Dear Maggie

Random targets, except Lola Fillmore, the reporter in Seattle. That had been personal.

Nick shuffled through another file and came up with the letter that had brought him to Sacramento in the first place. Received at FBI headquarters almost a month ago, it had been printed on regular copy paper by a standard Hewlett-Packard DeskJet. Nothing of particular note there, at least nothing that was going to help him. But the letter itself shed some light on the psychology of the killer.

April 13th

Seattle, Washington

“Dear Sirs, or should I say Madams? Welcome to the investigation. For all the challenge local police have given me, I assume most forces are now run by a bunch of women, but be that as it may, I’ve decided to let you join the fun. I’ve tired of Seattle and all its blasted rain—makes working out of doors rather miserable, if you know what I mean—and have decided to move to California. But where? Los Angeles is entirely too big. With all the different jurisdictions, etc., it would be too easy for local law enforcement to bungle the investigation, and it’s certainly no fun outwitting one’s opponent so easily. I considered San Francisco, but no one would much care if I murdered women there, now, would they? They have no use for the fairer sex, anyway. So I think Sacramento is the place. River City, isn’t that what they call it? Well, we shall soon see what the river turns up.

Catch me if you can…

Dr. Dan

Dr. Dan was famous for his letters. He sent them to local law enforcement, taunting their failed attempts to catch him. He sent them to the FBI, bragging about his superior intellect. And when the police and FBI kept them from the press, he started writing to newspapers, hoping for headlines. He’d sent two letters to Lola Fillmore at the Seattle Independent, right before he killed her.

Fortunately, as far as Nick could tell, no one at the Sacramento Tribune had received such mail. Yet. After what had happened in Seattle, his instincts told him it would come, and he guessed Maggie Russell would be the recipient when it did. The Trib was the major newspaper in town, and she was the only female cop reporter on staff.

He shoved the letter back into the file and went for the profiler’s report instead. Ms. Lalee Wong, one of the FBI’s best, had analyzed the letter, along with all the others, and deemed it genuine. But she hadn’t come up with as much as Nick would have liked. She said the perp was a man, probably fairly young, most likely short and balding, with sexual hang-ups to spare.

No surprises there.

Dr. Dan’s utter contempt for women, evident in the letters but even more in the violent and cruel nature of his killing, fueled his murderous rage. Perhaps he’d been abused by his mother or a strong maternal figure in his youth. Perhaps his wife had left him.

Or maybe he’d killed her, Nick thought. There could be another body out there. Maybe more than one. Most serial killers didn’t go from zero to sixty in a matter of days. They started slowly, usually with animals, and built up from there.

Skipping further down the report, Nick skimmed the final paragraphs. Wong doubted Dr. Dan was truly a doctor, but she hadn’t ruled out Daniel as the man’s first name. She felt certain he was educated, most likely to the college level, and that he was Caucasian, possibly British, judging by his formal and rather stilted use of language. Going by the normal statistics on such violent criminals, as well as the tone of his writing, she guessed he was in the age range of twenty-eight to thirty-five.

The last sentence of her report Nick knew by heart because he’d come to the same conclusion himself. Considering how quickly and efficiently Dr. Dan removes certain internal organs, he probably has some working knowledge of anatomy. If he’s not a doctor, he could be a nurse, an EMT, a medical student, a veterinarian or a butcher.

“He is definitely a butcher,” Nick growled. Dr. Dan seemed to think of himself as some sort of modern-day Jack the Ripper, but Nick planned to put an end to it. He was going to find this bastard and nail him to the wall if it was the last thing he did. No one traveled across America killing wives and mothers and got away with it. Not on his watch.

He heard Maggie’s laugh and looked up to see her standing at the water cooler, talking to another photographer. She was very attractive in her gray tailored business suit and crisp white cotton shirt. She had the most kissable lips he’d ever seen, the most incredible bedroom eyes….

But none of that mattered. He was a federal agent. His interest in her was strictly professional. Even if she never became one of Dr. Dan’s targets, she could dig up something that might prove helpful to his investigation. Actually, chances were good she’d do exactly that. She tracked all calls coming in after ten o’clock.

And Dr. Dan always struck at night.

