“He found out that you knew about Martha, Christy, and Samantha through Dell’s article. I heard a report on the radio this morning about Rachel’s murder when I was driving in to work. But how did he know about Amy?”
“Jack and I went to see Amy Millhouse’s mother today and Jack escorted her brother from the airport to the police station. I suppose he could have been watching us.”
“Like Dell Farmer did,” she said, “except he’s all wrong for this.” The car pulled to the curb and slowed to a stop. “Why are you stopping here?”
“This is the Bolyards’ home. They may have been the last people to see Martha Brisbane alive, other than her killer. Come on, you can’t stay out here alone.”
“I have my headphones,” she said. “I can always put them on if you need privacy.”
“I may ask you to.” He put on his hat and for a minute she let herself stare. “What?”
“I like the hat,” she said, her voice husky. “I always have.”
He looked at her for a long moment, most of his face cast into shadow by his hat brim, but she could feel the heat of his gaze. “Let’s get this done. I’d like to spend some time with you tonight.” With that he came around to her side, opened her car door, and pulled her to her feet. Barely feeling the cold, she followed him up the Bolyards’ driveway, staying back a few steps when he rang the bell.
There was no answer, so he knocked on the door, hard.
“Maybe they went out?” Eve asked tentatively and he frowned.
“Maybe. But they were expecting us. The wife wanted to meet Jack,” he added bitterly. Eve ran her hand down his back, wishing she could comfort him. He straightened his shoulders. “I’m okay. I need to do this.”
“This” was his job, she knew. Finding, stopping a killer so that he could somehow balance the scales for his partner. He walked back to the driveway and peered into the windows cut high in the garage door.
“Come on,” he said, his voice now hard, and her stomach clenched.
“What?” she said, following him around the back of the house, through the snow.
“Both of their cars are parked inside the garage. They’re home.” They got to the back of the house and he held up his hand, palm out. “Stay here.”
She nodded, forcing herself to breathe as, gun drawn, he approached the kitchen door and exhaled a weary curse. She took a few steps forward and could see through the window. “Oh God,” she murmured.
Two people lay slumped over the kitchen table. There was a lot of blood. Noah pulled on the door and it opened. Eve didn’t move another step as he went into the house, checked for a pulse. Then he backed out, touching nothing else.
“They’re dead,” he said flatly. “Come on.”
Once again she followed him, this time back to the car where he grabbed the radio and called for backup. And CSU. And the ME.
Wearily he propped his elbows on the wheel and pressed his thumbs to his temples.
Eve ran her hand down his arm. “Who knew they’d seen Martha Brisbane?”
“My team, the person who took their call, and anyone else the couple might have told. They were so set on meeting Jack because of that damn article.” His mouth twisted. “Who knows who else they bragged to?”
“But that would only matter if the person they bragged to had something to hide.”
He looked at her, intense. “So either they knew the killer and didn’t know it…”
The dread in her gut matched that in his eyes. “Or you do,” she said.
Chapter Twenty
Wednesday, February 24, 9:30 p.m.
Webster was here, as was Eve, just as he’d known they’d be. This was the prime moment, when Webster was shocked by finding the bodies of the Bolyards and before everyone else showed up. If he could get Webster, Eve would be ripe for the picking.
But Webster had pulled his car ten feet too far. He lowered his gun, frustrated. He couldn’t get a straight shot and didn’t dare move closer. Ever the cop, Webster still had his own gun drawn and though it pained him to admit it, Webster was a better shot. If I miss, I’m dead. He didn’t plan to die. Not tonight anyway.
Phelps just might. It was the spark he’d been waiting for. The press would be all over the story and it would come out that Phelps felt guilt over the death of Rachel Ward. Rather than letting the press catch up, this was the perfect time to throw his final punch.
The Hat Squad would be defensive. They’d say they’d warned the Shadowland study participants of impending danger. That the women of the Twin Cities were safe.
Then by end of the day tomorrow another victim would be found, with no tie to the study, and the Hat Squad would be left with no clues, no defense. No plan.
The press would crucify them. It was perfect. They’d be publicly fumbling, humiliated. Justifying their incompetent investigation while juggling avoidance of any appearance of cover-up in the case of Jack Phelps.
They’d be thrashing about, trying to regain face, looking for suspects. He’d hoped Axel Girard would be good for more than a few days of confusion, but that was all right. The squeaky clean optometrist had never been his planned fall guy.
He’d sown the seeds for two new suspects, providing hours of enjoyment as the Hat Squad’s wheels continued to spin. He’d had the suspects in his plan from the start.
The first backup cruiser was stopping in front of the Bolyard house. Soon the place would be crawling with cops. He’d retreat for now, disappointed but undamaged.
Eve could no longer hurt him with her forays into Shadowland, but that no longer mattered. It no longer mattered how much aid she gave Webster, because the role of her study, and of Eve herself, were finished. He no longer needed to silence her.
Now he just wanted her. Partly for revenge, it was true. But it was more than that.
He’d been stunningly aroused watching Winters recall the moment he’d “killed” Eve Wilson, and how she’d fought for her life. I want that fight. That fear. I want the power of my hands around her throat. There was also the aspect of ego, he had to admit. Succeeding where a celebrated killer had failed would be so very satisfying.
He started his car, slipping quietly away into the night.
Well, that was interesting, Dell thought, watching through his camera zoom as the dark car drove away. Somebody hates Noah Webster as much as I do.
He was certain the man driving away didn’t know he’d been watched. If he had, he wouldn’t have aimed a gun at Webster’s car. Apparently, he hadn’t had a good angle or he’d gotten cold feet, because he’d left without firing a shot.
Dell noted the man’s plate and returned his attention to Webster, who sat in his vehicle, looking very sad. He should look sad. His partner had just been found in bed with his dead girlfriend. It would make beautiful headlines. More beautiful had Phelps’s “suicide” been successful, he thought bitterly. That Phelps had been discovered before he was fully dead was frustrating, to say the least.
That Dell hadn’t been the one to write the headline was frustrating as well. He could still be submitting stories as Buckland had his old man kept his damn mouth shut.
I didn’t do it. What bullshit. Harvey had threatened to tell, and he had. But when time came to pay the piper, Harvey had whined like a little girl.
V always said he would. V always said they could make him cry if the two of them had joined forces as kids. But I was always too scared. Tonight he had not been afraid at all. He’d been angry and justified.
But now Webster knows who I am. Webster had gone to Harvey’s house. They’d found the old man’s body. He’d heard the chatter on the scanner, the BOLO issued… for me. But they’d missed on his vehicle. They had him in a black Lincoln Navigator.