Cole and his death square into the present and punted pain deep into her soft green eyes.
“That just makes it easier for him.”
Luci nodded, a resignation. “Walk me through what he’s done.”
Dom didn’t like to see defeat weigh her down like this. She’d already suffered so much. He wanted to make this as easy for her as possible, but wasn’t sure how when she’d made it so clear there was no room for him in her life and never would be. He pushed the door on the passenger’s side open. This time, she let him. “Sit a spell, Luce.”
She hesitated, then climbed into the cab, folding her long legs as far away from him as she could. Her knees pressed close together. Her hands cupped the worn-down white ovals on the knees of her jeans. Her gaze centered on her lap, as if even looking at him was unbearable. How often had he dreamed of those legs, of that hair, of her? She smelled of peppermint and something else, rosemary, maybe. He forced himself to lean away into the window rather than forward to sniff at the intriguing scent and the complex knot of emotion she tied in him.
“I need to get back to my son soon. Just give me the Cliff’s Notes on this guy.” She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “You have half an hour.”
Chapter Three
Dom reached back and pulled an envelope from behind his seat. He shuffled photographs, then handed her the top picture. The air in the cab had grown unbearably warm. Luci dragged her sweaty palms over the thighs of her jeans before she accepted the first bit of concrete proof that Jill was in danger.
“The first victim was Katheryn Chamber, twenty-six, from Seattle, Washington,” Dom said, the rhythm of his voice soothing in spite of the harsh nature of his subject. “She was a dot-com millionaire, divorced with a seven-year-old son. Her blond husband went by the name of Wade Bilski and passed himself off as a U.S. Marshal. She met him on a day cruise to Canada and married him within a month. A month later, he left her with nothing, except her house and the stock that was in her son’s name.”
Dom plucked a second photograph from the pile and slid it across the seat. “The second victim was Sharlene Vardeman, twenty-nine, from San Diego, California. The bulk of her wealth came from the division of assets after her divorce from a Napa Valley winery heir. She also had a seven-year-old son. She met Wesley Ripp at a naval hospital charity function and married him within a few weeks. Her bald Navy SEAL left her before the end of the honeymoon. All she had left was her house, her son and whatever investments she’d had in her son’s name.”
A third photo arrived in her hands. She fumbled the pass with fingers that suddenly seemed too thick to move.
Dom cleared his throat. “Victim number three was Carissa Esslinger, twenty-seven, from Portland, Oregon. She inherited her wealth and managed to keep most of it after her divorce. She also had full custody of her seven-year-old son. Wayne Edgeman, her redheaded SWAT officer, pulled her out of her crushed car after a traffic accident while he was off-duty. Three weeks later, they were married. Five days later, he was gone and so were her savings and investments, except for those in her son’s name.”
Dom passed over a fourth picture. It weighed down her palm as if it were made of lead.
“Laynie McDaniels, twenty-nine, victim number four, had the misfortune to bump into Willis Morehouse at one of her parents’ parties,” Dom continued. “He was a visiting guest brought along by an invited guest. The border agent with his black hair and dark eyes swept her off her feet while they danced. The oil heiress gave him everything he wanted, except what was in her seven-year-old son’s name. When he left her, hours after their return from their honeymoon, she chased him down and ended up dead.”
Victim number five was Jill. And Luci already had a feeling where that story was heading. “Laynie McDaniels was the first woman to die after being scammed.”
“We’re floating around two theories about her death,” Dom said, all business, as if they were back in a briefing room. That’s what she’d wanted wasn’t it? To keep this whole situation on a professional level?
“One,” he continued, “is that she feared her parents’ reaction to the squandering of her wealth and she ended her life rather than deal with the shame. Because the medical examiner’s findings were inconclusive, the cops investigating the case felt the evidence pointed in that direction. The second theory is that she found her husband in the motel room where a maid discovered her hanging body and that he killed her.”
“You told me she was killed, so you’re siding with theory number two. Any evidence?”
Dom shook his head, his jaw tightening with frustration. “None that would impress a jury beyond a reasonable doubt. If Swanson was there that night, he did a good job cleaning up after himself.”
“What about forensics at the scene?”
“An empty bottle of water in the wastebasket with Laynie’s prints on it. At least a dozen unknown fingerprints. A common, everyday shirt button that could have belonged to any of the room’s previous occupants.”
“Who booked the room?” Luci asked, her mind trying to go back to a time when this kind of questioning was second nature.
“The registration was in another woman’s name. Paid in cash.”
“Could be anybody, then.” Luci scanned Laynie’s photograph. Laynie’s dark brown eyes sparkled with joy and kindness—like Jill’s. Luci bit the inside of her cheek pensively. She couldn’t say why, but she was sure Laynie wouldn’t have abandoned her son that way. Too cruel for such a soft woman. “Which brings me back to why did he kill her?”
“If we knew that, we’d be ahead of the game. Maybe she just couldn’t let go and he felt he had to take that drastic measure to cut her off and move on.”
Something didn’t sound right. Luci flicked her braid over her shoulder. “What if she saw something she wasn’t supposed to see? He took a different name with each woman. What if she’d discovered something about his next identity? What if that’s the reason she ended up dead? If she could tell police who he was going to be next, then he couldn’t afford to let her blab. What showed up between the time her husband disappeared and the time she was found?”
“She never woke up from her coma. We never got to talk to her personally. Everything in her file, we got secondhand from her mother and her friends. I’ll let you read the interviews.”
Aware of the heat discharging from Dom’s body, she studied Laynie once again, wishing the dead woman could speak. “Did anyone look into her phone records?”
“Of course, we traced them back. Cell and landline. All her calls were to her mother. None after her teary call, saying that Willis had disappeared. We looked at her credit card purchases and came up with a gas receipt. Nothing else.” Dom handed her four other photographs—men this time.
Luci lined up each “husband’s” photo in a row. Warren had managed to keep the photographer far enough away that details were hard to extrapolate. “There’s just enough difference to make you wonder if it’s the same person or someone he happens to resemble.”
Dom’s hand brushed hers as he pointed out the differences. The heat of his skin jolted through her.
“The hairstyles and color change,” Dom said. “So does the weight. These are things he can easily manipulate.”
