The Seven-Day Target Read online

  He paid for the corner suite—in cash, using a pseudonym—and she bit back a joke about trying to impress her. Of course he wasn’t trying to impress her. He was thinking that they’d be spending a lot of time in the room and that they’d each need privacy and to maintain a respectable distance. It made perfect sense to get the suite, and this wasn’t the time for nervous quips.

  She unlocked the door to the suite and gasped. The room was painted a soothing shade of sage-green, and light filtered through sheer curtains covering a massive bay window. The suite was divided into a generous sitting area with a couch that, according to the desk clerk, folded out into a bed, and a bedroom with a mahogany four-poster king-size bed. The two rooms were separated by a heavy wooden door. “It’s so lovely.” She sighed.

  “Your home away from home.” He took her suitcase and carried it into the bedroom. “I’m calling the couch.”

  So he planned to sleep on the couch. She watched him with her bags and wondered why his statement made her feel so rejected. Time to come back down to earth. Nick was acting protective because he cared about her the way he cared for an old friend, but it wasn’t as if they were getting back together. She almost laughed aloud. Certainly not, and that was fine. They’d agreed to start over as friends, and if it crossed her mind to behave inappropriately it was only because she was in a vulnerable state and craving a little comfort. It’s not as if she needed to curl up against his warm body that night.

  He reentered the room without his jacket, wearing a fitted black T-shirt and denim jeans. Libby had very particular ideas about the way jeans should fit a man, and Nick’s fit him perfectly—pulling tightly against his muscular thighs where they should be tight but falling loosely where they should be loose. She stared at him as he crossed the room stealthily, unpacking some of his belongings as if she wasn’t even there. Warm body—what was she thinking? Nick’s body was hot, and being alone, locked in the same room with him, could lead to nothing but trouble.

  But there would be no trouble because she was not going there. They’d gone down that road and it hadn’t worked out, and she had no desire to expose herself to that kind of heartache again. She could admit that she missed Nick and the way he seemed to anticipate her needs. Like this morning on the drive to Great Springs, when he’d stopped at the hotel so Libby could run in to check on Cassie and Sam. She hadn’t asked him to do that, hadn’t even asked about Cassie, but seeing her sister and holding her nephew had made her feel grounded again. He’d taken her out of her nightmare, if only for a few minutes.

  Her skin felt flushed as she remembered that he’d been that way as a lover, too. Patient and considerate. Except sometimes he hadn’t been, either. Sometimes he’d come to her racked with need and touched her like a man possessed, locking her hips against his own. Those times he’d taken her impatiently and with a selfish desperation, and those were the times that made her toes curl.

  He looked up and caught her watching him. He didn’t smile and he didn’t look away, and when their gazes locked she understood that he felt it, too. That they were both scared out of their minds and seeking comfort, and maybe a little more. Libby swallowed and turned, her face thoroughly hot and her body aching for his touch.

  She still lusted after him, but then again, when had she not lusted after Nick Foster? There were other considerations and lots of reasons not to act on base urges. They lived five hours apart and often worked weekends. He’d told her that he found her difficult to love. And he wanted children and to be a father. He wanted that more than anything. And she couldn’t help him there.

  They would only end up hurting each other.

  Libby headed into the bedroom without another word, closing the door behind her. She had a brain. She should use it.

  She checked her cell phone. David had called with his number in Zurich. Thinking of him made her stomach twist, though whether the twisting was from guilt or the excitement of a new relationship, she couldn’t be sure. David had been an acquaintance for as long as she could remember. His father, former Mayor Jeb Sinclair, had supported her father when he’d run for judge. She’d chanced to meet David shortly after her father had been diagnosed, and they’d gone on a few dates since. David loved to sit in the darkened corners of cozy restaurants, order a bottle of red wine and talk for hours. He’d listened patiently as she’d talked about her father’s diagnosis and the turmoil it caused her. He’d never interjected his own experience or given her advice. David was a good listener.

