BEVERLY BARTON - The Watcher

“Why would he need only women in superb physical condition?” Griff turned partially around, lifted one leg over the other, positioning his right ankle over his left knee.

Nic rested her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. “Does he need them in great shape or does he want them in great shape?”

“Take your pick. Either or.”

“They’re all young, physically fit, and some are athletes. Their hair color varies, as does their physical description. Gala Ramirez was of Mexican descent, so she was different in that aspect.” Nic yawned. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

“It’s been a long day. Why don’t you just relax until dinner arrives, then take a shower and go to bed. We can start fresh in the morning.”

Nic shook her head and looked right at Griff. “I’m heading back to D.C. in the morning.”

He had figured as much. “You’ll be in charge of the bureau’s investigation, right?”

“Probably. Doug knows it’s what I want.”

“And if he thinks you’re in cahoots with me, he won’t give you the assignment.”

She lifted her head from the sofa and leaned toward him ever so slightly. “If the killer continues giving each of us clues, we’ll have no choice but to cooperate with each other, but for that reason only. You understand?”

“Oh, yeah, I understand.”

“So, while we’re together this evening, let’s not waste our time. Let’s discuss the clues. I assume your team has been searching for women named Debbie Glover, right? And maybe combining brain power to figure out what on earth rubies and lemon drops could mean.”

“There are countless Debbie Glovers, but Sanders is narrowing the search. Whether or not we can narrow it down enough to do any good before Wednesday morning is doubtful.”

“I’ve been going over various thoughts about rubies and lemon drops,” Nic said. “One is a precious gem and the other a candy. One is expensive, the other is cheap. You wear one and eat the other.”

“Our guy knows we’ll drive ourselves crazy trying to figure out the clues and in the meantime, he’s making plans to abduct his sixth victim.”

Griff’s cell phone rang.

Both of them froze instantly.

Griff retrieved his phone and checked the caller ID. “It’s not him.” He answered the call. “Yeah, what is it?”

“We’ve just come across some rather interesting information,” Sanders said. “Actually Maleah came up with the idea of cross-referencing all the Debbie Glovers on the original list with a list of female athletes from all sports, professional and college, in the past thirty years.”

“And?”

“And there was a Debbie Glover who played basketball for Boston College fifteen years ago. And another Debbie Glover who was a golf pro back in the eighties.”

“Are they the only two who are athletes?”

“As far as we know.”

“Both would be too old to be our victim, if our guy stays true to form,” Griff said. “But Debbie Glover’s sport—whichever Debbie Glover it is—could be the clue. The next victim might be a basketball player or a pro golfer.”

Nic and Greg had bought a home in Woodbridge, Virginia, shortly after they married. It had made sense for them to live within easy driving distance of their jobs. She had worked in D.C. and he’d worked in Alexandria. When Greg died, she had taken a month off, then went to her boss and asked for a transfer to another field office. Anywhere in the U.S., just as long as it was away from D.C., away from all the memories, both good and bad. She’d worked in two states during that time and wound up heading a task force on the Beauty Queen Killer case when the Special Agent in Charge, Curtis Jackson, had retired. But when that case, for all intents and purposes, had been solved, she’d decided it was time to go home. Back to the D.C. field office, with a territory that covered not only D.C. but also cities surrounding the capital. Arlington. Alexandria. Quantico.

Although she’d thought about selling the house in Woodbridge, she had, after letting it remain empty for over a year, put her furniture in storage and turned it over to a realtor to lease.

If she’d thought time and distance would erase the memories, would heal her broken heart, and appease her guilty conscience, she’d been wrong. Moving back into the home she and Greg had purchased, decorated together, and lived in for the three years of their marriage hadn’t been easy. But she liked her house, liked the neighborhood, and felt comfortable here. So what if from time to time, she felt Greg’s presence? If his spirit lingered here, perhaps simply in her memories, then it was a kind, gentle spirit.

Gregory Baxter had been a kind, gentle man.

Nic turned over in bed—a king-size bed that she had bought new when she moved back into the Woodbridge house last summer—and glanced at the alarm clock. Five ten. The alarm was set for five thirty. She tossed back the light covers, slid to the edge of the bed, and sat up. After shutting off the alarm, she stood, stretched, and headed for the closet. When she was at home, she walked every morning in her neighborhood and the one adjoining it. Two miles. And she worked out at the gym three days a week.

Once dressed and fully awake, she headed out the back door. It was barely daylight and already humid. She could feel the heavy moisture in the air. Early morning was the best time to walk, run, or jog in the summertime. In her twenties, she had jogged, but a knee injury had forced her to take her doctor’s advice and change to brisk walking. Better on the knee joints.

As she set her pace and headed up the street, her body went on automatic pilot. Her route never varied. Although she might speak to a fellow walker or jogger, she never lingered to talk to anyone and really didn’t know her neighbors beyond her own block.

For the past thirty-six hours, her thoughts had centered on one thing: somewhere out there a woman was going to be abducted this morning and there was nothing she could do to stop it from happening. It didn’t help that she and Griff had figured out three of the four clues. They knew that a blonde would be kidnapped this morning and in all likelihood she was either a basketball player or a golfer. How many women fit that description? Too many.

Nic rounded the corner of the second block, picking up speed, pushing herself, as her mind replayed the final clue. Rubies and lemon drops. She had driven herself crazy trying to figure out what the hell that meant. Griff had half his staff at Powell’s trying to come up with something.

Griff. She’d spoken to him once since they’d parted company early yesterday morning. He had called her shortly after eight last night. He was back at Griffin’s Rest and doing what she was doing—waiting for the inevitable. And hoping beyond hope that they could figure out who the next victim might be.

Before it was too late.

There would be no way to get Griff out of her life now. If the killer continued to phone them both with clues, they would have to compare notes on a regular basis. And, as Griff had told her, he would stay either one step ahead of or one step behind the authorities on every case.

She had talked to Doug again. “I think the killer wants me heading up this case. Why else would he choose a victim from Alexandria, in my territory? I think he picked me just like he picked his victims.”

“Isn’t that reason enough not to play along?” Doug had asked her.

“I have to do this. He knows that. Talk to Ace Warren. Persuade him to use his influence to see that I’m put in charge. Make us the office of origin on this case and the others the Auxiliary offices. After all, our killer is talking personally to me and not to any other agent.”