Dancing in the Dark Read online

  “Interesting combination. Maybe he's building a woman.”

  “Seems like there are easier ways.” Eric blew out a long, frustrated breath. “Hell, Tony, truth is, it could be a million different things.”

  “All right, then let's look at the rape instruments.” Tony pulled another sheet from the file. “We know that at least two of them were special to the victims. The bat and the doll. Which leaves us a wine bottle and an umbrella.” Tony consulted the report. “Wine was Turning Leaf. Nothing special. I suppose you could make the argument that since Laurel Henry was an alcoholic, a wine bottle would have been a prized possession.”

  “Or a syringe.” Eric stared up at the white board, willing it to yield answers. “Anything to indicate Candy Mason had a thing for umbrellas?”

  “Not in the file, but that doesn't mean it isn't so. Maybe we can reinterview her friends, establish something about the umbrella.” Tony pulled out a photo of the murder scene and studied it. “Come to think of it, it doesn't look like a regular umbrella. It's all pink and frilly.”

  “So maybe it's a parasol.” Eric frowned down at the picture. “You know, the kind women use for shade. Where's Candy originally from?”

  “Says here Alabama.”

  “Southern makes some sense. Maybe it did have sentimental value. Either way, I think you're right. We should talk to her buddies again. The more information we can pull together, the closer we'll come to understanding how this bastard's mind works. What makes him tick. Once we have that, all of this,” Eric waved in the direction of the white board, “is going to make a hell of a lot more sense.”

  “Well, one thing we know for certain.” Tony stood up, pacing alongside the table. “He's getting better at what he's doing. Claire says the amputations are more professional, and although there was more blood at the last site, it was primarily because he took her hair while she was alive.”

  “Which points to an escalation in violence.”

  “Yeah, but without a motive. He could be getting angry, or he could just be building tolerance.”

  Eric nodded. “Needing to inflict more torture to get off. But that wouldn't explain the increased frequency of events. The first two murders were months apart. Three and four were practically back to back.”

  Tony pulled out a chair and straddled it. “I looked into the lyrics of the songs. Composers, too. Lyrics and music are all over the board. No commonality as far as authorship is concerned. All the songs are love songs, but then that pretty much defines Sinatra. There is a vague pattern of sorts. The first lyrics are almost wistful, same with the second. Giddy love sort of thing. But the last two seem to have more of an implied threat.”

  Eric raised his eyebrows in question. “You think Sinatra's threatening?”

  “No. But I think the lyrics could be interpreted that way. It isn't as apparent when you listen to the songs, but it's different when you read them—especially for me, because I don't know them and so I don't hear the music in my head. The catch-phrase from Lydia's song is ‘more than you dream I do, I dream of you.’ Sort of an unrequited love thing. But also a hint that the singer is thinking of her—”

  “Obsessing on her,” Eric finished.

  “Exactly. And the next one's worse.” Tony reached for a piece of paper. “I had Claire's folks transcribe a copy. There's a line about ‘building a life around you.’ Again with the obsession. And it ends with ‘I could make you care. I know I could.’ It might be a stretch, but I think you could argue that we've gone from passive attraction to active obsession.”

  “Which would explain the escalating violence. But it also raises another important question.” Eric's gaze locked on the white board, and the bloodied victims. “Who the hell is the object of his obsession?”

  Sara tossed restlessly in her bed. Tonight even her dreams weren't cooperating. Instead of comforting images from the past, all she could think about was Eric D'Angelo—the way his mouth felt on hers, the way his hands burned her skin, the steely gray of his eyes.

  With a sigh, she flopped onto her back, opening her eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the dark. There was no moon tonight, and even with the curtains open the room was shadowed more than usual, the dark almost a living, breathing thing. But it was friendly. An extension of the house, wrapping her in the cool velvet night.