CHAPTER TWO

WHAT WAS GOING ON? Lowell Atkinson, the county coroner, had always been helpful to Maggie before. She’d sent his wife Mary Ann flowers when she’d delivered her last baby. She’d gotten Zach and the Atkinsons’ Katie together for a picnic last summer. She could hardly believe he’d treat her so impersonally now. When she’d arrived at his office to request a copy of the coroner’s report on the Dumpster murder, he’d claimed he hadn’t finished it, said he’d call her when he had. But when she’d pressed him for a verbal explanation of his findings, he’d told her he hadn’t even done the autopsy yet.

Bull. Maggie knew better. The police were under a lot of pressure to solve such a high-profile case. They wouldn’t let Lowell store the victim in his morgue for over a week. They’d probably had his report in their hands the following day, but her police contacts weren’t talking, either. And to top it all off, Ben, her editor, was riding her hard, expecting a follow-up to the story they’d run last week—a follow-up she couldn’t conjure from thin air. She needed answers, and she needed them fast.

Frustrated, she set her purse on the desk and slumped into her seat, wondering where to go from here. Detectives Hurley and Mendez had the case. She doubted they’d talk to her when no one else on the force would, but it was worth a chance.

She fished her police roster out of her drawer and dialed, but Lopez, the sergeant at the front desk, said they were both out. She considered leaving a message, decided against it and hung up, hoping to catch them later. In the meantime, she’d get organized.

She was clearing off her desk when she noticed a sticky note from Darla attached to the partition directly in front of her, next to her photographs of Zach.

“Before we join a dating service, let’s try some online sites,” it said. “They’re free.”

Maggie had never actually gone into a singles chat room before. She’d surfed the Web a lot and grown compulsive about e-mail, but she wasn’t sure online dating would work. How could she and Darla meet men via the Internet who lived close enough for dating purposes? What if she found a man who seemed interesting and he lived in Florida, for Pete’s sake? A pen pal wouldn’t exactly fill the gap in her life.

Still, she liked the idea of socializing from behind the safety of her computer screen while Zach played at her feet. No baby-sitter needed. No fuss. No awkward moments. No fears or worries if she stayed in control of the situation. Visiting chat rooms might help pass the long, lonely evenings before she went to work. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt that she could subsidize the fun with some frozen yogurt from her own freezer.

“What do you think?” Darla asked, coming into her cubicle before Maggie had a chance to make a firm decision.

“What about the risks? We could end up attracting weirdos. Cyber nuts,” she said, determined to consider every angle.

Darla frowned. “That might be true. I’ve heard some scary stories. We’ll just have to be careful.”

“How will we know when it’s safe to reveal our name and number?”

“We’ll get to know the guy first.”

“And how will we determine when we ‘know’ him?”

“We’ll just have to play it by ear, I guess.”

Maggie rested her head in one hand and regarded Darla skeptically. “You’re going to get me in trouble, aren’t you? I can tell already.”

Darla smiled, sorted through Maggie’s side drawer and helped herself to a piece of gum from the pack she kept there. “I think it’s time to mix things up around here. I think it’s time for a little trouble,” she said and headed back to her own desk.

“What are friends for?” Maggie muttered, but Darla couldn’t hear her. She was gone for a moment before popping back in to hand her a new sticky note.

“Here. This is where we’ll go. Log on tonight at eight. I’ll meet you there.”

Maggie read Darla’s loopy handwriting directing her to a chat room called Twenties Love. “You might be only twenty-six, but I just turned thirty,” she protested. “I have no business in Twenties Love.”

Darla shrugged. “Okay. Older men are fine by me. We’ll go to Thirties Love, then.”

“I don’t know.” Maggie rubbed her pencil between her hands until the friction warmed her palms. “I’m still leaning toward the dating service. Their questionnaire asks what I’m looking for in appearance.” She grinned. “I was planning on checking the box ‘moderately attractive’ so the guy wouldn’t hold my red hair against me.”

“Your hair isn’t red. It’s auburn, and it’s beautiful.”

“No one likes red hair.”

“Men are crazy about red hair.”

“Tim was paranoid our baby would have red hair.”

“Tim was always trying to hurt you.”

Her ex had definitely succeeded there. But he’d toughened her a lot, too, and Tim was old news, anyway.

