The Seven-Day Target Page 16

  She shoved aside the thoughts of the world outside of that bedroom even as those worries crept up. For once in her life she wanted to be happy in the moment she was experiencing, to let the what-ifs fall away. Nick was warm beside her. Perfect moments were hard to come by.

  She pulled closer to him, flinging her arm across his side and tucking her face into his neck, inhaling his spicy scent. “I feel safer with you around.”

  Nick kissed her forehead and stroked her hair. Within minutes they were both asleep.

  Chapter 11

  Cassie stomped around the hotel room. She’d woken that morning after having slept better than she had in months. Sam had slept for six hours straight, and consequently, so had Cassie. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so well, but it was certainly before pregnancy, which had given her insomnia and disrupted sleep for at least six of the nine months. Cassie had been in a good mood that morning. No, she’d been in a damn glorious mood. And then Libby had called.

  Leave the hotel and go somewhere else. That was so typical of Libby to order her around. She could be such a know-it-all. And when she insinuated that Dom was under suspicion because he had the nerve to bring dinner to her last night...Cassie had almost hung up right then. He’d gone out of his way to bring her a meal, knowing she was locked in a hotel room with an infant and cut off from the rest of the world. He’d held her baby while she ate and talked with her about his day. And to her brilliant, socially inept sister, that spelled serial killer.

  Cassie huffed. Well, if Libby was such a genius, she should have clued Cassie in as to where in the world she was supposed to go, because she was not moving every other day. Not with an infant.

  He was a cranky infant at that, having missed his afternoon nap. He balled his hands into little fists and wailed from where he lay on a blue-striped receiving blanket. Cassie stopped her packing and sank down to the floor, resting her head in her hands. All of this because Dom had brought her Chinese takeout. If a gentleman paid her any attention, it must be because he was a psychopath or a scoundrel—was that Libby’s reasoning? Cassie heaved a sigh. Libby thought Dom could be the killer, and Cassie knew he wasn’t, but she was packing up her clothes and fleeing all the same. Because Libby always got her way.

  But the more she thought about it, the more she resented her sister’s order. Dom had escorted Cassie to a hotel and made her feel safe while Libby and Nick ran off to a secret location. She couldn’t accept the thought that he would hurt her when all of her instincts told her that she could trust him.

  She rolled her clothes loosely and tossed them into her duffel bag. She was tired of living in a hotel and hiding out. She was tired of being bossed around by her sister. Cassie lifted Sam and shushed him, cradling him against her chest and rocking him until he began to settle. She would not be spending another minute at a hotel, sleeping on a lumpy bed and eating food from a vending machine. She was going home.

  She had to make three trips to the car before she’d finally packed everything. She grumbled with each round, stewing about how everything in the world seems that much closer to impossible when you’re hauling an infant around and doing things one-handed. Libby had given Cassie some kind of baby carrier when Sam was born. Well, Libby called it a baby carrier, but it was nothing more than an endlessly long piece of fabric that Cassie was supposed to use to wrap Sam against her chest. This way, Libby had explained, she could have both hands free. Of course it was organic cotton, too—just another yuppie accessory. Cassie would need a college seminar and six months to figure out how to use it. At some point, it was easier to hold the baby with one hand and work with the other.

  She checked out of the hotel and drove back to Arbor Falls, but as she drove, she began to second-guess her decision to go home. She pulled over and used her cell phone to look up the address. The directions were easy enough. He’d probably be home from work by now, and if he wasn’t, she’d just turn around and head to her own house, no harm done. But she was relieved to see the lights on as she pulled in front of the condominium. Truth be told, she felt safer in the hotel room than she did now that she was back in Arbor Falls.

  Sam was sleeping. She plucked his car seat out and carried him to the front door. Then she rapped three times, firmly.

  Her pulse quickened at the sound of his footsteps. The porch light came on and the door swung open. “Cassie.”