  She wondered if Eric was still working. Or if he'd come by to find her house silent and dark. She'd taken the coward's way out and she knew it. But some part of her wasn't ready for what he was offering. Or what she thought he was offering.

  The whole thing was too much to contemplate in the middle of the night, but her brain evidently hadn't gotten the memo, and steadfastly refused to drop the topic, despite the pleas of her heart. In the space of forty-eight hours everything had changed, her carefully orchestrated life turned topsy-turvy in the whirlwind of her emotions. Eric D'Angelo made her feel things she'd never felt before.

  And all of that added together made her want to throw caution to the wind—let the chips fall as they might. In short, ignore every screaming atom of common sense she possessed.

  Not exactly her usual mode of operation.

  She rolled onto her side, adjusting her pillow, the cool feel of cotton comforting. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on sleep, pulling to mind every pastoral scene she could think of.

  Nothing.

  Except that Eric D'Angelo kept popping up in English fields and tropical islands. So much for the power of meditation.

  When the phone rang it was almost a relief. Escape from her mutinous imagination. She reached for it reflexively, the receiver already to her ear before she realized she was supposed to let the machine answer.

  “Hello?”

  There was silence, then she thought perhaps the faintest hint of music, the sound so soft it was impossible to recognize the melody. She counted to three, and then quietly replaced the receiver.

  Her caller had changed his style.

  Annoyed at herself more than him, she switched on the light and looked over at the Caller ID box. The words ‘unknown caller’ flashed green, the rhythm mocking her.

  “So much for modern conveniences.” She glared at the box, then remembered to hit the scroll button. A number replaced the original message.

  “Gotcha.” With a grim smile, she copied the number on a pad by the table. It was tempting to call Eric right that minute, but since the whole idea had been to avoid seeing him tonight, she fought the urge. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

  She lay back in the bed and was reaching for the lamp, when her ears caught the faint sound of music. Rolling onto her side, she checked the phone to make certain she'd hung it up. She had.

  Which meant the music was either in her imagination or in her house.

  She waited, straining to hear something. Anything. And then faintly, as if on a crescendo, the music wafted up the stairs again. Swallowing nervously, she swung out of bed, and padded to the top of the stairs.

  The dark at the bottom didn't seem as friendly as the light in her bedroom. The music was louder, obviously coming from her living room, but still too soft to discern a tune. Heart thudding, she walked down the stairs, hitting the switch at the bottom, flooding the living room with light.

  The stereo light glowed green, the music loud enough now to identify.

  Frank Sinatra.

  She'd obviously left the CD player on. The song she'd thought she heard on the telephone had actually been playing down here. What had seemed ominous was suddenly ridiculous, and she sank onto the sofa, her fear morphing into giddy relief.

  The doorbell probably should have scared her, but since hysteria was working hand in hand with relief, it only seemed to heighten her sense of the absurd. Holding back laughter, she peered through the peephole and saw Eric on the other side.

  Delight warred with caution, her sensible self reminding her firmly of the risks of opening the door. But then she couldn't just leave him standing there. After all, he was a friend if nothing else
.

  So with a smile worthy of Scarlett O'Hara, she opened the door.

  And immediately sobered. He looked so tired. As if something had sucked the soul right out if him. Her petty worries disappeared in an instant, and all she wanted to do was find a way to restore his vibrancy.

  “Come in. You look awful.” She moved aside so that he could pass her, but he held his ground, his face grim.

  “I'm not good company. I shouldn't have come.”

  “Of course you should have.” She lowered her voice, trying for soothing. “Was it really bad?”

  “As bad as it gets, I guess.” He moved into the foyer, his feet seeming to have a will of their own. She linked her arm through his, and drew him into the living room. Frank was still singing.

  “Sit here.” She helped him onto the sofa. “How about a drink? I think I have all the basics.”

  “Scotch would be great.” He sat like an automaton, his face still set in what seemed to be a permanent grimace.

  She walked to the bar and poured a jigger of Glenlivet, then added extra just for good measure. “Ice?”