Maggie pulled the dating service’s questionnaire out of her desk. “Well, I was also planning to check the box that said I was moving in six months, you know, as sort of a safety precaution.”

Darla propped her hands on her hips. “So, what you’re saying is, you’ve already decided to lie on almost every question.”

“Not every question. They don’t ask about my weight.”

“Like you’d need to lie about your weight.” She shook her head. “Okay, what would you put under ‘athletic interest’? Very active, active, occasionally active or does not matter?”

“Very active, of course.”

“You call grocery shopping once a week very active?”

“No, but everyone knows an active woman is more appealing than an inactive one.”

“You see, Maggie? Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

“Yeah, that I’m not stupid enough to put ‘inactive.’”

“No. That other people are probably doing the same thing you are, giving answers they think the opposite sex wants to hear, instead of the truth.”

Maggie chewed her lip. Darla had a point. What if men were putting “advanced degree” when, in reality, the only thing they’d ever graduated from was juvenile hall to the state pen?

Grabbing the note with the chat room information on it, Maggie scratched out Twenties Love and wrote a big 3-0, then tacked it up on her wall so she wouldn’t forget. “Okay. We go with the Web. It’s no less safe, and it’s free, right?”

“Right.” Darla tossed her hair over her shoulder. “See you in virtual reality.”

HOW WOULD HE KNOW when she logged on?

Nick sat in front of his laptop computer, his dog’s muzzle on his leg, reading the comments of people already in the chat room and hoping he’d be able to recognize Maggie’s “voice” when he heard it. He’d logged on around seven-thirty, wanting to be there when she arrived, figuring that the timing of her appearance would somehow tip him off if nothing in her screen name or comments did. But it was after eight now, and he doubted she was anyone he’d met so far.

Was he in the wrong place? He glanced down at the note he’d snatched from Maggie’s cubicle. He had the right server.

Twenties Love had been covered by a numerical Thirty, but after scanning all the chat rooms, he decided it could only mean Thirties Love. So where were they?

They could have changed their minds about coming, but that didn’t seem likely. He’d heard Darla talking about the chat room in the parking lot after work—and so had anyone else within a block radius. Darla kept nothing secret. He smiled at the many comments the tall blonde had made about him, both good and bad, not realizing he was listening to every word. He wondered if she’d be embarrassed if she knew, then decided she wouldn’t bother with anything as inhibiting as embarrassment.

Maggie, on the other hand, would be mortified to learn he’d heard so much of their conversations. He knew he made her nervous, that she didn’t want anything to do with him. Her flat refusal to go out with him had told him that. But he couldn’t protect her and his cover as one of the Trib’s photographers unless he drew a little closer. So, with any luck, he was about to become her best friend—

Hey, Mntnbiker, you just lurking or what? You the shy type?

Dancegirl was talking to him. She’d been flirting with several of the men. She’d said she was from Washington, but Nick had no idea if she meant Washington state or Washington DC. At that point, he’d known she wasn’t Maggie and started skimming.

Just quiet, he wrote.

Dancegirl: Well, join the fun. Tell us, if you had to liken yourself to an animal, which one would you pick?

Two new names appeared on his screen, one right after the other, and Nick smiled. Zachman and Catlover could only be Maggie and Darla. Maggie had a son named Zach. His pictures covered her whole office. And no one was crazier about cats than Darla. He relaxed, knowing he’d found them, and answered Dancegirl.

Mntnbiker: I’d be a Rottweiler.

Dancegirl: A dog? Why?

Because it’s the first thing that came to my mind.

Mntnbiker: They’re smart and loyal and fierce in a fight.

He scratched behind his dog’s ears. Rambo opened his droopy eyes to acknowledge the touch, looking anything but fierce, then went back to dozing.

Mntnbiker: What about you?

Dancegirl: I’d be a horse.

Nick knew his next question was supposed to be why, but he wasn’t the least bit interested in Dancegirl. So he moved to edge out a guy named Pete 010, who was welcoming Maggie to the chat and trying to draw her into a conversation about skiing.

Mntnbiker: What about you, Zachman?

Zachman: I’m sorry. I’m new at this. What was the question?

Mntnbiker: If you had to liken yourself to an animal, which one would you choose?

