Lorie O - Strong, Sleek and Sinful

Cameras that obviously Perry had noticed. She blew out a breath, wondering whether a shower would do her any good or if running soap over her body and touching herself would only increase the fire smoldering deep inside her that refused to go out.

She paused in her hallway, torn between showering and returning to the computer to work. “You know you want to shower for when he returns.” Which was argument enough not to shower. There was work to do, and she’d be damned if she wasted time primping for a man just because he created sensations inside her that she hadn’t felt in years, if ever.

Her computer chimed and she hurried into the computer room, sliding into her chair. PeteTakesU had answered her. She stared at the bold, black font, pursing her lips together while her heart started beating quickly.

I know who you are .

The thin-line cursor blinked eagerly in the response box while she focused on the words until her eyes burned. Blinking several times, she sucked in a breath. Her fingers posed over the keyboards. Her heart raced in her chest while adrenaline pumped through her and made her palms wet. This was what she did, what she was known for. Now was the time to narrow down her list of suspects, starting with PeteTakesU.

She needed the perfect, saucy, no-cares-in-the-world response. It was time to clear her head of everything in her world and think like a teenager. It was time to find out if PeteTakesU was her killer.

Who are you? she typed, and clicked “send.”

Pete Rubble .

As in the Flintstones? she typed.

You know old cartoons, too?

She smiled. “If you’re my guy, you’re quick.” Well, she was quick, too.

Kylie clicked on the large smiley-face emoticon and then clicked “send.” This was how it was done. This was how the perp snared his victims. Pick a comfortable topic, start chatting, and the unsuspecting victim would relax until she didn’t feel like she was talking to a stranger anymore. Kylie entered into the mind of her killer, thinking like he would, directing the conversation the way he would. She could make him relax and unsuspecting, too.

You are prettier than any girl in my school .

She stared at the next message, contemplating her best response so he would ask her to meet him. The sooner she knew whether he was a teenager or not, the better.

Thank you. What do you look like? She clicked “send” but then quickly typed: What school do you go to?

I’m not in Mission Hills . There was a brief pause and then the next message appeared in the box: Doesn’t it scare you that I know who you are?

He wanted her to ask how he knew who she was. She decided to take the bait. Give him what he wanted and get him to ask her to meet him. Teenage girls these days were forward. They knew what they wanted and didn’t hesitate. An image of Kathleen Long, her gray, dead body lying straight on the cold table at the morgue where Kylie had gone earlier, was the ruthless truth as to what happened to girls who thought they knew what they were doing and acted without parental consent. Kathleen Long had been forbidden to meet the boy she’d been talking to online. Kylie read the faxed report that had been typed up by Perry after he interviewed the parents before coming to see her. His report was inconclusive and he stated follow-ups were pending, which was probably where he headed after leaving her house, to interview Kathleen’s friends and learn more about who she went to meet.

Kylie typed and sent her next message, guessing that waiting a minute before sending it would feed her perp, if she was indeed talking to the killer, and make him believe she was wary. How do you know who I am?

I’ve been watching you .

Oh yeah? You don’t live here. LOL .

Is the green hybrid yours?

She frowned, her heart thumping hard in her chest while she fidgeted in her chair. He had been watching her.

He sent a large smiley face and then followed it with a kissing face. My grandmother lives in Mission Hills , he offered. When can I meet you?

“Bingo.” Kylie grabbed her earpiece to her cell phone and quickly scrolled to the saved number for the FBI field office. Listening to it ring, she decided to go for broke. “You’re going down, buddy,” she said, feeling the adrenaline charge to life inside her. Unfortunately, it accentuated the pulsing that still throbbed between her legs. She rubbed herself against the chair, which only made the craving worse, and posed her fingers, deciding on her response.

“FBI. How may I direct your call?” a man’s voice said in her ear.

I can probably get out tonight for a few, but I can’t leave town . She clicked “send” at the same time as she spoke. “Paul Hernandez, please,” she said.

“I’m sorry. He’s not in the office right now. Can someone else help you?”

“This is Special Agent Kylie Donovan.” She quickly rattled off her ID number. “It’s very important that I speak with him now.”

“I can have him call you.”

“That works.” She stared at the message that appeared in the box.

It will take me half an hour to get to the bowling-alley parking lot in Mission Hills. Be there and don’t be late .

“It’s imperative I speak to him right now. I’m going to need backup.”

“Roger that. Return the call to this number?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have a callback in five minutes.” The dispatcher said good-bye and the line went dead.

Kylie started to type: What car do you drive? PeteTakesU signed off before she could click “send.”

“Crap,” she hissed, her heart still thudding in her chest. She wiped her damp palms against her shirt that partially covered her thighs and then quickly saved the chat to her personal file, where she could access it later. Then jumping out of her chair, she hurried to change clothes.

Her cell rang as she was pulling jeans up her thighs. Fidgeting with the zipper and button, she pressed the button on her earpiece and answered on the third ring.

“This is Paul. What’s up?”

“We’ve got a meet.”

One of the worst parts of Perry’s job was talking to parents who’d lost a child. It was just as hard stopping in at the victim’s friends’ homes and interviewing terrified teenage girls while their parents paced nervously behind them. The circumstances around Kathleen Long’s death were heinous. He didn’t bother with e-mail, knowing there was no way he could focus on answering any of it, let alone standing on the delete button to get rid of junk mail. Instead, he went straight to his saved Web sites.

“Son of a bitch,” he hissed, staring at the Web site page he’d shown Rad last week. “It could be her.”

The young girl who pouted at the camera, her hands resting on her knees as she sat on a bare hardwood floor naked, looked a hell of a lot like Kathleen. He printed the page, slipped it into his file, and reached for his cell. Rad’s phone went straight to voice mail.

“Damn it.” Waiting until morning seemed an eternity. Every minute that ticked by could mean another teenage girl might be facing the same terrifying death Kathleen had endured.

Perry paced his den for a few minutes, realizing there wasn’t anything that linked Kathleen to the Peter girls. The Longs had told him they’d forbidden their daughter to meet a boy she’d been talking to online and wanted to meet. When their daughter disappeared, apparently leaving home without their consent, they’d immediately feared the worst. Perry hoped they would be willing to let him search Kathleen’s computer. If he confirmed Kathleen spoke with Peter and had snuck out to meet him, they would have a definite pattern. But Mr. Long had asked Perry to leave when Mrs. Long grew hysterical. They’d been through so much, and now Perry needed to push them to allow him to search into Kathleen’s personal life.