CHAPTER 36

Monday, November 19

2:45 a.m.

Rick sat alone in the empty bar, his cell phone on the table beside him. Libby had left several minutes ago. They had finished closing, but Rick wasn’t ready to leave, not yet. He needed the quiet to think, to untangle his thoughts.

Too much had happened in the past twenty-four hours. His and Liz’s lovemaking. Val and Carla’s visit. The things they had told him. His visit with Daniel and the discovery that Tara ’s tattoo and the drawing in Pastor Rachel’s notes matched.

Mark a serial killer? The good-natured, conscientious Christian boy who never even took a drink? The young man he had not only trusted and relied on but had come to respect?

The seasoned guys in his squad in Miami had seen it all. They used to laugh that really bad shit was perpetrated by the ones you least suspected. The quiet ones. The handsome, smart or educated ones.

Not the penny-ante crimes. Not the everyday street crimes. But the really bad stuff. The serial killers. The drug lords. The high-tech, big-bucks operations.

Rick had seen their theory play out, time after time.

But Mark? Something, some instinct buried deep inside him, told him it wasn’t true.

Everything else told him it was.

That Val and Carla believed Liz was a target terrified him. He shifted his gaze to the cell phone. He wanted to call Liz. To hear her voice. To reassure himself she was all right.

So why didn’t he call? He’d gotten her number from information hours ago and had dialed it a dozen times. And had never pressed Send.

He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes. Why the hesitation? Why the knot in the pit of his gut? Guilt, he acknowledged. The feeling that he had betrayed Jill, their wedding vows.

Jill was dead. She had been gone for more than three years.

No, he admitted. She wasn’t gone. She lived in his heart. She always would.

A knot of emotion formed in his throat even as a feeling of peace moved over him. He bent his head, vision blurring.

I love you, Jilly. I always will.

Love you, too, babe. It’s okay to move on.

He didn’t believe in ghosts or the spirit world; he knew she hadn’t spoken to him. But he felt as if she had. He felt as if she were with him now.

Without examining that feeling further, he snatched up his phone and punched in Liz’s number.

It rang a half-dozen times, then her machine picked up. He listened to her message, heart beginning to thunder.

He racked his brain for an explanation. She was sleeping and hadn’t been able to get to the phone in time, he told himself.

She had a phone beside her bed. He had seen it.

“Liz, it’s Rick.” He heard the panic in his own voice and tried to temper it. “We need to talk. Call me right away, no matter the time.”

He left her his cell-phone number, then hung up.

She was fine. Sleeping. It was the middle of the night, the time when normal people were in bed. Rick stood and clipped his phone to his belt, then began the last tasks he needed to complete before he could go home.

Those done, he flipped off all but the bar’s safety lights, set the alarm and slipped out into the night. If she needed him, she knew how to reach him. He would head home and catch some much-needed shut-eye.

Rick ended up at Liz’s place instead. He pulled his Nighthawk up in front of her storefront apartment. He cut off the engine and gazed up at her windows. A single light glowed from somewhere deep inside the dwelling. The front window stood open-an invitation to every passing maniac to break in.

Or a way for one particular maniac to get in.

He swore, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong. That she was in immediate danger.

Calling himself the lunatic he would look like when he awakened her from a deep sleep, he swung off the motorcycle and strode to her door. He rang the bell, then pounded, fear becoming panic.

“Liz!” he shouted. “It’s Rick.”

Several seconds passed. Finally, the dead bolt slid back; the door cracked open.

Liz peeked around the door frame. Rick went weak with relief. “I was sick with worry. I called and you didn’t answer.”

A strange expression crossed her face. “I turned off the ringer.”

Of course, it was something simple. Logical.

He was a lunatic.

“We have to talk. Can I come in?”

She didn’t move. “Now’s not a great time.”

“It’s important.”

She hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “If it’s about what happened earlier-”

“It’s about Mark.”

Wordlessly, she swung the door wider.

Rick stepped into the foyer. She shut the door behind him, but didn’t lead him upstairs. She faced him, arms across her middle in an almost defensive stance.

Something had changed in the few hours since they parted. Something that had caused her to distance herself from him.

Thoughts of Val and Mark and Tara’s murder fled his mind. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked.

“Not at all.” She dragged a hand through her already tousled hair. “You said you had information about Mark.”

He ignored her pointed attempt to shift the conversation away from their relationship. “Would you have let me in if I said it was about what happened earlier?”

“I don’t expect anything from you, Rick. You don’t have to-”

“Dammit, Liz, maybe I expect something.”

She searched his gaze, expression altering subtly. “Oh. I…I don’t know what to say.”

He looked at the ceiling, frustrated by her response. After a moment, he met her eyes again. “Say anything, Liz. I’m dying here.”

A hint of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “All right. What do you expect…do you have any idea what that might be?”

“Not yet.” He closed the distance between them and cupped her face in his palms. “I like you, Liz. Being with you tonight…it wasn’t…I’ve been with women since Jill. But never in a meaningful way. It’s going to take me a little time to deal with this. Are you okay with that?”

“More than okay.”

He returned her smile, bent and pressed his mouth against hers in a quick, possessive kiss. When he released her, he saw that she looked dazed.

He liked that, he decided. He liked it a lot.

“Val and Carla paid me a visit at the bar tonight.”

She became instantly alert. “What did they want?”

“There’s a warrant out for Mark’s arrest. They think he killed Tara.”

“Same old song, Rick. They’re obviously desperate, trying to convince-”

“They believe he killed Naomi Pearson as well. They have evidence against him, Liz. Strong enough to issue a warrant.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“There’s more, Liz. They think you may be his next target.”

For the space of a heartbeat she didn’t even seem to breathe. Then she shook her head. “That’s crazy.”

“That’s what I told them. But-”

“But what, Rick?” She hugged herself, as if in protection against his words. “Why are you selling Mark out this way?”

“Just listen, please. I don’t want to believe he did it either, but I know enough about police work to understand that it takes real evidence to issue a warrant. The clock starts ticking the minute an arrest is made. The police have to be able to convince the D.A. that they’ll be able to prove guilt. And that’s tougher than you think.”

“Then why are the newspapers filled with stories about new evidence surfacing that exonerates some poor guy serving time for a crime he didn’t commit?”

“The system’s not perfect, Liz. Mistakes happen. They’re the exception, not the rule.”

“So what is this strong evidence?”

“They wouldn’t tell me.”

“Great.” She let out a long breath. “I’m tired. It’s been a long night. I think I’d like you to leave now.”

He ignored her. “Serials killers work in a couple different ways. Most begin their killing career with a person close to them, a neighbor, friend or co-worker, then they move on to strangers.”