  Dom was standing in a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants. His eyes looked tired behind his wire-rimmed glasses. She didn’t know he wore glasses. They were sexy. “I’m sorry for showing up like this,” she blurted out. “I left the hotel and I want to make sure it’s safe to go to my house. Libby says I could be a target, too. That this is about something our father did.” An unfamiliar anxiety tumbled around her stomach. “Is this a bad time?”

  He looked confused for a split second, and then he looked from her to the baby and back to her. “No. Come in.” He stepped aside.

  Cassie entered the unit and placed Sam’s car seat gently on the beige carpet. This was no bachelor pad. Dom’s house was meticulous and the decor was carefully selected, from the Chinese silk screen standing in the corner, to the comfortably overstuffed couches, to the ornamental sword hanging above the fireplace. He’d placed large potted plants in strategic locations, and Cassie’s eyes widened to absorb the complementary array of reds, blacks, light browns and greens. A large vase decorated with cranes and waterfalls rested on a black wooden coffee table. She never would have guessed that Dom Vasquez had a passion for Asian art.

  “This place is like a museum,” she breathed, and then thought about how she’d shoved her clothes into her duffel bag.

  He waved a hand. “It’s my home. Make yourself comfortable.”

  She knelt to unfasten Sam from his car seat. “I’ll only stay for a minute. I don’t want to impose. I thought I’d go home, but now that I’m back in town I’m a little nervous about it.” She frowned. “Do you think it’s safe?”

  “Your house?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t. You need to be somewhere different. We don’t know yet whether you’re a target, too.”

  She groaned. Her gut told her he was right, but the thought of locking herself in a hotel room again was enough to make her want to cry. “I guess...can I use your computer, then? I need to find somewhere to stay.”

  He studied her for a beat before sighing. “It’s late. You can stay here for the night, if you’d like. I have a guest room, though it’s not as nice as the hotel you were at.” He gestured to Sam. “And I don’t have a crib. I can’t promise to be a decent host, either. I worked all night and into today, and I should be sleeping but I can’t get my mind to slow down.” He raked his fingers through his hair to emphasize the point.

  “I don’t need anything. I...Libby thought I should go somewhere else, and I don’t know where else to go.”

  Dom’s eyes narrowed. “She told you to go somewhere else? Why, did something happen at the hotel?”

  Cassie patted Sam on the back as she held him. He was still sound asleep. “Don’t get mad. They think it’s strange that you brought me dinner last night. Suspicious.”

  Dom ran a finger across his brow. “I got the feeling there was something like that going on. So Nick and Libby think I’m a killer?” He shook his head, visibly frustrated. “They’re paranoid. That’s why they’re not telling me anything. How am I supposed to help them if I don’t know where they are?”

  His neck had taken on a corded appearance, and his cheeks were flushed with anger. Poor Dom was right. Libby and Nick were locking him out of his own investigation. They thought they were so smart.

  Cassie sighed. “I agree they’re being paranoid. It’s understandable to some extent, but I think they’re wrong to suspect you.”

  Some of the anger on his face receded. “Thank you.” He released a frustrated sigh. “So that’s why Nick is returning my phone calls with text messages. He’s not even talking to me.”

  “You know,” Cassie be
gan, “I could find out where they are, or at least draw them out of hiding. Then you could confront them.” Her chin wavered. “I don’t want anything to happen to Libby. She’s the only family I have left, and I think she’s being...stupid to keep you in the dark like this. You’re trying to help her. I know that.”

  Dom nodded slowly. “What are you thinking?”

  She lifted one shoulder. “I’ll ask her to meet me somewhere tomorrow. She’ll come out, especially to see Sam. Then you can be there waiting to talk to her. You can clear your name. Tell them you brought me Chinese food because you have some kind of fetish for all things Asian.”

  “A fetish?” A slow smile spread across Dom’s mouth. “You know, I hadn’t thought about that. I just like Chinese food.”

  “And Japanese art.” Cassie beamed. Her heart somersaulted when he smiled at her like that. “I would’ve guessed you’d live in more of a bachelor pad. Worn leather couches, old movie posters taped to the walls, stuff like that. My ex-boyfriend lived that way. I thought all bachelors did.”