Catlover: I’d be a Siamese cat.

Zachman: I suppose I’d be a mourning dove.

Pete 010: Why a mourning dove?

Catlover: Because they mate for life, right, Zachy? You’re so sentimental.

Mntnbiker: There’s nothing wrong with that.

Unless you were like him and had no plans to marry and settle down.

Zachman: Beats the heck out of being a lioness and having to do all the work.

Catlover: I kind of fancy a black widow myself.

Pete 010: Watch out, guys.

Catlover: Just joking. I’m a nice girl, I swear.

Redrocket: Okay, enough inane drivel about animals. It’s time to spice things up. Let’s rate our last lovers.

Pete 010: I’ve forgotten. It’s been too long since I’ve had one.

Nick chuckled to himself. Either Pete 010 was trying to garner sympathy, or he was just too honest for his own good.

Dancegirl: On a scale of 1–10, I’d give mine a 5. He was more interested in watching television than he was in me.

Catlover: Mine wasn’t so bad in bed, but he was hell on my long-distance bill.

Wondering what Maggie’s love life was like, Nick waited for her to comment. When she didn’t, he joined the conversation to keep it alive. He didn’t relish the idea of talking about Irene, or even thinking about her, for that matter—he hated the wave of guilt that engulfed him every time he did. But he answered honestly, anyway.

Mntnbiker: I thought I was in love with mine. That made the sex great.

Zachman: What happened?

Apparently he hadn’t been as in love as he’d thought. When their relationship progressed to the point where she started pressing him to marry her, he’d finally agreed, then bolted the day of the wedding. The reception had to be canceled, all the gifts returned. Irene hated him now, and he didn’t blame her. But neither did he regret his decision to call it off.

In the end, we weren’t right for each other, he typed, wanting to keep things vague. He certainly wasn’t proud of what he’d done, but at least he understood himself better now. He might flirt with the idea of marriage, but deep down he wasn’t willing to make the sacrifices such a commitment would require. His job wasn’t very conducive to permanence in anything, which contributed to the problem.

Zachman: I’m sorry.

Mntnbiker: What about you, Zachman? How would you rate your last lover?

Zachman: That’s tough to say. I’ve only had one. I don’t have anything to compare him against.

Catlover: Come on, I’ve heard enough about him to know he couldn’t be more than a 2 or a 3.

Pete 010: All women say they’ve only been with one or two partners.

Catlover: With Zachman it’s true. She’s the shy, inhibited type. She doesn’t know what good sex is all about.

Zachman: Someday I’ll find the right man.

The image of Maggie as he’d like to photograph her came instantly to Nick’s mind. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was in Sacramento to catch a killer, not to volunteer for a sex-education course.

Pete 010: Hey, you don’t need love for good sex. I don’t know why women always think that.

Zachman: Maybe some people don’t, but I do.

Redrocket: What happened to your 2 or 3, Zachman? He’s gone, I take it.

Zachman: I wanted a child. Tim initially agreed but ultimately wasn’t interested. I couldn’t take the indifference or the neglect.

Mntnbiker: Do you regret pushing for a child?

Zachman: No, I’d rather have Zach. One hug from him is worth more than anything I ever got from Tim.

Catlover: That’s because Tim withheld affection as a form of punishment.

Zachman: Jeez, are these chats really supposed to get so personal? What happened to our discussion about animals?

Dancegirl: Yeah, no one ever asked me why I wanted to be a horse.

Redrocket: Wait, I haven’t rated my last lover—

Redrocket and several others expounded on the strengths or shortcomings of their past partners for a few minutes, then Nick saw Zachman disappear from his screen. Catlover left soon after. Evidently, they hadn’t found the chat room to be the singles haven they were looking for. But he didn’t mind. He’d met Maggie, discovered her personal e-mail address and established a frame of reference so he could contact her again.

For now, that was enough.

