Dancing in the Dark Page 17

He turned to the woman on the chair, her blood staining the wall behind her. It had been tempting to cut out her heart. Fitting, since she obviously didn't have one. But it wasn't part of the plan, and he prided himself on his organization. Instead, he'd taken her eyes. At least they were the right color. And he liked the idea of an eye for an eye.

  Disgust swirled through him, distorting the exhilaration of the kill. Maybe it was that he knew her. Or maybe it was that she'd been so unresponsive. Cunt. He kicked her for good measure, certain that she was beyond feeling.

  The music crescendoed again, and he fought for composure, wondering how long it would take the bastard detective to discover his latest handiwork. If things had gone as planned, the man wouldn't be coming at all. But life was about setbacks. And good things came to those who waited. At least, that's what his mother'd always said. But then what the hell did she know?

  Chapter 19

  “What have we got?” Eric walked into the conference room, moving more slowly than usual but more comfortably than he'd have expected, considering the circumstances.

  “You look well rested.” Tony looked up from the file he was studying with a know-it-all grin. “I thought you were supposed to be at Sara's taking it easy.”

  “And leave you to have all the fun?”

  Tony's grin faded as he extended a report. “You're not going to like this.”

  Eric scanned the piece of paper, then handed it back to Tony. “It says the brakes failed. That I already knew.”

  “You're missing the fine print.” He tapped the paper. “It says here that the brakes failed because the bleeder valves were open.”

  Eric frowned at his partner. “You want to put that in English?”

  Tony shook his head disparagingly, his expression tolerant. “Sometimes you really scare me, Eric. You know that?”

  “Just because you think tinkering with cars is synonymous with testosterone doesn't make every guy a car jockey.” He shrugged. “I know how to drive, and I know mechanic is under m in the Yellow Pages. What else do I need?”

  “Just at the moment, a lesson in bleeder valves.” Tony walked over to the white board and picked up a marker. “Okay, a brake system is really pretty simple. There's a master cylinder.” He drew a box on the board. “It's attached to the brake pedal and the brake lines, which run to each wheel.” He added lines connecting the wheels to the drawing. “The brake lines are actually connected to calipers that surround the rotor above each wheel.” He drew a C-shaped figure around the rotor. “When the brake pedal is pressed, the calipers close and the brake pads push against the rotor, which ultimately slows the car.”

  “Lovely drawing, Tony, but what's the point?”

  Tony blew out an exaggerated sigh. “Each caliper has bleeder valves, located right about here.” He made some dark marks on the board and tapped them. “The hydraulic fluid that runs through the brake lines sometimes gets air or other contaminants in it, which makes the brakes feel spongy. The valves are there so that a mechanic can bleed the system and remove the air. Once the problem is resolved, the valves are shut again, and the drained fluid is replaced.”

  “But mine weren't closed,” Eric studied the diagram, and then looked back at the report, “so every time I pressed on the brakes, fluid was draining away.”

  “And since we know you haven't taken your car for a checkup since Clinton was president, I think we can safely assume that the valves weren't left open by a mechanic. And since they can't open themselves, that means it was intentional, which means that someone wanted you to hit the road in a very literal way.”

  “Someone who knew cars.” A nasty idea presented itself front and center. He looked up to meet Tony's gaze. “Someone like Jack Weston.”

  “It occurred to me, too. But unfortunately the techs haven't found any evidence aside from the valves. No fingerprints, no trace fibers, nothing. Still, it might be worth asking some questions.”

  “Anything in his background?”

  “I'm still waiting on the file. According to the computer he's got a rap sheet, but I wanted to see the hard copy.”

  “So we wait. You get the report on Tom Martin's accident?”

  “Yeah. The car was totaled and the report lists driver error as the cause. I looked at the photos, but you can't tell a damn thing.”

  “So it could have been the bleeder valves.”

