Leslie Parrish - Pitch Black

Yet she lived as if she’d never had a date and didn’t much care. Which didn’t jibe with that Mrs. Dalton thing she’d carefully pointed out. Or the bare ring finger on her left hand.

Yeah, he’d looked.

All in all, the woman presented an interesting puzzle, one his brain was already trying to take apart and fit back together.

“Agent Lambert?”

“When is the last time you heard from him?”

She met his stare, and he could see the silent debate going on behind those dark eyes. He’d seen it before. Everyone in law enforcement had. Sometimes wanting to know the truth was outweighed by the desire to put off unhappy news for a while. When she shifted her gaze, choosing to delay the inevitable, Alec added another piece to the puzzle: She’d known loss.

She tapped the tip of her index finger on the top page. “This message. About a week and a half ago.”

Alec had memorized the victim’s final e-mail to Sam the Spaminator. “He asked about an e-mail offer a friend of his received?”

“Typical Nigerian four-one-nine scam. I wrote back and sent him links to tons of articles about it, including recent ones I’d written.”

The thing had landed in his own in-box dozens of times, so he knew exactly what she meant, but he let her expound.

“It’s amazing how many people still fall for this scheme. Losses in the hundreds of millions, all because Joe Naive thinks he’s going to get rich if he just puts out a little more money for bribes or taxes or legal fees or security. Until the money’s all gone and the ‘finance minister’ or ‘bank manager’ or ‘estate executor’ is gone with it.”

Her tone had gone from conversational to hard, verging on bitter. The tautness in her form told him even more about her-like exposing fraud online might be a personal crusade, rather than a professional one. She was emotionally affected by the issue, not a bit detached.

He had a feeling she was going to take Ryan Smith’s murder very hard.

“Did he forward you the actual e-mail?”

She shook her head, pushing back a few long strands of silky hair, which had escaped the ponytail. “No. He told me about it and I responded.” A tiny furrow appeared on her brow, and she added, “Oh, I just remembered: He also asked about certified checks. Whether the scheme ever included them.”

Alec leaned forward, leafing quickly through the copies of the e-mails. “Where?”

Frowning in concentration, she said, “It was… Wait, actually I think it was in an instant message.”

That surprised him. “Strangers can IM you?”

“He was a bright kid with a lot of potential, so when he figured out my ID, I was impressed enough to chat with him on occasion.”

The investigative team already had Ryan Smith’s computer and would find the history, but going to the source was quicker. “Can you tell me what you remember?”

As she closed her eyes to concentrate, Alec couldn’t help noticing the long sweep of the woman’s lashes brushing against her high cheekbones. He shifted in his chair, uncomfortably aware of his attraction to her. To a potential witness. Which was not only a no-no, but in his case, possibly a career killer.

Not that attraction had been the problem in Atlanta. Sympathy and misplaced trust had been his downfall there. But the lesson was the same: No mixing it up with witnesses. Emotionally or physically.

“I’d responded to his e-mail”-she glanced at the printed version, checking the time-“at around five. I told him it was a scam and I was shocked he didn’t know about it.” She nibbled her bottom lip. “I told him he wasn’t much of a fan if he hadn’t noticed I’d written a whole chapter about it in my book. Then I suggested he print out the articles I linked to, roll them up, and smack his buddy in the head with them for even considering going along.”

She managed a weak smile. Alec couldn’t bring himself to return it. Judging by what he knew of the boys, he suspected there was nothing Ryan wouldn’t have done to try to stop his friend. Yet, in the end, he’d gone with him to his death.

Tragic. So damned tragic.

“And the instant messages?”

“I had run down to the corner market, and didn’t log off. When I came back, I saw he had IM’d me a couple of times.”

“What did he say?”

“He was asking if any of these scams ever included getting a certified check, and if those checks could bounce. Which, of course, they can, if they’re faked. It’s happening all the time, especially to people who sell stuff on Craigslist and Internet auction sites. Or those who respond to ads for ‘mystery shoppers’ or work-at-home opportunities.”

Alec made a note to look into the certified-check angle. There’d been no mention of it in the crime scene report, or in any of the interviews with Jason’s or Ry an’s parents. He also wanted to know more about those work-at-home ads she’d mentioned, given the other murder five weeks ago.

“I tried to respond, but he was offline by then. It was the night of the big snowstorm, and my Internet connection went out, and I forgot about it.”

The night of the snowstorm. The night the boys had disappeared. Would they have gone through with the meeting, driven to their deaths, if the scam expert Ryan so trusted had personally warned him of the danger? From what the computer guys could tell, Ryan had not opened Samantha’s return e-mail. It had been hung up in one of those cyberspace black holes and hadn’t shown up in his e-mail account until the next morning.

But the IMs… If Samantha Dalton had been sitting at her desk to receive them and respond right away, how different might things be today?

She was definitely going to take the news of Ryan Smith’s murder very hard.

And though she was a perfect stranger, Alec already dreaded having to tell her.

They’d discovered the bodies right on schedule.

He’d been watching for the story on the news, knowing that as the weather warmed back up to above-normal temperatures, the chances of the car being spotted in the thawing pond would improve. And that once the car was found, the water would be searched for its occupants.

He laughed softly, wondering how the state police divers had enjoyed dipping beneath the frigid surface.

How had the boys looked after their winter dip? Had their toes snapped off like the tips of delicate icicles? Had their eyes become glittering glass marbles? Was the skin as fine as porcelain or veined like marble? Did their hair float about their heads before freezing, forming beautiful, crystallized halos of white?

He would have enjoyed seeing them. Two fools frozen in a pose of eternal stupidity.

“Not two fools,” he reminded himself. “Not the second boy.”

No, Jason’s unfortunate friend had exhibited a modicum of intelligence. But not enough to keep him from riding along to a cold and dark final destination.

“Ahh, well.” He shrugged off the unease. Because misplaced loyalty was nearly as damning as outright stupidity. The world had no place for it.

He studied the article on his computer screen for a moment longer, looking for nuances in the tone or quotes from the investigators that might hint at whether they had determined his involvement. The moment the FBI became part of the investigation, he’d know for sure, but there was no mention of that particular entity.

Not yet, anyway. But there would be. His last taunting message to the boys’ parents, sent after he’d seen the story on the Wilmington news station’s Web site, had ensured it.

Having studied every word of the article, and being unable to contact his latest project, the dull and unimaginative Wndygrl1, from here at work, he skipped over to another familiar site. The newest weekly “rant” column wouldn’t go up until late tomorrow night, and he would be alert and awake, hungering for her words, her thoughts, the entrée into her beautiful mind.