case than his appearance any day. At this point in his career as a homicide detective, Jack had come to accept the fact that most days his appearance wasn’t much better than that of some of his victims.
Walker, on the other hand, appeared to be a man who put a high price on fashion and first impressions.
“We were out of cream, so I ran next door.” Abby’s voice filtered into the room several moments before she appeared. “I don’t know about you, but after last night, I’m not settling for black coffee.”
One of Robert’s pale brows arched in the moment before he shifted his attention to Abby.
“Robert.” She stuttered to a stop in the doorway. “I didn’t realize you were working today.”
“Just came in.” He smiled, tucking his newspaper under one arm to reach for the box of doughnuts Abby juggled along with two foam coffee cups.
“Thanks.”
An odd sensation rankled inside Jack’s gut as he watched Abby shift her load, transferring the box to Robert. Her features softened, her eyes brightened, and if he weren’t mistaken, she and Robert shared a lightningfast look reminiscent of the way Jack had seen lovers do.
Were Abby Conroy and Robert Walker more than business partners? Jack had seen no sign of that possibility at Abby’s apartment other than the occasional photograph. And she’d mentioned nothing of the sort, not that she would. The woman struck him as anything but someone who shared her thoughts easily. Ironic, considering she spent her days hoping the public would confess en masse.
“Something going on I should know about?” Robert asked, never taking his gaze from Abby.
She nodded, but it was Jack who spoke.
“There was another postcard in yesterday’s mail.”
Robert’s brows drew together as he frowned.
“I forgot to sort the cards.” Abby gave a quick shrug as she handed Jack his coffee then set her cup on the table. “I went by the post office box on my way in, but once I stumbled upon you and Detective Grant, I never took the mail out of my pocket. I remembered them last night after Dwayne left…”
Her voice trailed off noticeably toward the end of her sentence and Jack noted the angry look that flashed across Robert’s face.
Apparently Abby’s partner wasn’t a Dwayne fan, either, although he said nothing in response to Abby’s statement.
“Did you call the authorities?” Robert asked.
Jack nodded, pursing his lips. “I’m working with local police, keeping them abreast of any developments. And I dusted for prints myself.”
“And?” Robert’s features tensed.
“And they agree with me that as of right now we have nothing to go on except the fact both cards bore no useable prints and were prepared using materials that could have been acquired anywhere.”
“What about the photographs?” Robert asked.
“My thought—” Jack pulled the second postcard from his case file “—is that the photos used to make the postcards are scans of the originals.”
“And you’re some sort of photography expert?” Robert’s brows lifted toward his too-neat hairline.
Jack shook his head, not even trying to hide his amusement at Walker’s arrogance. “And you are?”
Walker shrugged. “I used to dabble. May I take a look?”
Jack handed the photo to Robert, studying the man as he stared intently at both sides of the card.
“I think you’re right. The quality isn’t that of a true photograph.”
“More like a high-quality personal printer.”
Robert nodded, continuing to scrutinize Emma’s photograph, his expression revealing not a clue as to what he was thinking. “Pretty girl.”
“She was.” Jack fought the urge to put his fist through a wall, something he had only done once in his life—the day Boone Shaw walked free.
“One of your victims?” Robert’s expression brightened.
“Yes.” Jack gave a sharp nod. “And she’s my sister.”
Robert let loose a long, low whistle. “My sympathies.” He turned over the card to reread the message, drawing in a sharp breath as if the words meant more now that he knew the victim was a relative. “When?”
“Same week as Melinda Simmons. Christmas week, eleven years ago.”
Robert handed the card back to Jack. “Why confess now? Why use our site?”
Jack tucked the card back into the file without looking at Emma’s full-of-life eyes captured in the photograph. How long had she lived after that moment? What hell had she suffered at the hands of her killer?
“I’d imagine he saw your People magazine feature and decided you were the surest means to an end.”
“An end?”
“His fifteen minutes of fame.” Jack gathered up his notes, tucking the folder and his papers back into his briefcase. “For some reason he’s decided now’s the time to get the credit he deserves.”
“I’m not following you.” Robert narrowed his eyes.
“You’d be surprised how many psychopaths reach a point where they want to be caught,” Jack replied.
A shadow crossed Robert’s face, an emotional response Jack couldn’t quite read.
“Isn’t that a bit clichÉd?” Robert asked.
“Perhaps.” Jack forced a polite smile. “But true. These killers work so hard not to get caught that there’s no notoriety for them. Sometimes they crack. They want the attention they feel they deserve.”
“The credit?” Robert repeated, as if weighing the word.
Jack nodded.
“Why now?”
“Maybe he’s sick or feels he’s running out of time. Maybe he feels threatened by a new killer. Maybe he’s simply bored with being anonymous.”
“Amazing.” Robert smiled, the move not reaching his unreadable eyes. “Good work, Detective.” Then he turned, heading toward the door. “Speaking of work, I’d better get to mine.”
With that, Robert was gone, leaving Jack and Abby to their roomful of postcards.
“Not a warm and fuzzy fellow?” Jack asked after Robert was out of earshot.
“He doesn’t like the cards.” Abby handed Jack a cup of coffee. “He probably broke into a cold sweat just being near this many.”
Jack