  “A cube.” The words were almost a whisper, as if even talking was more effort than he could afford.

  She carried the drink over to the sofa, crystal and ice adding musical accompaniment to the movement. “Here.” She handed him the glass. “Drink this. It'll make you feel better.” She stressed the last, not knowing for certain that the words held truth.

  He sipped the scotch, savoring the taste, swallowing only after letting it linger on his tongue. Then, tipping back his head, he closed his eyes, and she resisted the urge to put her arms around him.

  “I'm assuming it was the same guy.” It wasn't a question; his face more than told the story.

  He nodded, taking another drink from his glass. “We're up to four. Only this one was worse than the others. If that's possible.”

  She reached over to cover his knee with her hand, the gesture inadequate but all that she had to offer. “I'm sorry.”

  “Sorry he did it?” His eyes were still closed, but somehow it only increased his intensity.

  “I suppose that goes without saying. But what I meant was that I'm sorry you're having to go through it all. I can't imagine what it must be like to see something like that.”

  “I'm supposed to be immune.” The words actually held a note of bitterness.

  “That's ridiculous. You've managed to steel yourself, perhaps. Insulate yourself in the most basic of ways. But there's no way to be immune. And nobody would expect that of you.”

  “Maybe I expect it.” He opened his eyes to look at her, the pain and exhaustion reflected there almost taking her breath away.

  “Here's what I think.” She leaned forward, her gaze colliding with his. “You spend too much time taking care of other people and not enough time taking care of yourself. What you need to do right now is rest.”

  “You're right.” He sat up. “I should go home.”

  “That's not what I meant. You don't need to be alone. Stay with me. Let me take care of you for a while.”

  He looked at her for a moment as if she were speaking a foreign language, and then nodded, the faintest wisp of a smile curling his lips. “Just what did you have in mind?”

  “Nothing insalubrious, I promise. Just a shoulder to lean on.”

  “Figuratively or literally?” His silvery gaze held hers, the current running between them promising things she wasn't certain she wanted.

  “Literally, if that's what you need.” She patted her shoulder. She wasn't sure why she'd offered. Certainly it was contrary to her instinct to keep a distance between them. But he needed her. And it had been a long time since she'd felt needed.

  He studied her for a moment, and then evidently satisfied with what he saw, settled against her shoulder with a sigh, his feet stretched out on the sofa. “Some first date, huh? I'm a regular Prince Charming.” The words were low, underscored by the soft rhythm of his breathing, and she smiled, smoothing back his hair.

  “I don't know, sometimes fairy tales aren't all they're cracked up to be.” She waited for an answer, but was rewarded with silence.

  It seemed that Prince Charming had fallen asleep.

  Chapter 13

  Eric woke with the horrible sensation of not knowing where he was. His eyes shot open, the dark shadows playing against the ceiling doing nothing to relieve his anxiety. A soft sound to his left clarified things in an instant.

  Sara.

  He was on the sofa with Sara. They had shifted in sleep so that they were lying together, legs intertwined. It would have been a wonderful moment, except that he'd fallen asleep in the middle of a conversation. At least he thought he had.

  He was a little fuzzy on the details. He remembered having a drink. One Scotch. Certainly not enough to incapacitate him. They'd talked about the murder. And he'd meant to go home, but she'd offered her shoulder, and somehow it was just what he'd needed. He couldn't remember the last time someone had offered to take care of him.

  And now he was here with her, in the middle of the night, sleeping on a sofa. It was provocative and comforting all at the same time. A heady combination. There was something about Sara Martin. Something that reached out to him, soothed the angry parts of his soul.

  Or maybe he just wanted to jump her bones.

  Hell of a dichotomy.

  With a sigh, he rolled onto his back, careful not to disturb her, trying to sort through his riotous thoughts.

  “You're awake.” Her voice was soft like a whisper of wind, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

  “Yeah.” The word hung in the air, taking on a life of its own.

