“I’ve taken a few classes there,” Joan said, “but not in a long time. Why?”

“Mr. Girard?” Noah asked.

“I’ve driven past Marshall, but I’ve never been on the campus. Why?”

“We need to talk about tonight,” Noah said, easing the subject away.

Axel’s eyes narrowed. “What about tonight?”

“We’d like to maintain surveillance over you during the night. It would be,” Noah rushed to add when Joan opened her mouth indignantly, “the best alibi you could hope to get. Last night we had an unmarked car watching your house. We’d like to put those detectives in the house with you tonight, watching all your doors from the inside.”

“You want to put policemen in our house?” Joan asked, her teeth clenched.

“Joan,” Axel said, sliding his hand across hers. “If it will put this behind us, let them. All right, Detectives. Anything else?”

“No, that’s all for now,” Noah said. “We’ll be in touch.” When he and Jack were back on the sidewalk, Noah sighed. “Somehow I knew there wouldn’t be an easy connection between Girard and our guy.”

“I know,” Jack said, unlocking his car. “Next stop, the airport?”

“Yep. Millhouse’s plane arrives in-” Noah’s cell buzzed. He frowned at the 708 area code. “Webster.”

“This is David Hunter.”

Noah’s frown deepened. Hunter’s voice was slightly slurred, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of fear. “What’s wrong?”

“I called 911 first, you second,” Hunter said thickly. “Someone just ran me off the road. I was headed west when a black SUV came up behind me. Lincoln Navigator, maybe two years old. It’ll have a broken front right headlight. I slowed down, thinking they wanted to pass, but they pushed me off the road when we got to a curve. I fli-lipped,” he stumbled over the word. “Dammit. Hurts like a bitch.”

“How badly are you hurt?” Noah asked tersely.

“Hit my head. Can’t get out of the car. Door’s stu… stuck.” He forced the word.

A chill raced down Noah’s spine. “You’re in Eve’s car.”

“Exactly. Find her.”

“I’ll make sure she’s in class, then I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

“Fine.” Hunter’s voice sounded thinner. “Damn, this hurts. I think my arm is broken.”

“Stay on the phone with my partner while I call her. Keep talking, Hunter.” Noah handed his cell to Jack. “Somebody ran Hunter off the road,” he said, fury roiling within him. “It was supposed to have been Eve.” Somebody tried to kill Eve. Buckland, or whoever he was. “Give me your phone. I need to find her.”

They switched phones and Noah dialed Eve, but her phone went to voicemail. If she was in class, she’d have turned her phone off. If she was hurt… “I need to get to Marshall,” he said to Jack. “I need to make sure she’s okay.”

Jack hesitated, then grasped Noah’s arm in a brief squeeze. “Try not to worry. I’ll call you when I’ve talked to Larry Millhouse.”

“Thanks.” Noah took his phone back and kept Hunter talking as he headed toward Marshall where he prayed Eve was where she said she’d be.

Chapter Seventeen

Wednesday, February 24, 3:10 p.m.

That’s him,” Eve said, looking at the police artist’s computer screen.

“I’ll get this out,” Olivia said, taking a copy of the assailant’s face from the printer.

“Your sketch made my job a lot easier,” the artist said. “It’ll give us an edge.”

“If Looey’s still alive.” Eve’s blood went cold whenever she thought about the look in his eyes as he’d come across the bar. It could have been me.

Officer Michaels had found blood in the real Kurt Buckland’s apartment. He’d called it in as a possible homicide and Olivia had picked it up.

Olivia’s partner Kane was taking Rachel Ward’s picture to the late-closing area bars alone. While Eve knew the murder investigation should be the highest priority, she couldn’t help but feel relieved that Olivia was handling Kurt Buckland’s case.

“Eve.” Olivia walked across the bullpen with an ashen older man. “This is Jim Rosen, Kurt Buckland’s boss. Come on, let’s have a seat in here where we can talk.”

“I’m so sorry,” Rosen said. “The paper had no knowledge of this man’s actions.”

“You printed his story about Martha’s suicide on Monday,” Eve said. “Why?”

“Kurt called me on Sunday. Said he was following up on a tip, that there was a large police presence at the home of a woman who’d hung herself and that one of her neighbors, a Sarah Dwyer, said the police indicated it had been more than a suicide.”

That had been the article that had first pushed her across Noah’s path. “But you only printed that it was a suicide, and back in the Metro section.”

“Kurt’s Metro editor and I agreed that without formal police corroboration we’d print it as a suicide. Then Monday, Captain Abbott gave a statement that Martha Brisbane had been murdered. By then Kurt had sent me emails saying he had proof on two other victims, Samantha Altman and Christy Lewis, statements from their parents saying the police had spoken with them. I’ve known Kurt for years and I trust him. I ran the story.”

“Did he bring the story to you personally?” Olivia asked.

“No. He emailed it as an attachment. But like I said, I’ve known Kurt for years.”

“Did you talk to him after Sunday about the Brisbane murder?” Olivia asked.

“No. I thought he was sitting at his desk in Metro. His Metro editor thought he was with me. I can’t believe this.” He looked genuinely devastated. “Is Kurt dead?”

“We’re investigating,” was all Olivia would say. “Have you seen this man?” She showed him a copy of the man Eve had described to a sketch artist.

Eve’s cell vibrated in her pocket, but she ignored it, waiting for Jim Rosen’s answer.

“I don’t think so,” he finally said. “I’m sorry.”

“If he contacts you again,” Olivia said, “play along. Then call me, right away.”

“I will.” He rose and gave Eve a pained look. “I understand this man hurt you last night. The Kurt Buckland I know never would have hurt a fly. He didn’t have an aggressive nature. We certainly don’t condone tactics of that kind for any reason.”

“Thank you,” Eve said. “I hope Mr. Buckland is found, safe.”

Rosen nodded stiffly. “If you’d like, we’ll put that sketch on the front page.”

“Let’s keep it quiet for now,” Olivia said. “If he knows we’re on to him, he’ll bolt. If he thinks we still believe he’s Buckland, he’ll get bolder. If I hear anything, I’ll call you.”

When he was gone, Eve searched her face. “Buckland is dead, isn’t he?”

“Based on the amount of blood we found in his apartment? Yeah.”

Eve shuddered. “I didn’t feel scared last night at Sal’s. Not with so many cops around. But I feel scared now.”

“Good. You should feel scared. I don’t want you going anywhere alone, okay? I don’t care how much of a pain in the butt it is.”

“I’m not arguing with you. Did you get any usable prints from his business card?”

“Not yet. I asked Micki to send somebody from Latent to Sal’s to dust the bar. If he touched it, maybe we’ll get something from there.”

“I polished it last night, like I do every night. I doubt you’ll get anything.” Eve stiffened when her cell vibrated again. She pulled it from her pocket. “It’s Noah.”

“Take it,” Olivia ordered.

“Hey,” Eve said, injecting a bright note in her voice. “I’m fine.” Then everything inside her went cold once more as she listened. David. “Where did they take him?”

“Northwest General,” he said. “I talked to the paramedics who responded. They say he’s stable, he just took a hard hit to the head. Eve, he was driving your car.”

Eve sucked in a breath and seemed incapable of forcing it back out. Breathe. “I know. I’m here with Olivia at the station. They think the real Kurt Buckland is dead. They found blood in his living room. A lot of blood.” Her voice was shaking and she couldn’t make it stop. “Noah, he killed Buckland. He just tried to kill me, too.”