  He eyed her. “Ex-boyfriend? As in, Sam’s father?”

  Now she’d gone and stepped in it. Cassie shook her head. “No. Sam’s father and I were never dating. He was a guy I knew in high school. It was one time. Stupid.” She turned from his gaze and ran a finger along Sam’s tiny palm as he slept. “He doesn’t know. He lives in North Carolina, anyway. It’s not like he can...help anything.”

  Dom was leaning against the doorway, propping himself up with one hand. He was studying her. “He might surprise you. Maybe he’d step up and be a real father to Sam.”

  Cassie’s back went rigid. She was not interested in hearing a lecture—especially from someone who could never possibly know what it was like to walk in her shoes. “You think so? Because when I told him I was pregnant, he handed me a wad of cash and told me to ‘take care of it.’ As far as he knows, I had an abortion. He doesn’t know I gave the money to a homeless man and had the baby.” She pulled Sam closer. “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to be a father, and I’m not looking for advice.”

  “I was wrong to give it.” Dom straightened. “Forget I said anything.”

  She nodded stiffly. “Okay. Forgotten.”

  He lifted the corner of his mouth in a smile and looked her in the eyes with a frank, open gaze that made her pulse respond. Shoot, she’d never stand a chance in an argument against him. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you to your room.”

  * * *

  Nick had been up for over an hour. He’d showered, dressed and prepared the complimentary coffee provided by the inn while Libby stretched languorously in bed, soundly asleep. She lay on her side with her bare back exposed by the drape of the white linens. Her long black hair presented a strong contrast to the sheets, and the subject herself was of course a study in contrasts, running hot then cold then hot again. Each element of the image fit together like a perfectly staged photograph.

  Nick closed the door to the bedroom and considered the slew of documents on the floor of the sitting area. Today was day five, and if the killer stalking Libby was following the pattern of the Arbor Falls Strangler, her life was going to be put in danger today. His stomach roiled. Time was running out.

  His BlackBerry vibrated on the table beside him, jarring him from his thoughts. He grabbed the phone. “Nick Foster.”

  “Nick, it’s Molly,” came a woman’s voice.

  He’d managed to track down a supervisor at the inn the previous night and convince him to allow Nick to use the office scanner to make electronic copies of Henderson’s handwritten confession and a letter he’d allegedly sent to one of his victims. Nick had emailed the handwriting samples to his colleague at the FBI, Molly Ericson.

  When he’d first moved to Pittsburgh, he’d been eager to get over Libby and find someone new. He’d taken Molly to dinner one night and enjoyed her company, even offering to take her out again the following night. She’d laughed kindly and patted him on the arm. “Nick, all you did was talk about your ex-fiancée tonight. Frankly, you can’t afford to hire me as your therapist.” Instead of dating, they’d become good friends.

  “Molly. Good to hear from you. Thanks for responding so quickly.” He glanced at the clock. It was only eight in the morning, but Molly had probably been in the office for hours.

  “You said this was urgent. What’s going on? I thought you were supposed to be in the office this week.”

  “Something came up. A family emergency.”

  She was silent on the other end as she read the cues from the tightness of his response. “You take care of yourself, okay? If you decide you want to talk, you know I’m here.”

  “I will. Take care of myself, I mean.”

  He heard her sigh. “These samples you sent over are interesting. The threat letter displays narrow, tense handwriting, oddly shaped letters that defy any convention I know and extreme height differentials.” She paused. “I’m disadvantaged because I’m not looking at the original, so I can’t comment as to the pressure of the writing on the sheet. But I think it’s fairly safe to conclude that the letter was written by a person with a schizoid personality.”

  “A schizoid personality? As in schizophrenic?” Nick felt his muscles tense.

  “No, schizoid is different from schizophrenic. This is what I would expect to see from a serial killer’s handwriting. This indicates a person who is emotionally cold or even emotionless. Secretive. A loner.”

