The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [100]
At seven thirty, she walked into the kitchen to refill her mug. Before she could pour the hot chocolate, her doorbell rang. She squinted at the clock and wondered who it would be this time of morning. She walked to the door and saw a large, dark figure standing on her porch. Robby.
“You’re here early.”
Robby walked in and gave her the once over. “You look like you didn’t sleep last night.”
“Not true. I slept about four hours.”
Robby smirked, then reached out and touched her hair, pushed it off her face and behind her ear. A gentle brush, a tentative, nonthreatening gesture to test the waters. “You doing okay?”
She shrugged. “I’ve had better years.” She wanted him to reach out and take her in his arms, to hold her and tell her it’s all going to be all right. She needed his company, his strength, his support. They stared at each other, her mind willing him to reach out to her. Instead, he stood there, seemingly reading her face like a closed book. You usually know what I’m thinking. Why can’t you sense my thoughts now?
As if she had spoken aloud, he reached behind the small of her back and drew her close. She melted into his body, squeezed him tightly. Seconds dissolved into minutes. She didn’t want to move, to lose the feeling. It had been too long since she had felt the extreme desire for a male body, for someone she truly wanted to touch and feel and explore and become totally absorbed in.
He bent his head down and with his index finger, tilted her chin back. His full lips met hers, two pillows coming to rest against one another. He pulled back and she slowly opened her eyes. She didn’t want the moment to end. She looked at him, desire gripping at the sleeves of his sport coat.
“I can’t stay.”
“I know.” She released him and straightened her nightshirt. “Come by later?”
“If you want.”
“I want.”
He was silent a few seconds, then said, “Okay.” He brought his hand out from behind her back. He was clutching a thick envelope. “Oh, almost forgot. I brought you a present,” he said, handing her the package.
She tore it open and pulled out an overstuffed file folder. “What is this?”
“Copy of everything the task force has in its Dead Eyes file. Copies of the photos are not as good as the real pictures, but at least you’ve got something to work on.”
Vail, still standing with Robby in the entryway, quickly thumbed through the file. She smiled, again feeling part of a team. “Tell Bledsoe I said thanks.”
“Will do. We’re going to lean on Hancock this morning. Bledsoe called in some favors, got a couple of techs to work through the night. They found some interesting stuff back at Linwood’s place that might help us turn him.”
“For Linwood or Dead Eyes?”
Robby shrugged. “You tell me.”
Vail put a hand on her hip and walked down the hall. She turned and came back, looked up at Robby. “For Linwood, it’s possible. Affair gone sour. He’s pissed, takes her out. Does a Dead Eyes copycat to throw attention in a totally different direction. As for him being Dead Eyes, I’d have to give it more thought. In some ways he fits the profile, in some ways not. He’s bright and organized, right age range and ethnic background, drives the right type of power car. I don’t know about his art background, family history, or upbringing. Some of that we can get through his Bureau application.
“But one thing that stands out is that he’s injected himself into the investigation by having Linwood place him on the task force. That’s common with organized offenders. It’s a means of control, of checking in on where the investigation is. Can’t get a better finger on the pulse than being named to our team.” She nodded slowly. “Be good to see if he was even in the area and alibied at the times of the murders.”
“Sin’s on it. I’ll see about either getting