’ll keep you safe.”

Brown eyes peered up at her. “That’s what my daddy said.”

Bobbie moved closer to the bed. She chose her words carefully. “Did something scare you before what happened while you were in the attic?”

He dropped his gaze to the sheet but he nodded. “The other day I was at home alone and someone came in the house.”

Bobbie’s instincts nudged her. “This is very important, Sage. Can you remember what day this happened?” She found herself holding her breath as she waited for his answer.

“Monday. Mrs. Snodgrass does the grocery shopping on Mondays. I was supposed to be at school.” He shrugged skinny shoulders. “There was a big test and I forgot to study.”

“So you decided to stay home?” Bobbie understood that feeling. After her mother died, she’d felt the need to hide from the big things like a test at school and the birthday party down the street. Her mother had always taken her homemade cookies to neighborhood parties. Bobbie hadn’t wanted to tell anyone who asked that her mother couldn’t bring cookies because she was buried in the graveyard by the church.

“But, Sage,” his aunt protested, “you’ve always made honor roll. You’ve never been afraid of a test.” Marla looked to Bobbie and shook her head, tears glistening in her eyes.

“Has someone at school been bothering you?” Bobbie remembered that part, too. Kids could be so damned cruel. Who you gonna tell, Bobbie Sue? Your momma’s dead. She could imagine the things said to Sage about his parents considering the exploits the news channels and social media had been reporting. His mother had likely been called a whore and his father a thief. The image of the letters painted on their foreheads swarmed in front of Bobbie’s eyes. Poor kid. The trouble had just begun for him and his sister—if she was still alive.

Sage nodded, but kept his gaze lowered. “Jacob Cook was calling my mom names. That’s why my sister was fighting with his sister all the time. A bunch of people were being mean to her and me.” He looked up at his aunt. “Is that why she ran away?”

A hit of adrenaline detonated in Bobbie’s veins. “Do you think your sister wanted to run away?”

Sage shrugged his skinny shoulders. “She promised she wouldn’t leave me. She said she’d take care of me if our parents went to prison. I guess she changed her mind.”

Bobbie and Marla exchanged a look. “Don’t worry about your sister. I’m certain she didn’t run away from you. We’ll find her,” his aunt promised.

Bobbie gave him a nod and a promise of her own. “That’s right and I’ll make sure Jacob Cook never bothers you again.” She had a feeling Fern’s recent behavior was not about drugs or some other self-destructive behavior. It was survival for her and her brother. “Tell me about what happened on Monday.”

“I was in my room building a Lego fort when I heard someone in the kitchen. I thought my mom had come home for lunch so I sneaked into the attic. I knew I’d be in big trouble.” His eyes grew rounder with each word.

“Are you sure it wasn’t your mom?” Bobbie’s pulse hammered with mounting anticipation. The sooner they had a break in this case the better. One theory was that the killer had staged the scene to muddle the investigation. If that wasn’t the case and this copycat was a serial killer, they could have more bodies all too soon, Fern Parker’s being one of them.

Sage nodded. “It was a man. He came into my parents’ room. I could hear him.”

“Could you see him?” Bobbie held her breath.

Sage shook his head no. “I only know it was a man ’cause I heard him cussing. He said bad words.”

Bobbie asked, “Did his voice sound like your father’s or like mine?”

“You’re a woman,” he said with a frown. “His voice sounded like my dad’s, but it wasn’t my dad. He said stuff like this—shit, damn it!” he repeated in an extra deep voice, and then he winced. “Sorry, but that’s what he said.”

“That’s okay,” Bobbie assured him. “Anything you tell me will be a big help. Are you certain you didn’t see him in your parents’ room?”

The boy nodded. The killer may have been laying out his game plan. Since the Seppuku Killer had murdered victims whom he considered to have shamed themselves, the Parkers’ recent notoriety was likely the motive for their murders. But what about Fern? There was no record of an abduction or a child victim in the Seppuku case. Not that Bobbie had found, anyway. Copycats often deviated somewhat from the original MOs but this one was quite a giant step. The range of vile things the killer may have done to Fern checked off in Bobbie’s head, made her stomach knot. Don’t let that girl be dead.

