put his glasses back on his face and pushed them as far up his nose as they would go. His leg continued to keep time to some rhythm only he could sense. “I’m not at liberty to discuss—”
“Abigail had reported harassing phone calls to the police three days prior to her death,” Maggie broke in, recounting what she knew of the case. “The night of the murder, someone broke into her apartment. There was no sign of forced entry. She was quickly incapacitated by a blow to the head, then tied to her bed and stabbed repeatedly in an almost ritualistic fashion. You found no fingerprints, few fibers, and nothing that would let you point to a particular suspect with any certainty.”
James cleared his throat. “That was all in the papers,” he began, his manner still unfailingly polite.
“And here’s what wasn’t.” Moving quickly across the room, she sat on the edge of the chair across from him, the coffee table between them. “He used fishing line to tie her wrists and ankles. She was strangled, but that’s not what killed her. The cause of death was heavy blood loss due to several cuts on her abdomen arranged in a particular pattern resembling a grid.”
The detective’s leg stopped bouncing.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Maggie said. “He took something off her body—like a piece of jewelry or a scrap of clothing. It’s his trophy, Detective Brentwood. He’ll touch it and look at it and relive his crime over and over and over again. And when reliving it isn’t enough, he’ll find some other young woman and he’ll do the same thing all over again. Unless you’re there to stop him.”
Her macabre litany finished, Maggie sat back against the soft upholstery of the chair, feeling strangely tired. Ever since she’d read about Abigail Rhodes, she’d been so damn tired.
The detective stared at her for a long moment, then steepled his hands and brought them to his lips, resting his thumbs under his square chin.
“I told you she knew what she was talking about,” Adriana said behind him.
“Why is he so fixated on you? Will he come here?” the man finally said.
“Eventually,” Maggie replied. “He’ll kill me because he wants immortality.”
“Right,” James said. “Kill the woman who immortalized the Green River Killer, the Zodiac murders, Mohammed and Malvo, and you’d have yourself a hell of a biography.”
The three of them grew suddenly quiet, remaining motionless until Adriana started fishing inside her purse. The sound of crinkling wrappers broke the silence, and then Addy shoved a piece of gum in her mouth and began snapping away. She tossed the pack on the table. “Nerves,” she explained. “Help yourselves.”
James patted her knee gently and then turned his focus back to Maggie. “What about these letters and numbers?”
“I think he might be keeping score,” she replied. “Ten murders for him, no leads for me. In New Orleans, I was on the task force that was trying to catch him.”
“Hmmm.” Brentwood turned the note over. “And this?”
Taped to the back was a photo. Maggie stepped closer, too intrigued to be frightened yet by the picture she hadn’t known was there. She picked up the bag and examined its contents. The photo was severely out of focus; the only thing she could tell was that it was taken inside a room with generic beige walls, and the subject was a woman with curly black hair.
“Maggie?” Brentwood’s voice broke her concentration.
“Well, that’s new.” She licked her lips. “He’s definitely sending a message.” She put the note down and pulled the rubber band off the end of her braid, combing her fingers through her hair until her black curls cascaded freely over her shoulders. From the look on Brentwood’s face, it was clear he knew what she was going to say next. “I think that’s me.”
Brentwood narrowed his eyes and squinted at the photo. “You don’t recognize anything in the background, do you?”
She shook her head. “That beige wall could be anywhere. This house, my home in New Orleans, any one of the places I used to give lectures.” She gave him a small smile. “Unfortunately, I’ve always had huge hair, so I couldn’t even tell you when this was taken. Especially since the face is so out of focus.”
Brentwood continued asking questions, and she answered, doing her best to keep herself divorced from the reality that was coming out of her mouth. Finally, the questions stopped, and he simply looked at her, with Adriana cracking her gum on the couch next to him. Brentwood’s mouth flattened, and he clenched his jaw tightly. The man wouldn’t have made a very good poker player.
“You can’t do anything,” she said. “I know.”
He stood, played with his tie, though his eyes never left hers. If he had to leave her at the mercy of a madman, at least he’d be honest and forthright about it. “It could be a prank. A lot of kids in this area know about your…condition.”
The crazy woman on Mermaid Point. Oh, yeah, they knew all right. “Sure,” she said.
“Even if he were stalking you, serial killers normally don’t stray from their comfort zones. This would be highly unusual.”
“Right.” Her gaze traveled out the window, to the shadows between the trees across the street.
“We’ll check for fingerprints on the knife and the note. If it’s any of our known offenders—”
“You won’t find anything,” Maggie interrupted flatly. “He’s better than that.”
Adriana, who’d been listening carefully to the entire exchange, finally burst out, “James, can’t you do something? What if she’s really not safe?”
“I’ll arrange for extra patrols past your house.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, then pulled them out again. “I’m sorry, it’s all I can do at this point.”
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. How many people had been apologizing to her lately? Would they keep saying it, even if she were dead? “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his tan trenchcoat, looking a little as if he ought to be in a black-and-white noir film. “I’m listening, Maggie. Call me if you have anything else.” Then he turned to leave.
Maggie turned and walked into the kitchen, only half listening to Adriana argue with Brentwood as she went outside to see him to his car.
She traced her fingers around the smooth, cool lid of her blue sugar canister, the Firestar nestled inside once more, loaded and ready. There were other weapons hidden around the house—guns, knives, Mace. Would they be enough?
They had to be.
Last time around, she’d had the protection of the entire NOPD and a few FBI agents, and it hadn’t been enough. She’d had her gun, her martial arts training, her normally flawless intuition that had warned her of approaching danger countless times. None of it had kept her safe.
Now, she had what her former colleagues politely called “a psychological condition,” she jumped at mere shadows, and she had all the credibility of an alcoholic bag lady. Sure, her friends and family would be there for her if she asked,
