Sense of Evil - Kay Hooper [46]
This time, she was afraid of becoming the news.
“You shouldn't be out here,” one male citizen of the small town scolded her in front of the coffee shop when she attempted to interview him about his feelings.
“I'm not alone,” Dana said, gesturing toward Joey.
The man gave her cameraman the same scornful look Alan had offered the previous day. “Yeah, well, he might drop his camera on the killer's toe before he cuts and runs, but I wouldn't count on it if I were you.”
“I resent that,” Joey said sullenly.
They both ignored him.
“You should at least protect yourself,” the man told Dana earnestly. “The police department is offering pepper spray to any woman who asks. I got some for my wife. You need to go get some for yourself.”
“What about you?” Dana asked, making a mental note about the pepper spray. “Aren't you worried the killer might start going after men?”
He glanced from side to side warily, then opened his lightweight windbreaker to show her a pistol tucked into his belt. “I hope the bastard does come after me. I'm ready. A lot of us are ready.”
“Looks like,” she offered brightly, trying not to show him how much it frightened her to see guns in the hands of people other than the police. Especially angry and very nervous people. “Thank you very much, sir.”
“No problem. And you watch it, you hear? Stay off the streets as much as you can.”
“Yes. I will.” She watched him walk away, then stood gazing around at Main Street, where there was less than normal activity for a lovely Saturday morning in June. And where there were far too many men just like the one she'd interviewed, walking around with windbreakers half-zipped and wary, watchful expressions on their faces.
“Can we go now?” Joey whined.
“I wish we could,” Dana said, half-consciously reaching up to touch her hair. “I really wish we could. Hey—have you seen Cheryl?”
“Nah. Saw their van parked near the town hall this morning. Why?”
Dana bit her lip, hesitated, then said, “Let's head back toward the town hall.”
“Ah, jeez.”
“You're getting paid,” she reminded her cameraman.
“Not enough,” he muttered, following behind her.
“It could be a lot worse,” she told him irritably. “You could be a blond woman. The way I hear it, the surgeon wouldn't have to cut off much to make that happen.”
“Bitch,” he grunted under his breath.
“I heard that.”
He gave her the finger silently, reasonably sure she didn't have eyes in the back of her head.
“And I saw that,” she said.
“Shit.”
Inside the large storage closet of Jamie's playroom was, neatly arranged on shelves and hanging on hooks, all the paraphernalia necessary for sadomasochistic games. Whips, masks, padded and unpadded handcuffs, an extremely varied selection of dildos and vibrators, ropes, chains, and a number of unidentifiable objects, some quite elaborate.
Also a tasteful selection of leather bustiers, garters, and stockings, including, seemingly, the outfits Jamie and her partner had worn in the photographs.
“I'm no expert,” Hollis said, “but I'm thinking at least a few of those gadgets are meant to be used on a man.”
Rafe could see the ones she meant. “I'd say so. And given that, it's beginning to look more and more like Jamie was . . . an equal-opportunity mistress. She may not have enjoyed sex with men, but it looks like she enjoyed dominating them.”
“Men and women,” Hollis said. “She really did want to be boss, didn't she? I wonder what would happen if she ran into somebody who wanted to be boss even more than she did?”
“A trigger, maybe,” Isabel said in an absentminded tone.
“His trigger?” Rafe asked. “He wanted to be the one on top—so to speak—and it wasn't a position Jamie was willing to allow him to assume?”
“Maybe.” Isabel's tone was still abstracted. “Especially if we find out the other two primary victims from the earlier murders were unusually strong women.