  “Yeah, but there's nothing conclusive here to even say it was the brakes. Hell, the guy could have fallen asleep; he could have swerved for a deer. There's just no way to establish cause with what we've got. I even talked to the uniform who took the call. Problem is it was two years ago, and he doesn't remember anything other than what's already here in the report.”

  “Great.” Eric ran a hand through his hair, frustration washing through him. “So all we can be certain of is that someone wants me out of the picture.”

  “Yeah. But what picture? It's not like you don't have enemies.”

  “No more than you.”

  “Yeah, but I'm not the one whose car is totalled.”

  Eric tipped back his head, rubbing his eyes. “What about the roses? Any luck with Molly?”

  Tony frowned. “Still haven't been able to run her to ground. I had a uniform check the Dumpsters at the magazine. He didn't find anything. No card. No roses. Just a few petals. Which, according to the building's cleaning crew, could have come from the floor around Sara's desk.”

  “So we've hit an impasse.”

  “Not entirely. I got Sara's phone records.” Tony walked back to the table, and picked up a printout. “I had them pull the calls on dates that correspond to Sara's caller. Since she noted the time on most of them, I've been able to pinpoint the calls. And there's an interesting correlation.” Tony handed him the report. “Tracking against her log, it looks like Sara received a call within a couple of hours of each Sinatra murder.”

  Eric frowned down at the sheet, as if by staring at it, he could negate the yellow markings. “Are there other calls as well?”

  “Yeah. But they all group around the murders, coming within a day or so of each killing and then disappearing until the process starts over again.”

  “Nothing before a murder, though. Everything is after the fact.” He looked up at Tony. “What about these numbers?” He pointed to the column that listed the caller's phone.

  “Cell phones for the most part. The kind with prepaid minutes. If you pay for them with cash, they're virtually untraceable.”

  “Wonderful. Disposable phones.”

  “Yeah, it's a great world we live in.” Tony straddled a chair. “There's a couple of pay phone calls, though. The one you traced to the bowling alley and one from a booth on East 12th. Interesting locations.” He blew out a breath, his expression darkening. “The bowling alley is two blocks from Allison Moore's house. And the booth on East 12th is within a block of the hotel where Lydia Wallace was killed.”

  Eric felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “And the timing?”

  “Dead-on.”

  “I wasn't expecting to see you this morning.” Ryan stopped in the doorway of the magazine's coffee room.

  “I'm going with Nate to interview Allison Moore's family. He wanted some pictures.” Sara shot him a smile, then turned back to stir cream into her coffee.

  “How's Eric?”

  Now there was the million-dollar question. Despite all that had happened between them, he'd been gone this morning when she woke up, the indentation on his pillow the only sign that he'd been there at all. That, and a carafe of hot coffee on the kitchen counter.

  A chivalrous notion, but she'd have rather had the man. Just the thought of him made her heart beat faster, her body tightening in anticipation, heat pooling between her legs.

  None of which she wanted to share with Ryan.

  “He's at work. At least I think so. He was gone when I woke up.”

  “Well, between the murders and his accident, he's got a lot on his mind.” He poured a cup of coffee
and sat down at the table opposite her. “And considering his profession, he's uniquely qualified to get answers.”

  “Yeah.” She sighed, sipping her coffee. “I just wished he would have stayed in bed another day.” With me. She didn't voice the rest of the thought, but based on Ryan's expression, she might as well have. Fortunately, he didn't comment.

  “Any news on what caused the accident?” he asked, his expression turning thoughtful.

  “Just that it had to do with the brakes. Something about hydraulics. The car was in surprisingly good shape, so hopefully they'll be able to find something concrete.”

  “Well, I'm just glad it wasn't any worse than it was.”

  “Me, too.” She smiled up at him. “I don't know what I would have done if it had happened again.”

  “You'd have gotten through it, just like you did before. And we'd have all been here to help you.” He reached over to squeeze her hand. “But it's a moot point. Eric is fine.”

  “Right.” She stood up, squaring her shoulders. “And right now, I've got a job to do.”

