Iris Johansen: Blind Alley

“Well, at least she didn't blame my steaks.” Joe handed her the cup and poured one for himself. “Did she settle down?”

“Yes, or pretended she did.” She sat down on the couch and glanced down at his notepad. “I gather you got through to Trevor?”

“Actually, he called me back before I started placing the call. He said he was an early riser and thought since I sounded so urgent that he'd take a chance on reaching me.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Not much. He said that they'd virtually come up with nothing in all these years. That they had no idea of the identity of the killer.”

“Then how did they track him here?”

“By following a trail of murders with the same MOs. He said he knew that killings like these were a compulsion that wouldn't stop and there were no more reports in the U.K. . . . So he started monitoring the killings in Europe and on this side of the Atlantic.”

“Then he has to know more than we do. Couldn't you get him to talk?”

“I did most of the talking. He zeroed in on Ruth and wouldn't let go. He was very interested in the fact that her fingerprints were obscured.”

“You told him about Jane?”

“No, I told him I wanted a complete report on all the victims sent to me immediately.”

“Good. When can we expect it?”

“One-thirty this afternoon. He's bringing it himself.”

“What?”

“He's catching the first flight from London. He wants to be here on the scene. He offered his assistance.”

“We don't need Scotland Yard.”

“But we may need Trevor.” He stared thoughtfully down into the coffee. “I caught something in his . . . I think this case may be an obsession with him. Sometimes it happens that way when you devote years to trying to find a killer.”

“‘Years' is the key word. Why hasn't Trevor found him before this? Before he came to the U.S.? Before he became a danger to Jane, dammit?”

“I'm sure you'll ask him,” Joe said. “As soon as he walks through that door.” He took a final swallow of coffee and set his cup down on the coffee table. “But in the meantime I'm going to take that reconstruction back to the precinct and see if we can find out who Ruth is and set the wheels in motion to track down who she might have been with in the days before her death.”

“It's nearly four in the morning, Joe.”

“I couldn't sleep.” He got to his feet. “I called and arranged for a police car to set up a stakeout to watch the cottage. They should be here soon.”

“Jane will wonder why they're here when she gets up.”

“Then you'll have to think of an explanation. Because they're staying here when I'm not around.”

“I'm not arguing. I want all the protection I can get for her.” She took her cup and Joe's to the sink. “It was just an observation. And I won't lie. She wouldn't forgive me for not being honest with her.” Her lips twisted ruefully. “And she'll probably think I'm stupid for being so terrified. She's braver than I am.”

“She only has different experiences.” He kissed her lightly on the lips and headed for the door. “No one has more guts than you do.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He glanced over his shoulder and saw her weary expression. He muttered a curse, turned on his heel and came back to her. He gave her a kiss that was definitely not light. It was hard and passionate and completely dizzying. She found her arms sliding around him, pulling him closer.

He lifted his head. “No one has more guts or endurance or beauty and don't you ever forget it.” He stepped back. “I'll try to get back in a few hours, but if I don't, I'll be here to lay this Scotland Yard whizbang at your feet this afternoon.”

“Okay,” she whispered. She didn't want him to go. She wanted to go to bed and forget Ruth and the danger to Jane and everything but the raw, wonderful sex that always bridged every abyss that threatened them.

“Me, too.” As usual, Joe had read her thoughts. He touched her lips with his forefinger. “Double. Say the word and I'll call the squad car and say I'm staying here for a few more hours. I probably won't be able to find out much at this hour anyway. I can leave at six.”

Her arms tightened around him. Joe . . . He was strength and life, and, Jesus, she needed him.

“Call them,” she whispered. “Six is soon enough.”

London

Trevor hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. “That was Quinn. I think he was impressed to find we start work early over here. I leave for Atlanta at nine.”

Bartlett smiled. “You said you'd get him. Do you want me to go with you?”

“Not now.” He got up and headed for the closet. “I'll call you if I need you. Dig out that file on Quinn and Eve Duncan for me while I pack. I've got to be prepared for them. I need to know them inside out.”

Bartlett had already retrieved the file and was glancing through it. “You may have a problem. They're both pretty complicated. Eve Duncan grew up in the slums with a drug addict for a mother. She had an illegitimate daughter as a teenager and it turned her life around. She went to college and worked at straightening out her mother. Her daughter, Bonnie, was taken and presumably killed by a serial killer when she was seven. The body was never found. It was thought that Bonnie was recovered a few years ago, but it was discovered later that it was another child.”

“And Quinn?”

“Born of privileged parents and was an FBI agent for a while before becoming a detective for the ATLPD. He owns a lake cottage and extensive acreage near Atlanta. That's where Quinn and Duncan live.” He glanced up at Trevor. “He's tough and smart and tenacious as a bulldog.”

“Weakness?”

“Eve Duncan. No doubt about it. He's been with her from the time of her daughter's death and he may have stayed in Atlanta instead of continuing with the FBI to be near her.”

“A button to push.”

“Not unless you want to set off a chain explosion.”

“Sometimes explosions are necessary.” Trevor smiled recklessly. “I'll risk it.”

“You always do.” Bartlett's smile faded. “They're tough. Both of them. Be careful that explosion doesn't take you out.”

Trevor snapped his suitcase shut. “Why, Bartlett, I believe you're worried about me.”

“Nonsense. I'm just too lazy to look for a new contact. Are you taking this file with you?”

“Not if you've covered the high points.” He set the suitcase on a chair. “I'll just glance at the MacGuire file while you go downstairs and hail me a taxi.”

“Again? You should have it memorized by now. There's not much there. Jane MacGuire's only seventeen, grew up in foster homes, and she's been with Duncan and Quinn since she was ten. She's an honor student and never been in trouble. But she's too young to have much experience or history.”

“I disagree. Look at her face. She's young, but there's a world of experience in that face. And he'll see it. It will draw him like a magnet.” He gazed down at the face of the girl staring boldly out of the photo. “The taxi, Bartlett.”

“Right away.”

Trevor barely heard the door close behind him. Excitement was soaring through him and he had to suppress it. He had to think coolly and clearly if he was to win this battle. And he would win it, dammit.

His finger delicately touched the cheek of the girl in the photo. She was close. Remarkably, marvelously, close.

“Close enough, Aldo?” he murmured. “Cira?”

THREE

Ruth really looked like me?” Jane gazed in disappointment at the empty pedestal. “I wish I could have seen the reconstruction before Joe whisked it away. May I go down to the precinct and take a—”