Sam turned back. “Jennifer will be here. She’ll want to talk to you.”

He looked past her out the window. “Yeah.”

Dark circles hung under his eyes. He seemed distracted.

“I need a drink,” he said. “You want one?”

“I’m fine. You’re not going to run off again, are you?”

He grinned. “Come on. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are. Hurry back.”

He opened the door to leave.

The beige phone on the nightstand rang shrilly. She glanced at the clock beside it—3 P.M. They had overstayed their checkout.

“Go ahead,” she told Kevin. “It’s probably the front desk.”

Kevin left and she picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Samantha.”

Slater! She whirled to the door. So Kevin couldn’tbe Slater! He’d been in the room when the killer had called.

“Kevin!” He was gone.

“Not Kevin. It’s your other lover, dear.”

How had Slater gotten their number? The only person who knew where they were was Jennifer. Jennifer . . .

“They want my voice, Samantha. I want to give them my voice.

Have you turned the cell phone back on, or are you still playing your idiotic cat-and-mouse game?”

“It’s on.”

The line clicked. Slater’s cell began to ring. She grabbed it and answered.

“There, that’s better, don’t you think? The game won’t last forever; we might as well make this more interesting.”

It was the first time she’d actually heard his voice. Low and gravelly.

“What good is a game that you can’t lose?” she asked. “It proves nothing.”

“Oh, but I can lose, Sam. The fact that I haven’t proves that I’m smarter than you.” Short heavy breath. “I came within a single pane of glass of killing you once. This time I won’t fail.”

The boy. She turned and sat on the bed. “So that was you.”

“Do you know why I wanted to kill you?”

“No.” Keep him talking. “Tell me.”

“Because all nice people deserve to die. Especially the pretty ones with bright blue eyes. I despise beauty almost as much as I despise nice little boys. I’m not sure who I hate more, you or that imbecile you call your lover.”

“You make me sick!” Samantha said. “You prey on innocence because you’re too stupid to realize it’s far more fascinating than evil.”

Silence. Only heavy breathing. She’d struck a nerve.

“Kevin confessed, as you demanded,” she said. “He told the whole world about that night. But you can’t live by your own rules, can you?”

“Yes, of course. The boy. Was that me? Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. Kevin still hasn’t confessed his sin. He hasn’t even hinted at it. The secret’s much too dark, even for him, I think.”

“What? Whatsin?”

He chuckled.

“The sin, Samantha. Thesin. Riddle time. What wants to be filled but will always be empty?I’ll give you a clue: It’s not your head. It has a number: 36933. You have ninety minutes before the fireworks begin. And please remember, no cops.”

“Why are you so afraid of the cops?”

“It’s not who I’m afraid of; it’s who I want to play with.” The line clicked.

He was gone.

Sam stood still, mind reeling. He’d called on the hotel room phone. Could he have tracked them down so quickly? Or the phone— could he have a way of tracking it once she turned it on? Unlikely. She paced to the end of the bed and back. Think, Sam! Think! Where was Kevin? They had to— “Sam?” Kevin’s muffled voice sounded beyond the door. He knocked.

She ran for the door. Opened it.

“He called,” she said.

“Slater?” His face went white.

“Yes.”

Kevin stepped in, can of 7UP in his hand. “What did he say?”

“Another riddle. What wants to be filled but will always be empty?With some numbers. 36933.” The most obvious solution had already run through her mind. She ran to the coffee table and grabbed the telephone book.

“Call Jennifer.”

“How much time?”

“Ninety minutes. Threes. This guy’s obsessed with threes and progressions of threes. Call her!”

Kevin set his drink down, jumped for the phone, and punched in her number. He relayed the information quickly.

“On the room phone,” he said.

“No, he called back on the cell,” Sam corrected him.

“He called back on the cell,” Kevin relayed.

Sam spread the phone directory map open and searched the streets. Thirty-third. A warehouse district.

“No cops. Remind her no cops. If she has any ideas, call, but keep the others out of it. He was very clear.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was the only answer that made immediate sense. But why would Slater choose such an obvious riddle?

She looked up at Kevin. “Tell Jennifer that I was wrong about Slater. You were in the room when Slater called.”

Kevin looked at her with a raised eyebrow, passed on the message, listened for a moment, and then addressed Sam. “She says she’s on her way. Don’t move.”

Only Jennifer could know specifically where they were. She would have picked up the caller ID when Sam called her on the room phone. How had Slater tracked them down so quickly?

Sam stepped forward and took the phone from Kevin. “Don’t bother coming, Jennifer. We’ll be gone. Work the riddle. I’ll call you as soon as we have something.”

“How will leaving help you? I want Kevin back in my sights where I can work with him. You hear me?”

“I hear you. We’re out of time now. Just work the riddle. I’ll call you.”

“Sam—”

She hung up. She had to think this through.

“Okay, Kevin. Here we go. Slater’s into threes; we know that. He’s also into progressions. Every target is larger than the one before. He gives you three minutes, then thirty minutes, then sixty minutes, and now ninety minutes. And he gives this number, 36933. The 369 follows the natural progression, but the 33 doesn’t. Unless they’re not part of the 369. I think we have an address: 369 Thirty-third Street. It’s in a warehouse district in Long Beach, about ten miles from here. What wants to be filled but will always be empty?A vacant warehouse.”

“That’s it?”

“Unless you can think of anything better. Opposites, remember? All of his riddles have been about opposites. Things that aren’t what they want or seem to be. Night and day. Buses that go around in circles. A warehouse that is designed to hold things but is empty.”

“Maybe.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds. They had no choice. She grabbed his hand.

“Come on, let’s go.”

17

THE WAREHOUSE IDENTIFIED AS 369 on Thirty-third Street stood among a dozen others in northern Long Beach, all constructed from the same corrugated tin, all two stories high, all addressed with the same large black numbers above the doors. Years of neglect had worn most of them down to a dull gray. The 369 was hardly more than a shadow. No sign identifying a business name. Looked vacant.

Kevin slowed the car and peered ahead at the looming structure. Dust blew across the sidewalk. A faded Mountain Dew bottle, the two-liter plastic variety, bumped up against a single-entry door to the right of the loading bay.

He stopped the car thirty yards from the corner and eased the gearshift into park. He could hear several sounds—the purring of the engine, the blower blasting air over their feet, the thumping in his chest. They all sounded too loud.

He glanced at Sam, who stared at the structure, searching.

“What now?”

He had to get the gun out of the trunk; that was what now. Not because he thought Slater would be here, but because he wasn’t going anywhere without his new purchase.

“Now we go in,” she said. “Unless the fire codes were nonexistent twenty years ago, the building will have a rear entrance.”

“You take the back,” Kevin said. “I’ll take the front.”

Sam’s right eyebrow lifted. “I think you should wait here.”

“No. I’m going in.”

“I really don’t think—”