Sage jumped. Bobbie snapped her attention back to the present and followed his gaze to the door. The agent had returned and he and the MPD uniform were talking to a man in a white coat. She recognized the pediatrician in the lab coat and her heart rose into her throat. Charles Upchurch. Dr. Upchurch had been her little boy’s doctor.

She steeled herself for the encounter. She couldn’t keep avoiding the people who had known her before. “Don’t worry, Sage. Dr. Upchurch is a friend of mine. I know him really well. You don’t have to be afraid. Okay?”

The boy nodded, still looking uncertain.

“Have your aunt call me if you remember anything else. It’s really important that you do, okay?”

Sage nodded again, this time with obvious eagerness.

“Call me if you need anything,” Bobbie said to the aunt.

Since Marla already had Bobbie’s cell number, she moved into the corridor to speak with Dr. Upchurch. The hospital needed to ensure Sage was cared for by females for the duration of his stay and MPD would have to get female officers here to keep him secure. The more comfortable he was, the more likely he would remember something that might help the case.

Upchurch recognized her and smiled. “Bobbie, it’s good to see you.” He thrust out his hand. “How is...?” His voice trailed off and his expression fell as his mind filled in the events of the past year.

“Good to see you, too, Doctor.” She gave his hand a shake, then jerked her head toward the room. “Sage is having some anxiety with male strangers. I assured him he was safe with you, but...just so you know.”

“Got it.” Upchurch nodded. “I’ll see that the rest of his stay is comfortable. We’re running a few more tests just to be sure he’s okay. He vomited a couple of times last night but those incidents may have been related to anxiety.”

“Let me know,” Bobbie urged.

When the doctor remarked that she looked well, Bobbie thanked him and excused herself. She stepped a few feet away from the room and made the call to Lieutenant Owens to bring her up to speed on the Parker boy’s needs and what he’d told her. A female officer would replace the one on duty ASAP. After ensuring the officer on duty understood the new arrangements, Bobbie couldn’t get out of the hospital quickly enough. She took the stairs and headed for the maintenance exit to avoid the reporters loitering in the visitors’ parking lot. Plowing through the crowd and fending off their questions would be pointless. She had nothing she was authorized to share just yet. Fern’s picture was in every paper, on the internet and on the television news. Hotlines had been set up for callers who might have seen or heard anything useful. Marla Lowery had gone on the local news and offered an urgent plea for help as well as a reward for any information about her niece.

As true as it was that the passing hours lessened the likelihood of finding Fern still breathing, Bobbie intended to stay focused on the idea that she was alive out there somewhere and needed to be found.

Her right leg protested the hustle down the flights of stairs. The pain was a consistent reminder that she was lucky to be alive. She opened the door into the morning sun and headed across the asphalt to where she’d parked her car amid the vehicles belonging to hospital employees. The man leaning against her Challenger stopped her in her tracks and very nearly stopped her heart.

Nick Shade. The stranger who’d made such an impact on her at a time when she believed her life was over.

The blue button-down shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up his muscled forearms, the well-worn jeans hugged his body. He wore black work boots as usual. His dark hair was a little shorter, not quite touching his collar now. The way he watched her as she approached startled her all over again, the same way it had the first time they met. There was just something about those dark eyes...as if he could see her thoughts, could sense her feelings.

“Good morning, Detective.”

That voice. His voice had haunted her well before he showed up at her door to tell her to stay out of his way in the hunt for the Storyteller. She hadn’t known at the time, but he had visited her in the hospital while she was in a coma recovering from her first encounter with the Storyteller. She’d been at her worst, refusing to fight for her life. She’d wanted to die. Come back, Detective Gentry. His words had somehow drawn her back to the land of the living.

She smiled, couldn’t help herself. “Morning.” What was he doing here? She hadn’t gotten around to calling him. “You’re about the last person I expected to run into today.”

He straightened away from her car. “We need to talk. Do you have a few minutes?”

Devine was back at CID lining up today’s interviews. She had a few minutes. “Sure.”

“Take a ride with me.”

She nodded. “All right.” He led the way to a midsize black Chevrolet truck. Beyond the illegal tint on the windows, the vehicle was fairly nondescript. “What happened to your car?”

He opened the passenger-side door for her. “I trade frequently.”