  She dialed the number and waited until he answered. “David? It’s Libby. I’m just calling to say hello.”

  “Hello, Libby.” He sounded genuinely pleased she’d called. “It’s nice to hear a familiar voice. And are you on your new phone? It sounds great.”

  David had accompanied Libby to pick out a new cell phone on their second date. He was a gadget man who’d clearly pitied her when she’d informed him that her Stone Age phone couldn’t even send text messages. As an attorney whose work brought him around the world negotiating the purchase and sale of commercial jet engines, he lived and breathed technology. He was a sensible gadget shopping companion. “I hope I’m not interrupting. Are you selling a lot of airplane parts?”

  He laughed. “Enough. It’s been a good trip, actually.” He paused. “It’s nice to hear your voice.”

  She should have felt some pleasure from that confession, but all she felt was her stomach working itself into a knot. “It’s nice to hear yours, too, David. Hey, listen—I’m not at home right now. I won’t be for a few days, so if you need to reach me, just call my cell instead.”

  “Is everything okay?” His voice was heavy with concern.

  “Yes, fine. It’s just... I’m going to be working a lot and maybe I’ll stay with Cassie for a couple of nights to help her. Don’t worry.”

  “Oh, good.” He laughed lightly. “You had me nervous for a minute.”

  They spoke for a little longer before he excused himself, saying he was meeting some clients for dinner. He would be back on Friday, and it was already Tuesday. “Maybe we can grab dinner on Saturday,” he said.

  Libby felt her muscles tense the way they did when she felt pressured into something uncomfortable. David was a nice guy. Talking to him should have reinforced all of the things that were wrong about Nick, reminded her that she had options. David was the not-Nick, composed of all of the finer qualities that Nick lacked. Worldliness, sophistication and a fluency in matters of the intellect. He spoke three languages and loved French literature. He enjoyed cooking gourmet meals in his free time. David was gentle where Nick was abrasive, cool where Nick was hot. Calling him should have reminded her of the many reasons they were perfect for each other.

  And there were so many reasons they were perfect together. Their dads had been friends, so they came from similar backgrounds. That was one. And they were both lawyers, which meant they could drop Latin phrases at the dinner table or discuss the finer points of contract clauses. That was two. And David was so calm all the time. Unflappable. Libby, on the other hand, tended to get excited about things, and she needed help reining that tendency in. Sure, she was cool on the outside, but inside she often felt like a swirled mess of emotions. She was sensitive, much as she tried not to be. David could help her to pack away that sensitivity, to truly be stoic the way her father was. That was reason number three. Really, they were perfect for each other.

  Being with David made Libby see how right her father had been about Nick. They were mismatched. Nick didn’t want to talk about court procedure. Oh, he’d tolerate it to a point, but he found it boring when she discussed legal strategy and the nuances of judicial precedent. And culture? He bought her tickets to the symphony once and fell asleep during the performance. Nick didn’t help her thin skin, either. He talked to her like he was encouraging her to be softer, almost as if he didn’t care how important it was for her to be tough. Nick made her feel extreme things—exuberance and rage and lust. Far from helping her to cultivate a more
stable mind set, he stirred up that stew of emotions. David was what she needed. Someone unexciting. Soothing.

  Dull as dirt.

  “I think I may have plans on Saturday night,” Libby lied. “Why don’t you call me when you get home?”

  They ended the call and she lay back on the bed. On paper David was her perfect match. He freely admitted that he was more interested in traveling the world than in having children. With their connections they could be at the top of the Arbor Falls social ladder, hosting dinner parties and political fund-raisers and shaping the future to their liking. David could help Libby to become a judge one day, just like her father. There was something to be said for quiet and predictability. David was her future, not Nick.

  And for some reason, that depressed the hell out of her.

