“No. Sinclair has tried to interview DuPree every day this week. He gets the same stonewall every time. No answer at the Metropolitan, no joy at DuPree’s office. Without sufficient evidence to suspect him, we can’t get a warrant to get any farther than the lobby of either place. Not even the FBI can get around that.”
Isabella flopped down on the couch, jamming a hand through her hair. Her tension had been steadily building all week, and as hard as intelligence was working, nothing was working.
She said, “We can’t get anywhere because DuPree has covered his tracks so well, and meanwhile, he’s got a bunch of women holed up in some shitty flophouse somewhere in North Point, having God-only-knows-what done to them by Franco and Rampage. We need a break, and we’re not getting anywhere by waiting.”
Realization flickered, chilling Kellan’s stare to an icy blue. “You’re not thinking of going down there instead of Sinclair.”
“Why not?” Okay, so she hadn’t meant to just pop off with the words, but come on. Nothing else was working.
Of course, she should’ve known the suggestion would bring Kellan’s defensive side out to play. “Ah, let’s see. Because DuPree is crazy.” He lifted a finger, keeping count. “He trashed your apartment and threatened you.” Another finger. Check. “And because Sinclair would never okay it, and you promised to work with the rest of your unit as a team.”
Isabella’s brain knew he had a point. But her gut? Not such an easy sell. “You’re exactly right. DuPree is crazy, which is why he needs to be stopped. Kellan, he killed Angel and Danny Marcus, and he’s doing despicable things to these other girls. So what if there’s a little risk involved in taking him down?”
Kellan didn’t budge. If anything, his expression only grew more fierce. “You confronting him isn’t a little risk.”
“I know,” she said, because in truth, she did. The full report from their profiler had sent chills down her spine, and that was just based on the abstract. Knowing DuPree, the reality was likely worse. “I’m just frustrated. I want to catch this guy.”
“I know you do, and you will.” Kellan slid over the couch cushions to press a kiss to her forehead.
“Easier said than done,” Isabella grumbled.
“Tell you what. Let’s have some dinner and I’ll help you go over the case files. Maybe you’ll catch something new by talking out the details.”
She exhaled, but gave up a nod. “Okay, yeah. It can’t hurt.”
“Great. Just let me call Devon and Kylie to check in, and by then dinner should be done.”
Kellan kissed her one more time before standing up to unearth his cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans and head toward the kitchen. The strains of his conversation with Kylie floated into the living room, so easygoing and relaxed that Isabella had to smile. Maybe Kellan was right. Maybe they’d get their break by looking at all the facts again.
But God, she’d already done that a thousand times. Today.
Her cell phone vibrated from her back pocket, sending a ribbon of hope uncurling through her belly. Capelli had been sifting through DuPree’s business transactions when she’d left the precinct. Maybe he’d gotten a hit on something.
Unknown caller.
The hairs on the back of Isabella’s neck stood on end as she stared at her cell phone. Trying—and failing—to steady her hands, she tapped the icon to take the call and lifted the phone to her ear.
“Moreno.”
“Hello, Detective. I hope you’re having a lovely evening so far.” DuPree’s melodic voice hit her with all the force of an anvil, and for a second, her answer wedged in her throat.
“Mr. DuPree,” she said, her thoughts going from zero to a million and sixty as she fast-tracked her way into her bedroom to grab a pen and a piece of paper. The phone company might be able to pull the call details later, but DuPree was slicker than snot. Who knew how long he’d stay on the line?
As if he could read her mind, he said, “I’ve been assured this line is secure. Try as you might, you won’t be able to trace this call.”
God damn that hacker! “What do you want?”
“To put it bluntly, I want you, Detective.”
Isabella’s palms went slick, but she channeled all her effort into calming her words despite the physiological response. “I’m at the Thirty-Third nearly every day, Mr. DuPree. You’re welcome to come in any time you’d like to chat.”
“You are tenacious, aren’t you?” His voice tightened, just slightly but it was enough. “I’ll admit to being rather disappointed to find out you’re a detective, Isabella.”
“Telling you last week would’ve spoiled the fun.” She trapped her tongue between her teeth, too late to pull back her emotions. Come on, girl. Breathe deep. “But we don’t have to let that stand in the way of us having a sit-down.”
“Full marks for effort, Detective. But I won’t be giving you the advantage of meeting you on your own ground. Come to my penthouse at the Metropolitan—alone, of course. Midnight tonight. I believe you remember the way.”