Brian Freeman - In the Dark aka The Watcher

“Shit,” Stride said. “I have to wash my face.”

“Is that what guys say when they have to take a leak?”

“No, we say we have to take a leak.”

“Do most guys wash their hands after?” Maggie asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yuck.”

Stride laughed. He left the interrogation room and covered his nose against the pungent aroma of puke. The hallways were empty. It was evening, and City Hall was mostly deserted. He found the frosted glass door that led to the men’s room, opened it with his shoulder, and started a stream of cold water running in the nearest sink on the long countertop. He bent over, splashed water on his face, and rubbed his skin hard. His fingers ran through his hair, leaving it wet and disheveled.

He smelled it before he saw it.

Blood.

His eyes were closed, and when he opened them, blinking, he saw the first toilet stall reflected in the mirror, its door ajar. Twin trails of fresh blood outlined the grout in the white floor tiles in ruby red squares. Stride ran for the stall and shoved the door open, where it bounced against the wall of the stall. Finn Mathisen was sprawled on the seat, his head lolling back, his mouth open and slack. His arms dangled uselessly at his sides, and a Swiss army knife lay on the floor where it had spilled from his hand.

The blood on the tiles dripped from two jagged, vertical gashes Finn had carved into the veins on both wrists.

Serena spotted Peter Stanhope in the corner of the main room at Black Woods. His table overlooked the calm lake waters through floor-to-ceiling windows. It was one o’clock, and the restaurant was crowded with the lunch rush. Peter drank a glass of red wine and checked e-mail on his BlackBerry with his other hand as she took a seat opposite him. She stared at his lower lip, which was swollen and purple.

He followed her gaze and shrugged. “Tish.”

“I heard.”

“It was my own fault,” Peter said. He used his fork to separate a flaky piece of white fish, which he chewed gingerly. “Even so, I never expected her to do something so crazy.”

“Not necessarily crazy,” Serena said.

Peter cocked his head with suspicion. “What do you mean by that?”

Serena said nothing. Peter thought about it, and then he glanced around the restaurant and lowered his voice. “This is about DNA? What the hell would Tish Verdure want with a sample of my DNA?”

“What do you think?”

Peter shook his head, as if scolding himself. “That was stupid of me. I didn’t know that Stride had any forensic evidence in Laura’s murder.”

“You mean you thought Ray Wallace made it all disappear?”

“I don’t like your tone, Serena. Not from someone who works for me. What sort of evidence do they have?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Peter frowned. “I could file a motion to stop the police from running any tests.”

“You could, but then it’s all out in the open. In the press. People will wonder what you’re trying to hide.”

“I already told you that I didn’t kill Laura.”

“Then you have nothing to fear.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

Serena waited. Peter waved the waitress away from the table. He scowled and leaned back, folding his arms. “What did George Bush say? When I was young and stupid, I was young and stupid.”

“You sent Laura those stalking letters,” Serena concluded. “Didn’t you?”

“Okay, yes. You’re right.”

“Why?”

“Why? I went out with Laura, and she shut me down. I thought she was playing games, stringing me along. I was pissed off. So I started sending her those notes. It was a joke.”

“I saw one of the notes. This was no joke.”

“Give me a break, I was seventeen years old.”

“Don’t make excuses, Peter. You were terrorizing this girl.”

“Call it whatever you want. I didn’t kill her.”

“This isn’t just about sending ugly letters, is it? Finn was telling the truth. You attacked Laura that night in the softball field.”

Peter met Serena’s eyes. “I didn’t attack her. I went back to the field that night to get my baseball bat. I bumped into Laura coming out of the woods. Yes, I tried to kiss her, and yes, I may have pushed things too far. I thought she was playing hard to get. That’s all it was.”

“It sounds like rape to me,” Serena told him.

“I am not a rapist.”

“Yeah, rich boys never are.”

Peter’s face screwed up in anger. “I could have lied to you, and I didn’t.”

“Really? What choice do you have? You’ve painted yourself into a corner. You already told the police that you and Laura were making out in the field. You admitted the two of you were together that night.”

“The smart thing for me would be to say nothing at all. That’s what the lawyer in me says I should do.”

“Well, you’ve already started talking, so keep going. What happened after you accosted Laura?”

“The black guy broke it up. Knocked me out cold.”

“What happened after you woke up?”

“Laura was gone. So was the black guy. I had a splitting headache. I went home.”

“What about your bat?”

“I forgot all about it.”

“Was it still in the field?”

“I have no idea if it was or wasn’t. I didn’t look around for it. I didn’t even think about the bat. I just wanted to get out of there.”

“What else can you tell me about that night?”

“That’s it.”

“You don’t know what happened to Laura?”

“I don’t. As far as I know, the black guy killed her. That’s what I’ve thought all these years.”

“Did you see Finn Mathisen that night?”

“No.”

Serena shook her head. “As a cop, I wouldn’t believe your story, Peter. You were stalking Laura. You were obsessed with her. You attacked her the night she was killed. And then you just walked away? And someone else went after her with your bat? You must think I’m a sucker.”

“Serena, I was no angel back then, but killing a girl? Not me.”

Serena got up from the table. “I think we’re done here.”

“That sounds like you’re walking away from me. From the job.”

“I am.”

Peter reached into his wallet and dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the table. “Let me walk you out. I have something in my car that may change your mind. Call it a token of good faith.”

“What is it?”

“I have to show you.”

Serena shrugged and acquiesced. The two of them left the restaurant. In the parking lot, he pointed at a black Lexus near the rear of the lot. “That’s me.”

He took her arm as they walked.

“I heard about Finn’s suicide attempt last week,” Peter said. “Is he going to make it?”

“Assuming he doesn’t try again.”

“Finn should be Stride’s prime suspect, not me,” Peter said. “He admitted being in the park that night and following Laura. Now he tries to kill himself when he’s questioned.”

“Finn’s a suspect, but you just put yourself back in the game because of those letters.”

“There’s no game. Legally I don’t have any concerns about what’s going on. Pat Burns knows that. I’m sure Stride knows it, too. There are chain of custody issues, evidence issues, witness issues. No one’s ever going to charge me with a crime.”

“So what do you need me for?” Serena asked.

“My public persona is important to me. If this gets out in the press, and if suspicion continues to swirl around me, it will be extremely unpleasant for me and my business.”

They arrived at his Lexus. Peter ran his hand over the smooth finish.

“I don’t know who killed Laura,” he continued, “but if the media and the police are going to sink their teeth into anyone, I want it to be Finn. I want you to dig up everything you can about him. Find out about his background. Prove he’s the kind of man who could kill a young girl. You’re a detective. Investigate the suspect.”