  No real surprise there. “All right.”

  “I can also tell that the individual who wrote this letter is highly organized and intelligent,” she continued. “The confession is much different. Were these samples said to be written by the same person? Because they sure don’t look like they were.”

  Nick sat on the edge of the chair and leaned forward. “You don’t say.” If Molly was correct, then Henderson hadn’t written the letters to the victims’ families, which meant he may have confessed to crimes he hadn’t committed. Nick’s thoughts were swirling around his head at light speed. “Tell me about the person who wrote the confession.”

  She cleared her throat. “I’d say this was a male with a grade school education at best, based on the formation of the letters and the language being used. I wouldn’t guess he was a schizoid personality, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was involved in some criminal activity. You’re probably aware of the studies suggesting a correlation between poor education and criminal activity.”

  Nick’s pulse pounded in his ears as she paused. Henderson seemed to have had a proclivity for petty theft.

  Molly continued. “If we compare the confession with the letter you sent, I would say there’s a significant disparity in education and possibly social class. If you look beyond the handwriting style and consider the vocabulary being used, the letter appears to be written by a highly educated individual, whereas this confession looks like it could have been written by a kid in middle school.”

  Nick tapped his fingers against the table and leaned forward in his chair. “The person who wrote that confession is dead. So if we were looking for the person who wrote that letter, or for someone like him, we would be looking for a person who would be considered a loner, right?”

  “Well, not necessarily,” she replied. “That’s often how a schizoid personality will present itself, but sometimes people are very skilled at hiding their antisocial tendencies. You may be looking for someone who is quite charming.”

  Nick groaned. “So a loner or the life of the party, then? I thought you were supposed to make this easier for me.”

  Molly laughed. “Sorry, Nick. People are complicated.”

  His forehead was tense. “I’m kidding. You have no idea how helpful that was. Thank you.”

  “Glad to help. This stuff does get the pulse racing, doesn’t it?” She sounded breathless.

  “Yeah, I love violent crime,” he said wryly. “Hey, I don’t know if you heard, but it looks like I’m going to be stationed in Washington, D.C., in
a few months. I just found out yesterday.” Bureau policy dictated that he was required to spend three years in an office in a major city, after which Nick would have more flexibility in choosing the office he worked in.

  “I hadn’t heard. We’ll miss you here in Pittsburgh. I was stationed in Manhattan, but Washington will be great. Will you be living in Virginia or Maryland?”

  “Too early to tell. I have to start house hunting.” He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned. Libby was standing in the doorway. “Molly, sorry, but something came up and I have to go. I’ll talk to you later,” he said, watching Libby. “Thanks for your help.” He disconnected the call and turned to Libby with a smile. “Morning, sunshine.”

  “Morning.” She rubbed her eyes and yawned. She’d thrown on a bathrobe, but she hadn’t bothered to smooth her sexy, disheveled hair.

  “I ordered up breakfast. I hope you don’t mind muffins and eggs.”

  “That sounds perfect.” She seated herself on the couch, tucking one leg beneath her. Nick tried not to think about whether she was wearing anything beneath her robe.

  “I sent those handwriting samples to an expert at the Bureau. That was her on the phone just now.”

  “And? What did she say?”

  “I gave her two samples. The first was a letter sent by the Arbor Falls Strangler to one of his victims, and the second was the confession written by Will Henderson.” He paused. “Libby, they were written by two different people.”

  “Oh, my God.” Her brow knit and she stared at the floor, deep in thought. “That means Henderson wasn’t the Arbor Falls Strangler. He confessed to crimes he didn’t commit.”

  * * *

  This was the news she’d feared. Her father had locked up a potentially innocent man. She picked absentmindedly at a frayed thread on the terry-cloth robe. It didn’t seem possible that Dad would have known he was prosecuting an innocent man, and yet she’d learned only last night that he’d slyly helped to orchestrate her breakup with Nick. The coldness of that betrayal unnerved her. Could anything in his past surprise her anymore?