Sense of Evil - Kay Hooper [53]
“That's a long nap.”
“He says he's been running short on sleep for days. Probably true; a lot of our technical people get fascinated with their toys and keep the weirdest hours you can imagine.”
Isabel frowned. “You've checked with her station, with the other media people across the street?”
Dana nodded. “Oh, yeah. The last anybody saw of Cheryl was just before dark last night. Dammit, I warned her to watch her back, brunette or not.”
“Why?”
“Because I think the spotlight on a small town like Hastings can get pretty uncomfortable, and I wouldn't be surprised if this maniac targeted a journalist just to get us to back off.”
Isabel rested a hip on the corner of an unoccupied desk, where the conversation was taking place. “That's not a bad theory, assuming he isn't too far gone to think logically. Off the record.”
Dana nodded again, this time somewhat impatiently. “And I'm no profiler, but I'd expect him to target somebody who doesn't fit his clear preferences so far, just to make a statement.”
“You're not the one I want, but you're in my way. Nobody's safe,” Isabel murmured. “Go away.”
“It makes sense, doesn't it?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Thanks for filing the report, Ms. Earley.”
“If there's anything I can do to help look for that kid—”
“The best way you can help her and us is not to get yourself added to our missing-persons list. Don't go anywhere alone. I mean anywhere, unless it's into a locked room you know damned well is safe. Pass the word to the other journalists, will you?”
“Will do.”
“Male and female journalists,” Isabel added.
Dana nodded wryly and left.
Isabel remained where she was for several minutes, frowning at nothing. She was tired. Very tired. And worried.
If this bastard had grabbed a brunette journalist, had been angry enough to stray so far from his preferences, then why hadn't Isabel felt it?
“What's wrong with me?” she murmured.
There was no answer, except for the feeling she had of something crouching in the darkness. Watching.
Waiting.
When Rafe walked into the conference room just before four that afternoon, he wasn't especially happy to find Alan Moore there with Isabel.
“Hollis and Mallory are out running down a couple of leads,” she told him, without going into detail. She seemed none the worse for what had happened in Jamie Brower's secret playroom, though something about her eyes told him she was still suffering a pounding headache.
Rafe nodded without commenting on either her info or his own hunch, and said to Alan, “Please tell me you have a reason other than idle curiosity for being here.”
“My curiosity is never idle.”
“I should have warned you about him, Isabel. You can only believe about half of what he says. On a good day.”
“See, this is what happens when you grow up with a guy who becomes a cop,” Alan said. “He turns into a suspicious bastard right before your eyes.”
“Not without reason,” Rafe retorted. “You've been a pain in my ass since I was appointed.”
“I've been doing my job.”
Isabel intervened before they could begin rehashing past offenses, saying, “Alan received something a bit unexpected in yesterday's mail.”
Rafe stared at Alan. “And you're just now bringing it in?”
“I've been busy.”
“Alan, one of these days you're going to go too far. Consider this a warning.”
Despite the calm tone, Alan was perfectly aware that his boyhood friend was deadly serious. He nodded, not really having to fake the sheepish expression. “Noted.”
Without commenting on the byplay between the men, Isabel handed Rafe a single sheet of paper in a clear plastic evidence bag. “I've already checked it. No prints, except his.”
The note, block-printed yet virtually scrawled in a bold, dark hand on the unlined paper, was brief.
MR. MOORE, THE COPS HAVE GOT IT
ALL WRONG. HE ISN'T KILLING THEM BECAUSE THEY'RE BLONDES.
HE'S KILLING THEM BECAUSE THEY'RE NOT
“Not blondes?” Rafe said, looking at Isabel.
“Yeah, but they were,” she said. “At least,