She opted not to mention that the routine was in all probability a smart move considering he hunted serial killers using methods that skirted the law more often than not. “Where’re we going?”

He slid behind the wheel. “No place in particular.”

As he pulled away from the hospital’s rear parking she studied his profile. Nick Shade was an attractive man and...as damaged as she was. He, too, had survived a ruthless serial killer—his own father. She doubted either of them would ever have a normal life. At least she had experienced a glimpse of what a real life was supposed to be. She would cherish those memories the rest of her days.

Would Nick ever allow himself to have that?

“You look good.”

His deep voice drew her back to the present. “Thanks.” It had taken her a long while to be able to accept a compliment. “You, too.”

Silence settled between them as he drove. Back in August they’d spent a lot of time exactly like this, driving and hoping they would find a lead that would break the Storyteller case. Nick had been there for her during those shattering days before and after her partner’s death. God she missed Newt.

As if he’d read her mind, Nick asked, “How’s Carlene?”

He did a lot of that, too. Read her mind. “She’s okay. She sold the house and moved to Nashville to be near their oldest daughter who just found out she’s pregnant. Carlene’s really excited about being a grandmother.” Newt would be so happy. Bobbie swallowed at the lump in her throat.

“Tell me about this new case. The Seppuku copycat.”

So that was why he was here. His father’s warning echoed in her ears. She should tell him...in a minute. She wasn’t sure how he would react when she announced that she had visited Weller. They hadn’t discussed the connection between him and Weller. Instead of dropping that bomb, she gave him the details of the double homicide on her plate. “We have a survivor, the son. And hopefully the sister. She’s still missing.”

“This case is why you went to see him?”

So he knew. She didn’t know why she was surprised. Nick Shade missed nothing. “No—at least not that I was aware. His attorney called and insisted that I come.”

Nick braked for a light. He turned to her. “You know who he is.”

His statement was not a reference to Randolph Weller’s infamous reputation as one of the most prolific serial killers alive today. “I do.”

He stared at her for five endless seconds. “Why did Weller want to see you?”

Bobbie braced herself against the stony look in his eyes. From the moment she discovered his father’s identity she instinctively understood that there would be no love lost between the two, and for good reason. “He wanted me to warn you.”

The light changed and Nick looked away, moving forward with the flow of traffic. “Why didn’t he have his lawyer call me?”

“He said you wouldn’t listen to him.” Bobbie took a deep breath and gave him the rest of the details. “I stared at my phone for hours last night.” When she should have been sleeping, she kept to herself. “I planned to try and contact you today.”

“You have my number,” he said without looking at her. “What stopped you?”

Was he angry or disappointed that she’d done what she thought she had to do? Instead of responding to his question, she said, “He suggested the murders were a message to you. That these organized serial killers—he called them the Consortium—are coming for you. He’s concerned they’ll try using me as a way to get to you.” She stared out the window and said the rest. “That’s why I hesitated before calling. I didn’t want you to come to Montgomery.”

I knew you’d come.

He pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store. “You couldn’t hope to stop me.”

Bobbie stared out the windshield at nothing at all. “Weller could be manipulating us.” She’d come to a number of conclusions last night and that was one of them. Anything was better than the idea that a group of serial killers working together had decided to take Nick out. “He’s desperate to be a part of your life.”

“You give him too much credit,” Nick argued. “He’s far too cold and controlled to feel desperation.”

“Maybe.” Could a psychopathic serial killer love anyone but himself enough to feel desperation? Bobbie wasn’t sure.

“I’ll look into it.”

“You’ll look into it?” She wanted to shake him. “There are people out there plotting your death and all you can say is that you’ll look into it?” Frustration and no small amount of exhaustion made her voice sharper than she’d intended.

His glare turned fierce. “This has nothing to do with you, Bobbie. It would be best if you stayed out of it.”

She opened her mouth to set him straight when her cell phone interrupted. She snapped it free of her belt. “Gentry.”

“We have a serious lead,” Devine said, his tone eager. He hesitated, then asked, “You okay?”

“What lead?” she demanded, ignoring his question. She glowered at the man next to her. Who the hell did he think he was?

“I just picked up the coroner’s preliminary report,” Devine explained.

