Serena sipped her lemonade and eyed the woman in the leather jacket as she was shown to a table on the patio. A gust of wind blew off the lake and rustled her own silky dark hair. “You get a free pass to look at any woman for up to five seconds. After that, it officially becomes flirting.”
“She reminded me of someone,” Stride said.
“Sure she did.”
Serena was an ex-cop and now a private investigator. She and Stride had shared a bed for almost two years.
Stride turned to his partner in the Detective Bureau, Maggie Bei, as if consulting an Olympic judge for a ruling. “Is this five-second thing commonly known?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” Maggie said, with a wink at Serena.
Stride knew when he was on the losing end of an argument. “Okay, I was flirting,” he admitted.
Serena stretched out her arm lazily and used the back of her hand to caress Stride’s cheek, which was rough with black-and-gray stubble. She sidled her long fingers through his wavy hair and leaned forward to plant a slow kiss on his lips. She tasted like citrus and sugar.
“Most animals mark their territory by urinating,” Maggie remarked, with her mouth full of a large bite of her steak sandwich. She batted her almond-shaped eyes innocently at Serena and grinned.
Stride laughed. “Can we get back to work?”
“Go ahead,” Serena told him. She swiped a French fry from Maggie’s plate and bit into it while baring her teeth.
“What’s the latest on the peeper?” Stride asked Maggie. He stole a sideways glance across the restaurant at the other woman and noticed that she was doing the same thing to him from over her menu.
“He struck again on Friday night,” Maggie replied. “A sixteen-year-old girl in Fond du Lac noticed a guy in the trees outside her bedroom when she was getting undressed. She screamed, and he took off.”
“Did she get a look at him?”
Maggie shook her head. “She thought he was tall and skinny, but that’s it. It was dark.”
“That’s nine incidents in the last month,” Stride said.
“It’s summer. Time for the perverts to come out.”
The calendar said June 1. It was late Sunday afternoon, but the sun was warm and high over the steep hillside on which the city of Duluth, Minnesota, was built. It wouldn’t be dark until after nine o’clock. After the usual long, bitter winter, the tourists were streaming back on the weekends to watch the ore boats come and go through the narrow channel that led out into Lake Superior. The Canal Park area, where the three of them sat on the rooftop patio of Grandma’s Saloon, teemed with lovers and children feeding noisy gulls by the boardwalk. As tourists and locals collided, and the weather got warmer, Stride and his team got busier. Crime was creeping up for the season, but so far, it was nothing more than the usual run of thefts, break-ins, drunks, and drugs.
Plus a peeping tom with a fetish for blond high school girls.
Stride had overseen the city’s Detective Bureau, which handled major crimes in Duluth, for more than a decade, and he had steeled himself to human behavior that defied all rational explanation. Sexual abuse. Meth labs. Suicide. Homicide. The peeper had shown no inclination to violence, but Stride didn’t minimize the danger of someone who liked to watch young girls undress in their bedrooms. It was a short trip through the looking glass to molestation and rape.
“He’s been stalking the south side, right?” Stride asked.
Maggie grunted affirmatively and pushed her black bangs out of her eyes. She was a diminutive Chinese cop who had worked side by side with Stride since he took over the major crimes unit.
“Yeah, all the reports have been south of Riverside,” Maggie said. “He’s crossed the bridge into Superior a couple times, too.”
The great lake that loomed over Stride’s shoulder narrowed into the jagged bays and harbors of the St. Louis River as it wound southward between the cities of Duluth and Superior. On the scenic drive along the river, Duluth broke up into small towns like Riverside, Morgan Park, Gary, and Fond du Lac. None of the towns was large enough to afford its own police force, so the Duluth police stretched its enforcement coverage all the way along the river’s twisty shore.
“You know what it’s like down in the river towns,” Maggie said. “People leave their shades up and their windows open. For a peeper, it’s like a cat with a goldfish bowl. Lots to look at.”
“Do we have any leads on an ID?” Stride asked.
“Nothing yet. We have no description and no idea how old he is. We’re working our way through the sex offender list, but no one looks like an obvious suspect.”
“How about a car?”
“We’ve had reports of a small SUV-something like a CRV or a RAV4-near three of the peeping locations. Maybe silver, maybe gray or sand. No one in the area would claim it. That’s as close as I’ve got to a lead.”
“What about the victims?” Stride asked. “How does this guy find them?”
“The girls range in age from fourteen to nineteen,” Maggie said. “They go to different schools, and I haven’t found any overlap in their social lives. They’re all blondes, though. I don’t think this guy is just going from house to house, trying to get lucky. We’d have caught him by now if he was simply trolling through backyards. When he hits a house, he already knows there’s a girl there with the right look.”
“Has he made any attempts to get inside?” Serena asked.
Serena wasn’t a member of the Duluth police, but she was a former homicide detective from Las Vegas, in addition to being his lover. Stride considered her one of the sharpest investigators he had ever worked with. He and Maggie consulted her unofficially on most of their cases.
“No, he just watches,” Maggie said. “The girl’s window was open in several of the incidents, but he stayed outside.”
Serena stole another fry from Maggie’s plate. “Yeah, but he might be getting his courage up. Along with other things. Peeping’s a threshold crime.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Maggie said. “I want to catch this guy before fore he moves on to bigger things.” She glanced at the opposite side of the restaurant patio and added, “By the way, boss, you’re about to understand why women adopted that five-second rule.”
“What do you mean?” Stride asked.
Then he looked up and understood.
The woman in the fringed leather jacket, the one who reminded him of his late wife, Cindy, was coming over.
“You’re Jonathan Stride, aren’t you?” she asked.
Stride pushed his chair back and stood up. He was over six feet tall, and when he looked down at the top of her head, he saw silver roots creeping into her blond hair. He took her offered hand and shook it. Her long nails dug into his palm. “Yes, that’s right.”
“I’m sure you don’t remember me, but we were in high school together. I graduated a year before you and Cindy did. My name is Tish Verdure.”
Her voice had a seductive, breathless rumble. Her clothes smelled of violet perfume covering cigarette smoke. She was perfectly made up, but under the foundation, age and nicotine had carved winding paths into the skin around her brown eyes and above her forehead. Even so, she was very pretty, with a tiny, tapered nose, a pale pink oval at her lips, and a pointed chin.
Stride remembered her name but nothing else, but it explained why she had looked familiar to him. “It’s been a long time,” he said in an apologetic tone.
“Don’t worry, I knew Cindy before the two of you ever met.”
“I don’t recall Cindy ever mentioning you,” he said.