  * * *

  Seven tons hatred. Nick wrote it out on a piece of stationery. Whoever was leaving those signs had been clear about communicating his intentions. This had to be some kind of riddle or guessing game. He tapped his pen against the paper. It had to mean something.

  Seven tons, and seven days. He tried to spot patterns in the message. He stood from the table and stretched his legs. Libby had shut herself in the bedroom so he couldn’t bounce ideas off her. He reached for his phone and called Dom. “What do you think that means, seven tons hatred? Is that some kind of a clue?”

  Dom released a sigh. “Man, Nick. I haven’t even thought about it. I was at the crime scene for a while, then I had to talk to the widow.” He sounded weary.

  His widow. The words dropped to the pit of Nick’s stomach. “I’m sorry, Dom.”

  “He was a good cop, McAdams.” His voice was thick. “I’ve got a bunch of officers here foaming at the mouth. You take down one of our own...”

  He didn’t have to finish. Nick knew. Whoever was after Libby now had an entire police department gunning for him. “A lot of overtime tonight?”

  “And tomorrow, and the day after that. Until we get this son of a bitch.” His voice was a deep angry growl. “I don’t know about the third sign or what this sick bastard is talking about. No prints on the photograph left in Libby’s file, no trace evidence left on the victims. We even checked the surveillance video at the D.A.’s Office. This guy is careful. It’s been nothing but dead ends.”

  “There has to be something. We just have to find it.” He rubbed at his eyes, not wanting to think about what little time they had but thinking about it, anyway.

  “We’re all working on it. You just keep Libby safe, all right?”

  They ended the call and Nick sat back in his seat, tapping his pen against the paper. He’d never been good at riddles and word games. He stood and paced the suite, and each pass of the room made him wonder if the walls were closing in. He opened the windows to admit a gust of cool spring air and paced again, this time stopping at the bookcase where the inn had stacked a few complimentary games, including Scrabble. He collected the letters to form seven tons hatred in his fist. “Hey, Libby?” He rapped at the door. “Are you sleeping?”

  He heard her groan impatiently and stomp to the door. “Can’t I be alone for ten—”

  “You’re good at word games,” Nick said when she opened the door. “Puzzles.” He walked past her and scattered the wooden letters on the bed. “Seven tons hatred has to mean something. Let’s figure it out.”

  Her frown relaxed. “You think it’s an anagram?”

  Good old Libby, she was always up for an intellectual challenge. “That’s what I’m thinking, unless you can come up with something else.”

  Her impatience disappeared instantly, and she seated herself on the bed and rearranged the letters. “You said this had something to do with my dad. Maybe it’s someone’s name?” She knitted her brows in concentration. “What about vendetta? Vendetta her son. But that leaves an extra s.”

  “Her sons vendetta?” Nick was still pacing, too agitated by the morning’s events to sit down. “But whose son? What vendetta?”

  “Vendetta seems right....” Libby rearranged the letters again, biting her lip in concentration. She was so sexy when she became single-minded like this. “Vendetta res nosh.” She said it triumphantly and then sat back and made a face. “Res means thing in Latin, but that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe it’s not vendetta anything. What else can we spell?”

  She moved the letters around again. “Sonnet. How about heard sonnet....” Her cheeks grew red. “No. It’s not sonnet.”

  “Do you know, I never would have thought of sonnet?” Nick smiled. “But you did.”

  Her face grew redder still. “I’m just brainstorming. It was silly—”

  “It wasn’t silly.”

  He stopped to look at her. He hadn’t said it to make fun of her. If he’d had those letters and a hundred years he probably never would have thought to piece together the word sonnet. Hell, he’d read a few of them, but he couldn’t define them any better than he could explain string theory. “I like that sonnet was your third choice. This is why we’re going to crack this puzzle and get this bastard. We complement each other.”

  She studied him as if she wasn’t certain he was being serious. Then a whisper of a smile fell across her mouth and she returned to her puzzle. “It’s not sonnet, though.”