Bobbie started to demand why the hell she hadn’t been informed that the report was ready when Devine went on. “The knife used on the vics is consistent with a double-edged blade six to ten inches long. Judging by the striation marks, the blade has a distinct pattern Dr. Carroll is trying to track down.”

Bobbie reached for calm. “I’ll meet you at the office in half an hour.”

“Ah...you might want to come now,” Devine argued. “I have the name and address of one of Parker’s enemies—one he cheated out of a couple million bucks.”

Bobbie was about to remind him there were several of those when he added, “This guy collects rare Japanese swords and daggers. And he’s suddenly planning a trip out of the country, as in he’s booked on a flight out of Birmingham this afternoon.”

Anticipation shoved the frustration and exhaustion aside. “I’ll be right there.”

Six

Greystone Place

9:00 a.m.

Bobbie surveyed the spacious den that was actually a gallery. Three of the four walls were lined with glass cases containing hundreds of knives and swords. Some of the instruments were longer than others, some sported ornate handles and sheaths. Each was labeled with the era and style of weapon.

If Mark Hanover wanted to conceal his proclivity for instruments of death potentially similar to the one used in the Parker murders, his housekeeper hadn’t gotten the memo. She’d answered the door, listened carefully through Bobbie’s introduction and then led them directly to this room to wait. Strange, to say the least.

Speaking of strange, Bobbie had wanted to ask Nick how he’d found out she visited Weller. Someone at the prison was likely keeping him informed. Nick avoided her question about whether he was in Montgomery for a few days or only passing through. She wanted the opportunity to tell him how much she appreciated what he’d done for her. What he did for so many others. When he was here before there hadn’t been time and she hadn’t been in the right place emotionally to adequately convey her appreciation.

“I’ve never seen a collection this extensive, not even in a museum.”

Bobbie turned to her partner. There was a lot she didn’t know about him, particularly when it came to personal tastes. She knew he wasn’t married, wasn’t in a serious relationship and had no desire for kids. His family was from old money and, according to Holt, he was the sole heir to his elderly aunt’s estate. Her husband, the Colonel, had died when Devine was just a kid. He was named after the man. All of which explained his expensive suits and the pricey Porsche Panamera he drove.

Bobbie grunted a noncommittal sound to his remark about the collection. It wasn’t that she had anything against people with money. Her husband’s family had been quite wealthy. Having wealth flaunted like this was something she could live without. She supposed a man of means had a right to whatever hobby he could afford. Her shrink reminded her every other week that she needed a hobby.

That was another thing about her choice to return to the land of the living. In order to keep her job, the chief—her godfather and pseudo uncle—had insisted she agree to counseling for however long the department psychologist deemed necessary. The last few weeks she had decided maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing since, much to her surprise, the doctor offered a decent number of valid points she hadn’t wanted to see before. She was trying harder these days to be honest with herself and to keep an open mind. Her new attitude was paying off. Recently, the shrink had lengthened the time between her appointments to two weeks instead of one.

She was stronger, physically and mentally, which was a good thing. Better to nail the bad guys.

On cue, the towering mahogany pocket doors slid open and Mark Hanover entered the room. The slim-fitting suit was no doubt made from the finest fabrics available, the shoes were certainly hand-tooled leather. He was younger than she’d expected, early to midfifties maybe. His dark hair was peppered with just enough gray to look distinguished. His face, on the other hand, was as smooth as the day he was born. Good genes or Botox? Her money was on the latter.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he announced as he looked from Bobbie to Devine and back. “I’m Mark Hanover.” He thrust his hand toward Bobbie first.

“Detective Bobbie Gentry,” she said as she placed her hand in his. His shake was firm and quick, his palm cool and dry. Bobbie gestured to her partner. “Detective Steven Devine.”

The two men shook hands next. Hanover seemed to hang on to Devine’s hand a beat longer than necessary. Devine flinched and drew away. Bobbie considered what little she knew about Hanover. His marriage to one of the city’s socialites had ended last year. Considering the way he watched Devine, maybe his sexual interests ran to something more than his wife was willing to tolerate.

“Please—” Hanover indicated the pair of leather sofas that faced each other in the center of the room “—make yourselves comfortable. How may I be of service to the MPD this morning?”

The two men waited for Bobbie to be seated first. When they had settled, she began, “I’m sure you’ve heard about the Parker murders.”

