“Pastor Tim had it.” She drew in a deep breath. “I found it on the floor of his bedroom closet.”

“The floor of his…what were you…” His voice trailed off, realization dawning. “You broke into the parsonage?”

“Yes.” She tipped up her chin, expression defiant. “The parsonage was Rachel’s home, most probably the place she spent her last hours. I just had to see for myself that she-”

“Was really gone?”

She flushed. “I knew she wasn’t there, but I…I had to see for myself.”

Rick passed a hand over his face, recalling what Val had said about Liz. “She has issues, my friend. Serious emotional issues. That she’s not playing with a full deck right now makes her a little scary.”

“Why didn’t you just explain to Tim who you were and why you wanted to look around? That would seem the most rational approach.”

“I felt like he was lying to me. That he knew more about my sister than he was saying. There was something about his demeanor…something about him that wasn’t adding up. I had to do it, Rick. And just as I’d thought I would, I found something.”

Rick acknowledged that he wanted to believe her. On some emotional level he did. Her answers made sense, even when they shouldn’t.

“Desperate people do desperate things. They lie. They manufacture evidence. And they can be pretty goddamned convincing.”

“Rachel could have taken the ring off.”

“She never took it off.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But I knew Rachel.”

“It could have slipped off one day while she was dressing. By the time she realized it was gone, she wouldn’t have had a clue where she had lost it.”

Liz met his gaze. “Or, Tim Collins is the killer and the ring’s a trophy. I read that serial killers do that, take some memento of each victim. Often a piece of jewelry.”

“Dammit, Liz! Slow down.”

“He lived in Miami during the time Gavin Taft was butchering those women. He’s the right age, he had my sister’s ring. Things he said are questionable. He’s the one who called the police about Stephen.”

Rick swung away from her and strode to the windows. He inched up one of the slats and peered out at the street. The typical Monday crowd made their way along Duval. Every night was party night in paradise.

He frowned. Why did she make so much sense? Everything she proposed was the stuff of blockbuster fiction, far from the open-and-shut reality of most murder investigations.

And entirely too possible.

Sometimes, fact proved more far out than fiction.

He turned to face her, resigned. “And how does the Horned Flower fit in?”

“Pastor Tim is one of them. Maybe the leader. Who better to attract young and impressionable people? Who better to woo adults in search of life’s meaning? A former football star, a big, handsome charismatic man. And from a church pulpit, no less.”

Motive. Means. Opportunity. Son-of-a-bitch. “And why did they leave the rat?”

“As a warning. If I don’t cease and desist, I’m going to end up like that rodent.”

“A gruesome thought,” he muttered.

“It doesn’t make my day, I’ll tell you that.”

The image of Tara filled his head, with it the stats associated with her murder. Throat slit. Postmortem mutilation of genitalia, torso and thighs. Abdomen split wide open; fetus taken.

He had to tell her.

“There’s something I haven’t shared with you. About Tara’s death.” He paused. “It’s really bad.”

She went stone still. “What is it?”

“The killer cut open her womb. And took the baby she was carrying.”

The blood drained from her face. She looked at him, expression anguished. “You don’t mean…took.”

“I do. The fetus…it wasn’t at the scene, Liz.”

She brought a hand to her mouth. He saw that it shook. “But why…I don’t understand…why would he do…”

Her words trailed off. He crossed to the couch and squatted in front of her. “Tomorrow, I take you to Miami. You catch a plane home to St. Louis. I sort this out and keep you apprised of the situation. Agreed?”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“I’m trying to play it smart. And keep you safe.”

“You’re starting to believe me, aren’t you?”

God help him, he was. He drew her up and into his arms. “Go back to St. Louis, Liz.”

“I can’t do that.” She tipped her face up to his. “I won’t let Rachel down again. And I won’t let Tara, Mark or their unborn baby down. You’ll just have to keep me safe right here on Key West.”

Rick thought of Jill. Of how it had felt to bury her. He bent and pressed his mouth to Liz’s. She melted against him, fingers curling into his pullover.

With a groan, he broke the kiss. “How early can you clear the sheets in the morning?”

“Pretty darn early when I’m motivated.”

He bent and rested his forehead against hers. “I worked with a guy on the Miami-Dade force…He was one of the lead detectives on the Taft investigation. He lived, ate and slept that case. Was obsessed with it. I think I’ll give him a call, see if I can pay him a visit, pick his brain a little.”

She wound her arms around his neck. “While you’re with him I’ll go to the library. Do a little research on Taft. I might find something everyone’s forgotten. Or overlooked.”

“Mmm.” He kissed her again, deeply, acknowledging that he didn’t want to stop. He did anyway, with a sound of regret. “And when we get back, I’m going to find out what Val has on Mark.”

“All this romantic talk. It could sweep a girl off her feet.”

He sobered. “I’m afraid for you to be alone, Liz.”

“Then don’t leave me.”

Rick searched her expression, an ache of arousal in his gut. It was an invitation, he knew. They were already lovers, it would be easy to be together. Easy to fall into her bed and arms and to forget, even if only for a time, that a murderer walked the streets of Key West, mutilating young women and taking unborn babies. That he might have chosen Liz to be his next victim.

But to be with her in the shadow of the day’s events felt wrong. As if the darkness around them might infect what was growing between them. He didn’t want that to happen.

He told her so.

Her expression became impossibly soft. She stood on tiptoe, cupped his face in her hands and kissed him softly. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll make up the couch.”

CHAPTER 42

Tuesday, November 20

3:00 p.m.

Rick hadn’t seen Bill Hunter-Wild Bill, they used to call him-since he quit the Miami force. The man hadn’t changed much-still chain-smoked, still called waitresses “honey” and still had the most direct gaze Rick had ever encountered.

“Thanks for taking the time to see me,” Rick said, speaking up to be heard above the din of the busy coffee shop.

“No problemo. How’ve you been?”

“Traded in my badge for a bar. Rick’s Island Hideaway.”

“Catchy name.”

“Thanks.” He smiled. “You ever come down to Key West, stop in. The drinks are on me.”

“Apparently, you’ve forgotten how much cops can drink.” The other man’s smile faded. “I heard what happened to your boy, Rick. I couldn’t be more sorry.”

Rick looked away, then back. “Thanks, Bill. I appreciate that.”

The waitress stopped by their table and refilled their coffee. Bill watched her walk away, then turned to Rick. “You say you’re looking into the Taft murders?”

“That’s right.”

“Seems you’ve got some kind of copycat operating down there.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Mind telling me why you’re so interested? You’re not a cop anymore.”

Rick hesitated, uncertain how to respond. He decided on the direct approach. “I’ve got a feeling about this case. The local boys are missing something important and…I don’t want anyone else to die.”

“Still the cocky cowboy, I see.”

“Yee-hah.” Rick leaned forward. “You worked on the investigation. I figured if anybody could offer insight into how that son-of-a-bitch thought, it’d be you.”