Maximum Security. Tracy Montoya
up and down like a sewing-machine needle. “You think he’s followed you from Louisiana to Monterey.” It was a statement, not a question, but she nodded anyway.
“I know how that sounds,” she said, handing the note back to him. It sounded crazy, that’s how it sounded. She knew it; he knew it.
James nodded grimly. “Serial killers don’t normally stalk across long distances. Especially not after a victim has gone into hiding.” His brow was furrowed in a look of concerned understanding laced with pity. He didn’t believe her.
“I’m no ordinary victim,” Maggie responded.
“You think he’s following you because of your books?” James asked.
Maggie had to admire the man. By now, most people would have passed into the “you flaming idiot” phase of the conversation. “In the criminal world, I’m something of a celebrity. You want to live forever? Just have Maggie Reyes write your story.” She got up and paced to the fireplace, focusing her attention on a photo of herself and her parents that rested on the mantle. She didn’t remember when it had been taken, but it must have been years ago; they were outdoors. Not to mention she hadn’t seen them for eighteen months.
“What you’re talking about is uncharted territory.” James said behind her. “According to the feds, the Surgeon is your basic organized lust killer. He’s smart enough to plan and cover his tracks, but he kills from compulsion.”
“No killer cannibalized his victims with the enthusiasm Jeffrey Dahmer had. No one put up a better guise of sanity than Ted Bundy. No one broke more of the profilers ‘rules’ than the DC snipers.” Maggie turned to face him. “They’re all uncharted territory, Detective Brentwood. And no one has ever tracked victims with the single-mindedness of the Surgeon.”
“So he’s communicating with you so you’ll write a book about him?”
Ah-ha. Now she was getting polite disbelief. Time to bring out the big guns. “The woman who was killed in Carmel—Abigail Rhodes. Did that look like an ordinary murder to you?”
Brentwood put his glasses back on his face and pushed them as far up his nose as they would go. His leg continued to keep time to some rhythm only he could sense. “I’m not at liberty to discuss—”
“Abigail had reported harassing phone calls to the police three days prior to her death,” Maggie broke in, recounting what she knew of the case. “The night of the murder, someone broke into her apartment. There was no sign of forced entry. She was quickly incapacitated by a blow to the head, then tied to her bed and stabbed repeatedly in an almost ritualistic fashion. You found no fingerprints, few fibers, and nothing that would let you point to a particular suspect with any certainty.”
James cleared his throat. “That was all in the papers,” he began, his manner still unfailingly polite.
“And here’s what wasn’t.” Moving quickly across the room, she sat on the edge of the chair across from him, the coffee table between them. “He used fishing line to tie her wrists and ankles. She was strangled, but that’s not what killed her. The cause of death was heavy blood loss due to several cuts on her abdomen arranged in a particular pattern resembling a grid.”
The detective’s leg stopped bouncing.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Maggie said. “He took something off her body—like a piece of jewelry or a scrap of clothing. It’s his trophy, Detective Brentwood. He’ll touch it and look at it and relive his crime over and over and over again. And when reliving it isn’t enough, he’ll find some other young woman and he’ll do the same thing all over again. Unless you’re there to stop him.”
Her macabre litany finished, Maggie sat back against the soft upholstery of the chair, feeling strangely tired. Ever since she’d read about Abigail Rhodes, she’d been so damn tired.
The detective stared at her for a long moment, then steepled his hands and brought them to his lips, resting his thumbs under his square chin.
“I told you she knew what she was talking about,” Adriana said behind him.
“Why is he so fixated on you? Will he come here?” the man finally said.
“Eventually,” Maggie replied. “He’ll kill me because he wants immortality.”
“Right,” James said. “Kill the woman who immortalized the Green River Killer, the Zodiac murders, Mohammed and Malvo, and you’d have yourself a hell of a biography.”
The three of them grew suddenly quiet, remaining motionless until Adriana started fishing inside her purse. The sound of crinkling wrappers broke the silence, and then Addy shoved a piece of gum in her mouth and began snapping away. She tossed the pack on the table. “Nerves,” she explained. “Help yourselves.”
James patted her knee gently and then turned his focus back to Maggie. “What about these letters and numbers?”
“I think he might be keeping score,” she replied. “Ten murders for him, no leads for me. In New Orleans, I was on the task force that was trying to catch him.”
“Hmmm.” Brentwood turned the note over. “And this?”
Taped to the back was a photo. Maggie stepped closer, too intrigued to be frightened yet by the picture she hadn’t known was there. She picked up the bag and examined its contents. The photo was severely out of focus; the only thing she could tell was that it was taken inside a room with generic beige walls, and the subject was a woman with curly black hair.
“Maggie?” Brentwood’s voice broke her concentration.
“Well, that’s new.” She licked her lips. “He’s definitely sending a message.” She put the note down and pulled the rubber band off the end of her braid, combing her fingers through her hair until her black curls cascaded freely over her shoulders. From the look on Brentwood’s face, it was clear he knew what she was going to say next. “I think that’s me.”
Brentwood narrowed his eyes and squinted at the photo. “You don’t recognize anything in the background, do you?”
She shook her head. “That beige wall could be anywhere. This house, my home in New Orleans, any one of the places I used to give lectures.” She gave him a small smile. “Unfortunately, I’ve always had huge hair, so I couldn’t even tell you when this was taken. Especially since the face is so out of focus.”
Brentwood continued asking questions, and she answered, doing her best to keep herself divorced from the reality that was coming out of her mouth. Finally, the questions stopped, and he simply looked at her, with Adriana cracking her gum on the couch next to him. Brentwood’s mouth flattened, and he clenched his jaw tightly. The man wouldn’t have made a very good poker player.
“You can’t do anything,” she said. “I know.”
He stood, played with his tie, though his eyes never left hers. If he had to leave her at the mercy of a madman, at least he’d be honest and forthright about it. “It could be a prank. A lot of kids in this area know about your…condition.”
The crazy woman on Mermaid Point. Oh, yeah, they knew all right. “Sure,” she said.
“Even if he were stalking you, serial killers normally don’t stray from their comfort zones. This would be highly unusual.”
“Right.” Her gaze traveled out the window, to the shadows between the trees across the street.
“We’ll check for fingerprints on the knife and the note. If it’s any of our known offenders—”
“You won’t find anything,” Maggie interrupted flatly. “He’s better than that.”
Adriana, who’d been listening carefully to the entire exchange, finally burst out, “James, can’t you do something? What if she’s really not safe?”
“I’ll arrange for extra patrols past your house.” He shoved his