Hanover gave a somber nod. “Tragic. Simply tragic. Especially the girl. Who would take a child?” He shuddered visibly. “As unfair as it is the sins of the father can at times carry over to the children.”

Bobbie wondered what sins this man kept hidden. If her father had said it once he’d said it a thousand times: people don’t get that rich and stay that way without a few skeletons in the closet. “We’re hoping Fern is still alive.”

“Of course,” Hanover agreed. “I’m more than happy to help. I support numerous fund-raisers and activities for children. Please let me know if there is anything I can do. Perhaps a larger reward?”

“Thank you. I’ll let the department’s liaison know you’d like to help.” Bobbie explained, “We’re interviewing all who had business dealings gone wrong with Mr. Parker. Your name is on the list.”

Hanover’s eyebrows reared up his forehead in an unflattering expression and then he pursed his lips and shrugged. “Since I lost more than most of his other clients, I suppose it’s reasonable that I would be a suspect. Perhaps your top suspect,” he suggested.

“Person of interest,” Devine corrected. “You and many others are persons of interest.”

“I see,” Hanover acquiesced, his smug expression giving away his amusement. “I expect that’s the less threatening of the terms.” His tone was openly condescending, the words directed at the younger man.

Bobbie watched him carefully. He was completely relaxed and enjoying the interview. “You’re quite the collector of—” she indicated the room at large “—daggers and swords.”

“I am, indeed.” He glanced around the enormous space. “My father started the collection when I was a child. We spent several years in Tokyo. I attended my first five years of school there.” As if to emphasize the point he added, “Chosen-teki nado no yona jokyo wareware wa-chu ni jibun jishin o mitsukemasu.”

Bobbie exchanged a look with Devine who appeared annoyed and said, “I assume that was Japanese.”

Hanover gave a nod of acknowledgment. “I said, ‘What a challenging position we find ourselves in.’ Wouldn’t you agree?”

Bobbie had friends who’d majored in international business in college. Learning Japanese and Chinese was considered beneficial for those who wanted to make their mark in the Asian market. She wasn’t surprised Hanover was proficient in one or both. Was he trying to impress them? “You lost a couple million dollars to Nigel Parker’s Ponzi scheme.”

“I did.” He leaned back and draped one arm across the back of the sofa. “If you’re asking me if I murdered Nigel and his wife and took his daughter, the answer is no. As much as it pains me to lose money, I have plenty more where that came from.”

“Were you a client of his wife’s?” Might as well cut to the chase. Maybe the man’s divorce was about his inability to stay faithful. His personality certainly left something to be desired. Bobbie wasn’t particularly fond of braggarts.

Hanover smiled and glanced directly at Devine before responding. “As much as I enjoy beautiful women, frankly, I would have been far more likely to be involved with Nigel than his wife.”

You guessed that one right, Bobbie. “You’re the only one of his clients who owns rare daggers and swords.”

He cocked his head and studied her, more of that amusement sparkling in his eyes. “What are you suggesting, Detective Gentry?”

“We aren’t suggesting anything, sir,” Devine responded before she could. “We’d like to examine your collection.”

Her partner leaned forward as he spoke, his expression and tone daring the other man to deny them access. Did these two know each other? This was the first time she’d noticed her partner’s inability to avoid a pissing contest. She’d certainly never had him speak over her as if she weren’t in the room.

“We can get a warrant,” Bobbie pointed out, looking from one man to the other. There was no need to play games.

Hanover turned his full attention back to her. “That won’t be necessary, Detective Gentry.” He stood and fastened the center button on his elegant suit jacket. “Examine my collection to your heart’s desire.” He touched a finger to his lips as if he’d only just recalled a relevant detail. “While you’re at it, perhaps you can find the century-old dagger that was stolen from me last month. I’m certain the officer who came to the house filed a report.” He squared his shoulders. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of preparing for an urgent business trip.”

Bobbie stood. Devine did the same. “Mr. Hanover, I’m afraid there may be a problem with your planned travel.”

Hanover scrutinized her for another long moment, whether it was curiosity or irritation in his eyes Bobbie couldn’t say for sure. “You look like your mother.”

Taken aback by the unexpected statement, Bobbie flinched before she could school the reaction. “Excuse me?”

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