  She was so intently focused on those little wooden letters that Nick realized she might not even notice if he fell through the floor just then. He grew excited while he watched her, aroused by the intensity with which she approached her work and the calm manner in which she moved the letters around yet again and announced, “Nest over handset. Does that make sense?”

  No, it didn’t, but neither did his erection at that moment, and that was very real. “Let’s keep thinking,” he said as he turned to block his lower half from view. A beautiful woman on a bed...what man wouldn’t be turned on?

  They arranged those letters dozens of different ways, and by the time Nick looked up at the clock almost an hour and a half had gone by. Nothing was making sense, and they were no closer to solving the puzzle. They could piece together a word or two, but the remaining letters would only add up to nonsense. Libby sat back on her haunches. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s a joke and we’re wasting our time trying to figure this out.”

  “It has to mean something. We just have to figure out the right combination.”

  She pulled her long hair back from her face. “I keep returning to the same words. It’s like Einstein’s definition of insanity, where I keep doing the same thing and expecting a different result. I need to take a break.”

  He stood so she could lie back on the mattress. She tucked her arm underneath the pillow and looked at him. “Do you really think this puzzle is solvable? Can we figure this out?”

  “I know we can.” His response was immediate. He gathered the Scrabble letters and walked toward the door. “I’m going to keep working on this. Between the both of us, we’ll get it.”

  Her gaze was seeking. “You sound so sure. You don’t know this person. How do you know this isn’t just another game he’s playing with us?”

  He paused, one hand on the doorknob, and turned back to her. He hadn’t considered that question before, but he felt certain that the words left at the crime scene that morning were a puzzle that could be solved. “I don’t know anything for sure,” he admitted. “But if he’s playing a game with us, then what fun would it be for him if we dropped out on day three?”

  She sat up. “So you think he wants us to solve the puzzle?”

  “I do.” He shrugged. “Otherwise why would he have left it? I also think that he’s giving us a clue. I think he wants us to understand what these murders are about.”

  He hovered by the doorway, sensing she wasn’t finished with the conversation yet. She brought the pillow to her lap and sat cross-legged on the mattress. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s keep going. This bastard isn’t going to beat us.”

  Nick smiled. “Yes, ma’am. Back to work.”


  * * *

  Cassie felt a bolt of electricity dart through her core when she heard a knock fall on the hotel door. She cradled Sam against her shoulder and approached silently, gazing through the peephole. A second electrical current wound its way through her. “Dom?”

  “Cassie.” He was distorted in the peephole so that his dark eyes looked abnormally large and his dark hair prominent as he leaned forward. “I thought you might be hungry.” He lifted his arm and she saw a large brown paper bag.

  She sniffed. Chinese food. She’d only ventured out of the hotel room to stock up on junk food from the vending machine, and she was half-starving. Then again, she was supposed to be in hiding, and she barely knew this guy. “This might sound strange, but how do I know you’re not here to hurt me?”

  She saw him flinch. The startled look on his face was endearing. “Because I’m the one trying to solve these crimes? I just thought maybe you’d want some company after being cooped up with a baby all day.”

  She pressed her back against the door. It wasn’t as if she thought Dom was going to kill her, but there’d been another murder. Libby had told her not to trust anyone. She’d said there might be a leak in the police department.

  Fear knotted her stomach. What if Dom was using his super hotness to cover the fact that he was a psychopath? She couldn’t take that chance.

  “You can just leave it there.” She spoke to the door.

  Silence. “You want me to leave your dinner in the hallway?”

  “Yes. Please. It was nice of you to bring it, but I think you should go.”

  Another long pause. “So you don’t trust me, but you trust the food I’m bringing?”

  This was a good point. She couldn’t trust the food. Neither could she muster the willpower to refuse it. “Yes, that’s right. You can just leave the food and go.”

  She looked through the peephole and saw him shrug and set the bag by the door. “All right. Have a good night, Cassie.”