She felt Griff tense as he took in the three blood-red roses that were a vivid splash of color in the otherwise drab room.
With a slow movement he laid his laptop on the chair near the door. Then, giving her shoulders a comforting squeeze, he lowered his arm and headed into the bathroom. He did a quick search before opening the closet to make sure no one was lurking inside.
Only then did he slowly approach the flowers. “Did anyone know you were staying here? Someone who might send you an early Christmas gift?”
Carmen wrapped her arms around her waist, giving a sharp shake of her head.
“No one.”
He sent her a brief glance. “Not even your publicist? The one who forwarded the pictures to you?”
Another shake of her head. “No one.”
He returned his attention to the flowers, leaning forward to read the card that was stuck on a plastic holder.
“Until we meet again. The Professor,” he read out loud.
Carmen hissed, feeling as if she’d just been hit with a sledgehammer.
“Oh my God,” she breathed.
“The Professor.” He turned his head, studying her horrified expression with a searching gaze. “That’s one of the killers you profiled in your book, isn’t it?”
She licked her lips, struggling to think through the instinctive fog of fear that clouded her mind.
“Yes. Dr. Franklin Hammel,” she said, her voice hoarse. “He’s the one your program helped to capture.”
“I wasn’t given any details about the case.” He studied her with a steady gaze. “The software was designed so any agency could put in data from a specific suspect and use it to predict their movements. Tell me about him.”
“He was an unemployed English professor who was obsessed with Edgar Allan Poe. He kidnapped coeds from college campuses in Baltimore and held them captive before he would dispose of their bodies with a copy of Poe’s ‘The Raven’ lying near the body.”
She grimaced, recalling the time spent with Hammel. Behind the protective glass that had separated them, he’d looked like a slug. A big, bulbous head that was shaved smooth. His long face, and the lanky body that’d been covered by a white T-shirt and white pants.
Unlike the other killers he hadn’t tried to manipulate her with sob stories of painful childhoods, or protests of innocence. The Professor had been an arrogant, self-absorbed psychopath who’d believed that his superior intelligence assured him the right to abuse women. They were, after all, lesser beings in his mind.
“Carmen?” Griff ’s soft voice penetrated the macabre memories.
She shivered. The room felt like an icebox. “When I interviewed him he told me that he was searching for his perfect muse,” she said. “No woman could give him the satisfaction he needed to create his masterpiece.”
His jaw tightened. “Where is he?”
“North Branch Correctional Institute, dying of prostate cancer,” she said. Hammel had already known he was sick when he’d agreed to speak with Carmen.
She assumed that’s why he’d been so candid during their interviews. It was his last gasp to obtain the fame that had eluded him in his literary endeavors.
Griff nodded. “So he’s probably not responsible for sending you flowers.”
“No.” Another shiver raced through her. “It has to be the copycat killer.”
His attention returned to the vase of flowers. “Why roses? Why not a copy of ‘The Raven’?”
Carmen considered for a long minute. Various possibilities shuffled through her mind before a sick dread twisted her stomach into a knot.
“He’s telling me he’s going to Baltimore,” she rasped.
Griff frowned. “How?”
“The Poe Toaster.”
“Toaster? Wait, I’ve heard about him,” Griff said. “It’s some mystery person who goes to Poe’s grave on his birthday, right?”
She nodded. “Yes, the person cloaks themselves in black and makes a toast at the original gravesite with a glass of Martell cognac, and then leaves the bottle along with three red roses.”
He immediately followed her train of thought. “The grave is in Baltimore?”
“Yes.”
Pulling out his phone, he moved around the vase in a semicircle, taking pictures of the flowers as well as the card from a dozen angles.
“I need to let Nikki know,” he said.
“Nikki?”
“Nikki Voros.” He turned the phone and tapped on the screen, sending the photos into cyberspace. “She’s my FBI contact.”
Carmen didn’t protest. He could contact all the FBI agents he wanted. Hell, she would be happy if he flashed the Bat-Signal.
They could use all the help they could get.
Waiting until he slid the phone back into his pocket, she glanced around the shabby space. A nasty chill inched down her spine.
“Do you think the killer was in this room?”
His eyes darkened, then without warning he was moving to grasp her hand.
“Let’s find out,” he said.
Carmen found herself tugged out of the hotel room and back into the frozen night air.
“Where are we going?” she demanded.
“To speak to the manager,” he said.
She scurried to keep up with his long strides, her gaze darting around the nearly empty parking lot. Was the killer somewhere out there watching them? Savoring the fear that he was creating?
Keeping close to Griff ’s side, she stepped into the office. She grunted at the suffocating temperature. Did the manager hope to convince any stray traveler that whatever the hotel might lack in elegance it made up for in sheer heat?
There was a loud creak as the reclining chair was pushed upright and a large male form wrestled its way out of the cushions to shuffle toward the counter.
The night manager was a man in his late fifties with a small fringe of gray hair and a large, soft body that moved at the pace of a drunken snail. His round face was wreathed in a welcoming expression, although there was a hint of pain in his pale eyes. As if the mere task of standing made his bones ache.
“Evening, folks,” he said in a hearty tone. “Can I get you a room?”
Carmen stepped forward. The room was in her name. Which meant she would have to take the lead in questioning the manager.
“Actually, I’m already a guest,” she said. “I’m Carmen Jacobs in room seven.”
“Oh, yes.” His gaze shifted to Griff. “And you, sir?”
He wrapped an arm around Carmen’s shoulders. “I’m with the lady.”
Despite her raw nerves, Carmen felt a blush stain her cheeks. Not at Griff ’s implication that they were lovers. But at the pleasure that the mere thought stirred deep inside her.
“I see.” The man heaved a disappointed sigh. “Is there something you need?”
“I want to know if you let anyone into my room,” she said. “I recently returned to discover that someone had left me roses.”
The man scowled before he gave a snap of his fingers.
“Oh, right,” he said. “There was a deliveryman who came about an hour ago. I tried to have him leave the flowers at the desk. I don’t like entering a guest’s room, but he insisted that the person who’d ordered them had been very specific that the flowers be given directly to you, Ms. Jacobs.” The man’s face twisted, as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. “The driver all but implied he thought we couldn’t be trusted to see that you received them.”
Carmen frowned. Had the killer masqueraded as the deliveryman?
Griff pulled out his phone. “Do you remember the name of the flower company?” he demanded.
“Yep.” The man began sorting through a messy stack of papers. “I made them leave a card in case something wasn’t right.”
He finally located a black business card that was embossed with gold lettering and handed it toward Carmen.
“I’ll check it out.” Griff reached out to pluck it out of her fingers. He was dialing the number as he paced away from the desk.
The manager cleared his throat. “Did I do something wrong?”
Carmen sent him a strained smile. “I’m just trying to find out who sent the flowers.”
The older man shrugged. “Some secret admirer, no doubt.”
Carmen’s mouth went dry. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Chapter Eight