She nodded, forcing herself to breathe as, gun drawn, he approached the kitchen door and exhaled a weary curse. She took a few steps forward and could see through the window. “Oh God,” she murmured.

Two people lay slumped over the kitchen table. There was a lot of blood. Noah pulled on the door and it opened. Eve didn’t move another step as he went into the house, checked for a pulse. Then he backed out, touching nothing else.

“They’re dead,” he said flatly. “Come on.”

Once again she followed him, this time back to the car where he grabbed the radio and called for backup. And CSU. And the ME.

Wearily he propped his elbows on the wheel and pressed his thumbs to his temples.

Eve ran her hand down his arm. “Who knew they’d seen Martha Brisbane?”

“My team, the person who took their call, and anyone else the couple might have told. They were so set on meeting Jack because of that damn article.” His mouth twisted. “Who knows who else they bragged to?”

“But that would only matter if the person they bragged to had something to hide.”

He looked at her, intense. “So either they knew the killer and didn’t know it…”

The dread in her gut matched that in his eyes. “Or you do,” she said.

Chapter Twenty

Wednesday, February 24, 9:30 p.m.

Webster was here, as was Eve, just as he’d known they’d be. This was the prime moment, when Webster was shocked by finding the bodies of the Bolyards and before everyone else showed up. If he could get Webster, Eve would be ripe for the picking.

But Webster had pulled his car ten feet too far. He lowered his gun, frustrated. He couldn’t get a straight shot and didn’t dare move closer. Ever the cop, Webster still had his own gun drawn and though it pained him to admit it, Webster was a better shot. If I miss, I’m dead. He didn’t plan to die. Not tonight anyway.

Phelps just might. It was the spark he’d been waiting for. The press would be all over the story and it would come out that Phelps felt guilt over the death of Rachel Ward. Rather than letting the press catch up, this was the perfect time to throw his final punch.

The Hat Squad would be defensive. They’d say they’d warned the Shadowland study participants of impending danger. That the women of the Twin Cities were safe.

Then by end of the day tomorrow another victim would be found, with no tie to the study, and the Hat Squad would be left with no clues, no defense. No plan.

The press would crucify them. It was perfect. They’d be publicly fumbling, humiliated. Justifying their incompetent investigation while juggling avoidance of any appearance of cover-up in the case of Jack Phelps.

They’d be thrashing about, trying to regain face, looking for suspects. He’d hoped Axel Girard would be good for more than a few days of confusion, but that was all right. The squeaky clean optometrist had never been his planned fall guy.

He’d sown the seeds for two new suspects, providing hours of enjoyment as the Hat Squad’s wheels continued to spin. He’d had the suspects in his plan from the start.

The first backup cruiser was stopping in front of the Bolyard house. Soon the place would be crawling with cops. He’d retreat for now, disappointed but undamaged.

Eve could no longer hurt him with her forays into Shadowland, but that no longer mattered. It no longer mattered how much aid she gave Webster, because the role of her study, and of Eve herself, were finished. He no longer needed to silence her.

Now he just wanted her. Partly for revenge, it was true. But it was more than that.

He’d been stunningly aroused watching Winters recall the moment he’d “killed” Eve Wilson, and how she’d fought for her life. I want that fight. That fear. I want the power of my hands around her throat. There was also the aspect of ego, he had to admit. Succeeding where a celebrated killer had failed would be so very satisfying.

He started his car, slipping quietly away into the night.

Well, that was interesting, Dell thought, watching through his camera zoom as the dark car drove away. Somebody hates Noah Webster as much as I do.

He was certain the man driving away didn’t know he’d been watched. If he had, he wouldn’t have aimed a gun at Webster’s car. Apparently, he hadn’t had a good angle or he’d gotten cold feet, because he’d left without firing a shot.

Dell noted the man’s plate and returned his attention to Webster, who sat in his vehicle, looking very sad. He should look sad. His partner had just been found in bed with his dead girlfriend. It would make beautiful headlines. More beautiful had Phelps’s “suicide” been successful, he thought bitterly. That Phelps had been discovered before he was fully dead was frustrating, to say the least.

That Dell hadn’t been the one to write the headline was frustrating as well. He could still be submitting stories as Buckland had his old man kept his damn mouth shut.

I didn’t do it. What bullshit. Harvey had threatened to tell, and he had. But when time came to pay the piper, Harvey had whined like a little girl.

V always said he would. V always said they could make him cry if the two of them had joined forces as kids. But I was always too scared. Tonight he had not been afraid at all. He’d been angry and justified.

But now Webster knows who I am. Webster had gone to Harvey’s house. They’d found the old man’s body. He’d heard the chatter on the scanner, the BOLO issued… for me. But they’d missed on his vehicle. They had him in a black Lincoln Navigator.

Just like that gun-pointing guy was driving. Dell grinned as things fell into place. Unless Webster had three guys on his ass, the guy in the Navigator was the Red Dress Killer himself. Dell put down the camera and pulled out his BlackBerry, doing a reverse search on the Navigator’s plate. Then frowned at the name that popped up.

Donald Donner. Where had he seen that name before? Oh, yeah. That was the name he’d seen on the door behind that douche Jeremy Lyons’s desk at Marshall.

“I don’t think so, Dr. Donner,” he murmured. “I saw him first. He belongs to me.”

But first, headlines. He couldn’t write them, but he’d make damn sure someone else did. He dialed a number he’d found in Buckland’s contact list. “Hi. I have a tip for you…”

Wednesday, February 24, 9:55 p.m.

Eve was cold despite the car heater Noah had left running at full blast.

She’d seen four dead bodies tonight. She included Katie in that number, the sight of the body bag fresh in her mind. I saw her Sunday, called her a bimbo du jour. Eve wondered what Katie had done to warrant Dell’s wrath. Or if the man had simply lost it.

He killed his father. And tried to kill me. And David. She groaned. She needed to call David. He’d be worried sick. She dug her cell from her computer bag, wincing at all the calls she’d missed.

“I’m sorry,” she said before David could snarl. “I’ve been busy. This guy who hurt you-”

“I know. Olivia called me. She’s stepped up security here at the hospital.”

Eve’s blood ran colder. “She thinks he’ll come after you? He was trying for me.”

“She said she’s not taking any chances. Are you okay?”

“Physically, I’m fine. Emotionally… I’ve seen four bodies tonight.”

“Webster let you?” He sounded outraged.

“He won’t let me out of his sight. What he sees, I see.”

He grunted at that. “Tom told me you had a dinner thing. How did it go?”

Eve found the one side of her mouth lifting despite everything. “Not bad.”

“A glowing endorsement coming from you. I’m glad. You deserved it.”

“Get some sleep. I’m safe.” Hanging up, she reached into her bag for her laptop and her hand brushed the hard bulge in the zippered pocket. The image of Harvey Farmer flashed into her mind, dead on the floor of his living room, a hole in his chest. Dell was out there, somewhere. The gun she carried would do her little good in her computer bag unless she intended to hit him with it.