  “I'm glad you got some rest.” She paused for a moment, clearly embarrassed. “I didn't mean to sleep here. I guess I just drifted off.”

  He turned to face her. “I can think of worse things than waking up with you.”

  “We didn't… I mean, if that's what you're thinking.” Even in the dark he could tell her face was red.

  He reached out to trace the line of her jaw. “Believe me, if we had, it's not something I would forget. In fact, I'd bet a month's salary that it would be the memory of a lifetime.”

  She sat up, clutching a pillow in her lap. “I, ah, just thought you needed the rest.”

  He sat up, too, reaching over to cover her hand, stilling her nervous fingers. “I did. And for what it's worth, I feel better now.”

  “Ghosts vanquished?”

  “I don't know that they're gone, but at least for the moment they're subdued. And, believe me, that's something.” He smiled, feeling oddly at home despite the situation. “What about you? Looks like I've managed to steal most of the night from you.”

  “It's not a problem.” Her smile was wistful. “I don't sleep all that much anyway.”

  His eyes narrowed as he studied her face, noticing for the first time the shadows there. “Because of your husband?”

  “In part.” She stared down at the pillow in her hands. “Charlie, too. It's just that sometimes it doesn't seem real.” She lifted her head to meet his gaze. “Especially at night.”

  “When you dream.”

  She nodded, her eyes narrowing in surprise. “You sound like you've been there?”

  “Not to the same extent. But I remember how my mother was after my father died.” He tightened his fingers around hers, oddly relieved when she didn't pull away. “She had dreams, too. Sometimes comforting, sometimes downright scary. But either way, very real. And for a while, I think, she wanted the night to go on forever.”

  “It's the only way to stay connected.” The words came out on a whisper, and Eric knew Sara wasn't just talking about his mother.

  “But it passed, Sara. Not the memory of my father, certainly. She'll have that forever. But the need to live in the past is gone. She's got a new life, now. A new man.”

  “And the dreams?” Her eyes reflected apprehension and hope, the two emotions at odds with one another.

  “T
hey're gone.”

  “Maybe that's what I'm afraid of.” She looked so vulnerable, so lost. “It's already getting harder to remember their faces. I close my eyes and I can't even hear the sound of their voices. I'm losing them, Eric. And it makes me feel so disloyal. As if I never loved them at all.”

  “Sara, that's not ever going to be true. No matter what else you do in your life, you'll always love them, always remember them. Maybe not in the tangible way you do now, but they'll live in your heart forever.”

  “I want to believe that. To let go. But I'm so afraid of losing them all over again.”

  “I can't prove it's true. I can't even tell you I understand your pain. But I can tell you I care. And if you'll let me, I want to help.”

  “You don't even know me.” She ducked her head, but didn't pull her hand away.

  He reached out to place a finger under her chin, lifting her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I like what I do know.”

  She leaned forward slightly, her breath warm against his face. The first touch was gentle, an exploration, each of them learning the feel of the other, then, as if of its own volition, the kiss deepened. She opened to him, surrendering, her need enveloping him, lighting fires deep inside. He ran his hands down her back, settling on the smooth curve of her hips, fingers splayed, massaging.

  Her heat radiated through her clothes, the intensity shooting through him like skyrockets run amuck. She pressed against him, trailing kisses along the line of his jaw, the swell of his neck, her tongue tracing the curve of his Adam's apple.

  He shivered, and with a groan, framed her head with his hands, pulling her lips back to his. There was passion in their touching now, the frantic need of new lovers to memorize everything about their partners. He recognized the sensation, but not its intensity.

  Never had he wanted a woman this way. Not so completely. Her hand found the opening to his shirt, sliding inside, her palm smooth against his chest, her heat branding him. Her fingers were tentative, fluttering like a captured bird. And he covered her hand with his, his heart beating wildly beneath their fingers.