ON FRIDAY NIGHT, Maggie kicked off her slippers, which were too hot for a Sacramento summer, and sank down in front of her computer. She lived in Midtown, in an old home she’d bought with her divorce settlement when she left Los Angeles two years ago. Half the buildings on her street had been converted to small offices or retail establishments, creating a mixed neighborhood that included tenants, owners and residents from many different nationalities, along with some of Sacramento’s homeless. There were no large grocery stores, no sprawling shopping centers, only small independently-owned corner grocers, trendy coffee shops and a spattering of secondhand stores. But Maggie liked where she lived. Midtown had color and character. It had old-fashioned architecture that wasn’t quite as impressive as that found in the Fabulous 40s, several streets of beautiful old homes just a few miles away, but the neighborhood had plenty of potential. Her own house only wanted a good coat of paint and some work on the worn-out, shabby yard—something she intended to do when she had enough money and time. Meanwhile, she was removing the wallpaper in her bedroom, large bunches of faded pink roses that looked very much like something her great-aunt Rita would have chosen.

Actually, the whole house looked like Aunt Rita—aging under protest—but Maggie had big plans for it. She gazed at the black night outside and wondered if she should start by taking down the iron bars that covered the front windows. According to her neighbor, the previous owner was an old widower, who had wanted to install them all around, but when he passed away, his son inherited the house and didn’t finish the job. Maggie thought the bars were quite an eyesore, but then she remembered that Sarah Ritter’s body had been found only a few blocks away and decided she’d keep the ones she had.

Glancing at her watch to make sure it wasn’t too late, she called Detective Mendez on his car phone. She hadn’t been able to reach either detective since Lowell Atkinson had put her off two days ago. She always got routed to voice mail, and they hadn’t responded to her messages. Still, she was determined to lay hands on the coroner’s report, even if she had to camp out in Lowell’s front yard starting tomorrow morning.

“Yo, Detective Mendez here.”

Maggie sat up in surprise. Evidently miracles did happen. “Detective? This is Maggie Russell with the Sacramento—”

“Tribune. I know who you are. Dammit, don’t you people ever let up? It’s nearly ten o’clock on a Friday night.”

“If you’ve checked your voice mail, you know I tried to reach you earlier. I called at least five times today. Yesterday it was eight.”

“And the day before that it was three. I got your messages, Ms. Russell, but I’m a busy man. What can I do for you?”

“I’m doing a follow-up article on the Ritter murder and was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

He hesitated. “Sure. And here are my answers: it’s an isolated incident. We’re making progress. We’ll catch the bastard.”

What? “I wasn’t going to ask if it was an isolated incident, Detective Mendez. Why should I?”

“How the hell would I know?”

“You anticipated the question. You must have had some reason.”

“Don’t twist my words, Ms. Russell. I’ve already given you my statement.”

“So you have. And it was gem, let me tell you. There’s just one more thing. I’d like to see a copy of the coroner’s report.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, excuse me. I’ll drive it right over.”

Maggie ignored his sarcasm. “Fax would be fine. Or I’ll pick it up at the station. You name the day and time.”

“I’m booked up through next week. How about the following Friday?”

What was this guy’s problem? “At least your buddies on the force are pretending to cooperate with the press.”

“I’m not going to insult you by playing games.”

“Well, you’re doing a good job of insulting me without it. So what’s the big secret?”

“No secret. A woman was killed. We’re looking for her murderer. I have enough to do without chronicling my every move for you.”

“Sorry, I don’t believe this murder was an isolated incident—at least not anymore. Who else was killed, Detective? Has there been another victim?”

Mendez cursed, then the phone clicked and he was gone.

What a jerk, Maggie fumed. If this guy thought he could shut her out that easily, he had a shock coming his way. This story might very well be her ticket to a promotion, a raise and some respect. And after what she’d sacrificed to make Tim happy, heaven knew she’d do almost anything to be able to take a little pride in her work.

“Mommy? I have to go potty.”

Zach stood in her doorway, rubbing his sleepy blue eyes. Earlier they’d watched a Disney movie together and he’d fallen asleep before she could help him through his nightly routine. Smiling at his tousled blond hair and round soft cheeks, she scooped him up and carried him to the bathroom.

When she’d tucked her son snugly into bed, she returned to her bedroom and cranked up the air-conditioning unit in the window. If it was this hot at night on the first of June, she was going to be in trouble later. The wallpaper, the yard, the paint, everything would have to wait until she paid for central air. She couldn’t take another summer like the last one. Zach had a fan in his room, but it would never be enough.