  “You may be doing it on your own. I haven't seen Nate all morning. We were supposed to go over some ad copy at eight, but he didn't show.”

  “That's not like him. Maybe he got caught in traffic or something. Or maybe he went straight to the Doubletree.” She turned her wrist so that she could see her watch. “We're due there in about twenty minutes.”

  “Maybe he just forgot the meeting. He was pretty upset last night. He'd heard about Eric, and wanted to go by and see you, but it was late and I suggested he wait.”

  “More reason for him to have gone without me. Did you try his cell phone?”

  “No answer. But I'll bet you're right. He's probably on his way to the hotel.”

  “Then I guess I'd best get going.” She rinsed her cup and put it on the drain board before heading for the door.

  “Sara,” Ryan called. “You're sure you're okay?”

  “I'm fine. More than fine, actually.” She smiled at Ryan, her thoughts turning back to Eric. “I'm great.”

  “Hey.” Nate rushed into the room, tie askew, hair going every which way. “I'm sorry I'm late. I overslept.”

  Sara reached out to pull a rose petal off of his jacket. “In a bed of roses?”

  Nate laughed. “No. That came from your desk. Remnants of yesterday's flowers. I was looking for you. Guess this little guy decided to come along for the ride.” He grabbed the petal and tossed it into the trash. “Sorry about the ad copy, Ryan. Can we do it this afternoon?”

  “No need. I handled it without you.” Ryan's tone was just this side of condemning and Nate's face fell, a flash of anger in his eyes.

  Sara placed a hand on Ryan's arm. “He said he was sorry.”

  “I know. I didn't mean to snap.” Ryan smiled at Nate, the gesture going a long way toward easing the tension that had suddenly filled the room. “We've all been a bit stressed of late.”

  “It's okay.” Nate shrugged. “I should have been here.”

  “No harm done.” Ryan patted his shoulder. “I'll look forward to seeing your story on Allison Moore.”

  “Which we won't have at all if we don't get going,” Sara said, keeping her voice light. If she hadn't known better, she'd have thought there was real animosity between Ryan and Nate, a veiled anger she'd never noticed before. But Ryan was right. They were stressed, and stress made everything look different.

  It also made people connect in ways they normally wouldn't. Which meant that the bond she felt with Eric could potentially be nothing more than illusion. The thought was disheartening.

  In a matter of days, he'd come to mean so much to her, and the thought that it might not last was simply more than she could bear. She shot a prayer heavenward, hoping that if God were listening, he'd hear her plea.

  She needed Eric D'Angelo in her life—more than she could possibly have imagined.

  “Jack hasn't exactly been a good boy.” Eric and Tony walked down the hall toward the interrogation room where Jack Weston waited. As he walked, Eric read Jack's sheet. “Juvenile priors for loitering, petty theft, and two counts of aggravated assault.”

  “Anything current?” Tony asked.

  Eric scanned the sheet. “An arrest for a bar brawl and another assault charge. This one a hooker.”

  Tony frowned. “Guy's obviously got a temper. But that doesn't necessarily make him a murderer.”

  “Yeah, but the pieces can be made to fit. He's a mechanic, so he sure as hell could have doctored my car. And we know he's got a thing for Sara.” The last pulled at him more than he cared to admit.

  “Which gives him motive. You're moving in on his territory and he decides to do something about it.” Tony shrugged. “And I suppose from that you could make a case that he felt the same way about Tom. But none of it means anything unless we find something tangible to back it up.” He stopped just outside the door, his expression grim. “Linking him to the Sinatra killer is going to be even harder. All we have is a series of phone calls with a pattern to suggest they might connect Sara to the murders. And except for Sara, we don't have anything that even hints at linking Jack to the killer.”

  “Except that he was conveniently on site when Sara was photographing Lydia Wallace, which means he was at least aware she existed.”

  “Still not enough to make a case.”

  “No. But maybe we can get Jack to help us.” Eric's smile held no humor. “We've established that he has a temper. So maybe we can leverage that into a confession.”

