Frankly, he wasn’t sure what to do and he hated the feeling. Hated indecision. Hated insecurity. It made him weak. He hated being weak.
He’d hoped to draw her out, to get her talking about radio, and then he’d ask her about the experience she’d had on Thursday, about what she’d seen. About any leads the police had. He’d seen it on the news, he’d say. Just like half of Sacramento, because the videos of both of her interviews had gone viral. The radio station had chimed in, declaring their support for “Poppy Frederick” and their commitment to stop violence against women in the city.
So he’d had a lot of stuff he could have said to start the conversation. But not in the pet store. Not with her bodyguard hovering.
It was clear that the guy was a cop. It was like a blinking neon light over his head. He was the same guy who’d been with her the night before, when the reporter had caught her going into her house. Definitely a cop.
Bastard. He had that tall, dark, and mysterious thing going. And it totally worked for him. Women all over the store were purposely shopping the same aisle over and over just to get another look at him. Some of the men, too.
I just wanted him gone. Because he hovered over Daisy or Eleanor or Poppy—or whatever the hell her name was—like he owned her.
What he’d really wanted to know was how much she knew about the man who’d attacked her Thursday night. And about the dead hooker. Kaley Martell.
The woman in my fucking freezer.
Daisy had been so confident with that woman reporter yesterday. Confident enough that he was still rattled.
He glared at Mutt. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”
He couldn’t strap Daisy to the bed in his basement and kill her. Not now. Number one, he already had a woman there. But mostly because Daisy didn’t deserve it. It was a fine line, he knew, but he’d never killed anyone who hadn’t deserved it.
And now there’s no need. She hadn’t recognized him from Thursday. He now knew that for sure. If she had, he’d have been in cuffs before he could say a word.
“At least the nose worked,” he muttered, glancing up in the visor mirror at the prosthesis on his face. The only part of his face she might have recognized were his eyes and he hadn’t altered them. He wasn’t going to worry about Daisy Dawson right now.
His higher priority was to find out what was known about Kaley the hooker. He thought he’d been careful that night, but he had been distracted, edgy, the static in his head too loud. It was possible that someone had seen him talking to the hooker, guiding her to his car.
It’s possible that Daisy was talking about someone entirely different during that interview.
That’s very possible. He needed to know.
Bringing up a browser window in his phone, he typed: hooker baker disappeared from South Sac. Then pressed ENTER.
And . . . Fuck. There she was. He let out a breath as Kaley Martell’s face stared up from his phone’s screen. She’d gone missing Thursday night from Stockton Boulevard, the article stated. Her parents were insisting she was not a runaway, that she had a four-year-old daughter with a terminal illness.
God. He stared at that sentence until the words seemed seared into his retinas. Four-year-old daughter with a terminal illness. Terminal illness.
Way to go, asshole. Leaving some sick kid motherless.
This was why he never looked back. This was why he didn’t get to know his victims. This, right here.
He drew a breath and forced himself to keep reading. Police were “exploring all leads.” And there was a number for anyone who’d witnessed anything to report it to SacPD.
There were comments attached to the article. All sympathetic for the motherless child and her mother, who’d been trying to earn money for her daughter’s medical expenses.
God. What have I done?
A few commenters said that Kaley had gotten what had been coming to her, that she knew the risks when she took to walking the streets, but they were in the minority. There was, instead, a swell of public insistence that the police find the monster who had done this vile action, no matter what.
I have to do something. But what? He couldn’t un-kill Kaley Martell.
And what leads were the cops following? I need to know.
He needed to plan. He needed a clear head. What he needed was some time with Zandra, a.k.a. Miss Rude, who was, fortunately, still in his basement, and who, even more fortunately, he could kill.
And if she’s a single mother, too?
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to look to find out.
He glanced over at Mutt as he started the engine. “Let’s go home, boy. I’ve got things to do.” He was about to pull out of his parking place when Daisy Dawson walked out of the store with the cop.
He knew where they were going. As he’d been leaving the store, he’d overheard her say that Trish was supposed to come to the clinic and adopt a cat. The cop assured her they’d check on her friend when they were finished at the pet store.
At least they’d soon know that Trish had been the true target on Thursday night. And, if I’m lucky, Daisy will think she’s no longer in danger and the fucking cop will go away.
He’d go home now. Clear his mind with Zandra. And he’d figure out exactly how much trouble he was in with the hooker.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2:20 P.M.
Gideon frowned up at the apartment building in a very unsavory part of town. “Your friend lives here?”
Daisy shot him a reproachful look, complete with raised brows. “Not everyone can afford a house in Rocklin, Gideon. Trish can barely make ends meet with her waitressing job at the bar. She’s taking classes to be a dental assistant, but until she gets her diploma, money is tight.”
“I wasn’t suggesting she wasn’t a hard worker. I was suggesting that this is not the safest part of town.” His frown deepened when the building door opened without a key. “The lock is broken?”
“Has been since I’ve known her.”
He scowled. “Do you come here often?”
“No. She usually comes to my place. Irina has taken her under her wing, too. She’s shown Trish how to make birds’ milk cake.”
Gideon followed her up three flights of stairs, the stairwell murky because three of every four lightbulbs needed to be replaced. “Trish must have made a good impression, then. I’ve been asking Irina for that recipe since I was a teenager.”
Daisy knocked on the door. “Trish!” she called. “It’s me! Open up!” She looked over her shoulder at Gideon. “Irina mentioned that you’d asked about the recipe. She said if you’d have bothered to come to Sunday dinner, she’d have shown you, too.”
“That’s just some bullshit right there,” he said mildly. “She’s just mad I didn’t come so she could matchmake.”
Daisy smiled, her dimples appearing. “Are we going to tell her that we went on a date?”
He smiled back at her, unable to resist. “Eventually. She’ll be unbearable for a while afterward, telling us how right she was.”
Daisy held on to the smile for a few seconds longer before it dimmed, her mouth curving down in worry. “Trish? Open up! It’s me—Daisy! Are you okay?”
“She might be gone.”
“Maybe. I hope so.” She hesitated, then pulled a set of keys from a side pouch of Brutus’s bag. “I’m going to check on her.” From inside the bag, Brutus whimpered, and Daisy reached in to soothe her. And herself. “It’ll be okay. Please,” she whispered, “be okay. God, please don’t let her be drunk.”
Gideon turned on the flashlight app on his phone and handed it to her. “Shine it on the locks,” he said, taking the keys from her hand when her hand trembled too hard to fit the key in the lock. He made quick work of them, two deadbolts and the lock on the doorknob. About the level of security he’d require in this neighborhood, especially as the main door had a broken lock.
Looking up at him with open apprehension, Daisy knocked again. “Trish,” she called, opening the door a crack. “I’m coming in.”
She pushed the door open and flicked on the light. Then Brutus began barking. A split second before Daisy screamed.
“No. No. No, no, no.” She rushed into the room before Gideon could stop her, dropping to her knees next to a brunette who lay on the floor. Nude and covered in blood.
Fuck. Two attacks in as many days was no coincidence. “Daisy,” he barked. “Stop.”
Daisy’s hand froze in midair, her face alarmingly pale. Slowly she lowered her hand, clutching the edge of her bag with a white-knuckled grip. “Is she dead?” she whispered.
The woman was most certainly dead. She’d been stabbed multiple times. At least seven that he could see. There could be more under all the blood. Nonetheless, Gideon pulled a pair of disposable gloves from his pocket and dragged them on as he crouched by the woman’s side. “Call 911,” he said tersely.
“Is she dead?” Daisy repeated, her voice growing shrill.