“You need some time on the range to requalify, Detective.”
“I put it right where I wanted it, believe me. If I’d killed you, we never could
have had this chance to chat.” She took a seat and gave him some silence in an
attempt to claim the meeting. Detective Rhymer had e-mailed Windsor’s file to her
and Nikki opened the printout she’d made downstairs at Hospital PD. “Our
detectives turned up some interesting things at your apartment.”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s start with the electronic box that alters voice pitch over the phone.”
Windsor scoffed. “I only use that to order pizzas. You’d be surprised how fast
they deliver when Darth Vader places the call.”
Nikki decided to ignore the glib distractions and continued. “In your desk they
found numerous files of clippings about me. Not just that cover story from last fall
’s magazine—heavily underlined and highlighted. Also articles about cases I’ve
worked over the past few years and photos of me—and not clipped. We checked your
camera. They were taken by you without my knowledge. Pictures of me in the
supermarket, pictures of me jogging, pictures of me taken through windows into my
apartment.”
“What can I say? I’m a fan.”
“Your computer history shows a ton of searches for me, for Rook, and others in my
life, including my parents, coworkers, even criminals I have arrested.”
“Detective, everybody clips articles and searches shit that interests them on their
computers. It’s not like I have this secret closet with your pictures plastered all
over it.”
“No, that would be nutty,” said Rook. Nikki flattened him with a glower, and he
stared at the floor.
When Heat turned back to Windsor, he said, “He doesn’t get it. Calling it nutty.”
“What do you call it?” she asked.
“Preparation.” He held her gaze a moment, letting that settle before he continued.
“I learned about you in his first article. You know, Crime Wave Meets Heat Wave? I
read it over and over and thought, This one… this detective… is different. A
challenge.” The words twisted Heat’s solar plexus as she recalled the other
detectives Windsor had engaged over the years. And killed. Now she was designated as
“this one.” He watched her from his pillow and must have known exactly what she
was processing because he said, “I decided last fall I would test myself with you,
but it wasn’t until I saw the online teases for Rook’s new article about you that
I said I’d better get moving.”
He stopped there, leaving Nikki time to reflect on a psychopath’s classic need to
share—or even claim—the limelight of his fixation. “Tell me what you mean by
that, to get moving.”
“I wanted to test you when the article came out. When you had everyone’s
attention. When there’d be heat around Nikki.” He grinned. “Tell me I don’t have
a poet’s touch.”
Heat’s temper sat one inch from breaking the surface, and she struggled not to lose
it with this guy. But her objective—even more immediate than building a case
against a serial killer—was only one thing: Nikki needed to learn whatever
information he had tortured out of Salena Kaye so she could stop the bioterror plot.
“Tell me about the conversation you had with the dead lady in the helicopter.”
“Now? I really wanted to see Ferguson’s monologue tonight.”
Letting her rage explode wouldn’t get her anywhere. She decided the time had come
to get under his skin for a change. And Heat believed she knew the soft spot where
the knife would go in.
As soon as Glen Windsor came on the radar as a suspect, she had unleashed Malcolm
and Reynolds to do a biographical search on him. Heat held the results in her lap.
She picked up the single page she hoped would tip the balance her way. “You like
being a locksmith, Glen?”