  Tony's smile didn't reach his eyes. “No time like the present.”

  Eric pushed open the door, his gaze colliding with Jack Weston's. There was anger there, and caution, but nothing that looked remotely unsettled. If the man had demons, they were tightly leashed.

  “So you want to tell me what this is all about?” Jack gripped the edge of the table, as if the physical action was all that was holding him together. “I don't appreciate being hauled down here in the middle of a workday.”

  Tony crossed the room to sit at the table opposite Jack. Eric walked over to the barred window, leaning back against the sill. “We've come across some evidence that may link Sara's caller to the Sinatra killer.”

  Jack stood up, still gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles white. “So who the hell's watching out for Sara while we're having this little soirée?”

  “We've got that covered, Jack, so please sit back down.” Eric came over to perch on the end of the table. Jack complied, but from the look on his face, he wasn't thrilled with the idea.

  Tony sat back in his chair, elbows on the arms, fingers steepled. “According to your rap sheet, you have quite a history with assault.”

  “I've been in trouble a few times. I told you about my background.” His expression was wary, the obvious veteran of similar encounters.

  “You told us that you spent your time protecting Sara from the big bad wolf. Which makes you a regular Boy Scout.” Eric shrugged, deliberately keeping his posture relaxed. “But that's a far cry from what's here in your file.”

  Jack shrugged. “Ancient history, and I fail to see the relevance.”

  Tony made a play of reading the file. “Aggravated assault against a social worker seems relevant, no matter how long ago it was.”

  “The social worker was the bitch who wouldn't believe Sara.” Jack met Tony's gaze without flinching. “I did what I did to protect her.”

  “Right.” Eric paused, watching Jack, trying to see behind the facade. “And I suppose Sara is also the reason why you were arrested for assaulting a prostitute last year.”

  “Hell, no. Sara had nothing to do with that.” Anger flared for a moment in his eyes. “I was drinking at a bar on the eastside, and a pro hit on me.”

  “So you beat her up.” Tony prodded.

  “No. Her pimp had that honor. Someone found her and called the police. If she'd ratted him out, she'd have been dead, so she fingered me instead. If you'd read the entire shee
t you'd know the charges were dropped.”

  “For lack of evidence. You and your mother get along?”

  Jack looked up startled. “My mother? What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Just curious.” Tony's smile was humorless. “Men who have issues with women often have troubled relationships with their mothers.”

  “And you think my issues manifested themselves in the brutal murders of four women? Jesus, Detective, do I look like a freak?”

  “From where I'm sitting you just look like a suspect.” Tony closed the folder and leaned forward.

  “Well, I didn't even know my mother. She died when I was born. So you'll have to bark up some other tree. I didn't kill anyone.” There was genuine revulsion in his voice. “And I'd never do anything that could hurt Sara. If you can't see that, then you haven't been paying attention.”

  “But you don't like the fact that she's starting a relationship with Detective D'Angelo.”

  Jack shot a look at Eric, then stared down at his hands. “I don't like it. I admit it. But not because I have anything to hide or because I want Sara for some personal reasons. I don't like it because he's a cop.”

  “You hate cops?”

  “No. I just hate the system. And I don't like the idea of Sara being jammed up in it again.”

  “I won't let anything happen to her.” The words were out before Eric could stop them. Clearly unprofessional— evidenced by Tony's look of surprise. He glanced over at the two-way mirror, hoping like hell that Brady wasn't on the other side.

  “You probably really believe that. But look at what happened yesterday. You scared her to death. I haven't seen her look like that since she lost Tom. And you know as well as I do that the odds are it'll just keep happening over and over until one day you don't come back. And where the hell does that leave Sara?”

  Their gazes met and held, Jack's daring him to deny the truth.

  “So you decided to fast-forward things a bit and take matters into your own hands?” Tony's question cut through the undercurrent, bringing them firmly back to the issue at hand.

  “Now you're accusing me of doing something to your car?” Jack's gaze was still locked on Eric.