Sex, Lies, And Online Dating

they couldn’t know something the police don’t even know) was that Charles Wilson kicked so hard I thought he was going to kick his bed apart so I had to hold his legs down. He was frightened and pathetic. Poetic justice, I say.

Do you like my work? I’d love to sit down with you for a critique. To get your thoughts, but of course, that is impossible.

Well, I have to go.

So many men. So little time. So much to do.

Lucy reached for the next letter and opened it. This time she pulled out a front-page news clipping along with a letter. A photo of a house blocked off with yellow crime scene tape dominated half the page. The headline read DAVE AN-DERSON, SECOND MAN TO DIE IN HOME WITHIN THE PAST MONTH.

This letter was shorter and more vehement.

Don’t you just love the incompetence of the BPD? They haven’t figured out yet that the two deaths are related. Morons. Cavemen. But what can you expect? Certainly not intelligence. Not from men. Dave Anderson was a big bumbling buffoon who flattered himself that I was interested sexually in him. Dirty man.

Read the Statesman article. What a riot. The police have nothing to release to reporters because they have nothing. I leave nothing behind. Nothing can be traced to me. I’m too smart for them. I learned everything I know from reading mystery novels. Your mystery novels.

Flattered?

Lucy might be a little slow on the uptake sometimes, like when it came to realizing that everything Quinn had ever uttered had been a damn lie, but not this time. She knew what this was. She’d done too much research, delved into too many twisted minds, written too many books, not to recognize bragging when she read it.

Breathless wanted her to know exactly what she’d done. She was showing off. Like when Mr. Snookums killed a mouse and left it on the back porch for her to discover and admire. A killer wanted Lucy to see and admire her work.

Lucy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her cat jumped off a kitchen chair, and she jumped out of her skin. Her heart pounded, and she raised a hand to her throat. “Holy Jesus,” she whispered. She set the letter on the news clipping and stared at the third envelope. She didn’t really want to open it, but she had to. This time she was more careful. She retrieved her pink Playtex gloves from beneath the sink and pulled them on. Her hands shook as she grabbed a steak knife and sliced the top of the envelope open. She tipped it upside down, and another article and letter fell into her palm. The newspaper had run a photo of the victim, as well as a picture of the crime scene. Lawrence Craig, the man Lucy knew as luvstick, looked out from the paper, a slight smile tilting up the corners of his mouth. Her scalp got tight, and tension pulled at her brows. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Well, the BPD finally figured it out. Three murders in eight weeks and they finally figured that they were related. Duh! I know they’re waiting for me to mess up. Make a mistake, but I won’t. I’m too smart for them. I’ve been thinking that maybe I will write a book about what I’m doing after all. Someday when I’m more disciplined. You know what they say; write what you know.

Here’s a little FYI between professionals, in case you want to use it in your book. When you suffocate someone, they make a little noise in the backs of their throats. At least that’s been my experience. Maybe that doesn’t happen with everyone. I’ll keep you posted. Lawrence made the most noise, thrashing about like it would do any good. He liked the idea of me tying him up, but not so much at the end, I guess.

When I first started, I thought it would be difficult to find dirty men who are willing to be handcuffed to a bed. For the most part, it has been easy. Men will do just about anything if they think they might get sex. But you’re an intelligent woman, and I’m sure this doesn’t surprise you. I’m sure we have a lot in common and could spend hours swapping dating horror stories.

Women want love. Men don’t care about love. They just want sex.

What’s a girl to do with throwbacks and bottom feeders?

Lucy set the letter and news clipping with the rest and slipped the gloves from her hands. She felt like the world had fallen out from under her feet. It was as if she was being pulled down into someone else’s sick reality. The telephone rang, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She looked at the caller ID and didn’t recognize the number. No way in hell was she going to pick up. She had the sensation of being watched, and she ran around her house, room to room, shutting all the curtains and blinds.

In the living room she sank onto her couch and stared across the room at her chinoiserie entertainment armoire, at the black lacquer paint and gold pavilion scenes. Her pulse pounded in her throat and she swallowed past the dry knot of fear choking her.

Why? Why had a psycho decided to contact her? She didn’t live her books. They were fiction. She wrote fictions; not road maps to murder. She didn’t want to be involved in this. It was sick and twisted and made her feel as if someone with cold, evil hands was playing with her life. She wished she’d never gone to her PO box. She wished she could close her eyes and it would all just go away.

Lucy didn’t know how long she sat there thinking, trying to figure out what to do, when in reality she’d known what to do the whole time.

She reached for her phone and dialed.

Chapter 11

Hungryman: Seeks Snack Tray…

Using a pair of tweezers, Quinn slid the third letter into a clear evidence bag and sealed it. He set it on the table beside the others and placed the tweezers in a small collection kit. If they were lucky, they’d get some good prints and DNA. If not, at least Breathless was talking. Like a lot of organized killers, she couldn’t stop herself from bragging. He just wished like hell she’d chosen to talk to anyone but Lucy Rothschild.

The last time he’d been standing in this kitchen, Lucy had slapped his face, then kicked him out. Not that he blamed her. He’d figured he’d never be in her house again. Not in a million years, but then this wasn’t exactly a social call.

“Are you sure you can’t think of anyone who might’ve written those letters?” Kurt asked Lucy. He sat in front of her chair with his notebook open on his lap.

She shook her head. “It could be anyone.”

Quinn tucked the ends of his blue-and-green silk tie between two buttons on the front of his green dress shirt and planted his palms next to the evidence spread out in front of him. If he had to guess, he’d say Breathless had used Microsoft Word to construct the letters; he hoped the printer was more distinctive.

Without lifting his head, he raised his gaze to Lucy. She was pale but every bit as beautiful as when he’d seen her three days ago. She wore a pink shirt that laced up the front and a pair of jeans. The second he’d entered the house, he’d recognized the look in her blue eyes. No matter how much she tried to hide it behind anger, she was scared shitless.

“Do you have any fans whose appreciation for your work seems out of proportion?”

She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Well, yeah. To me it seems out of proportion much like Trekkies seem out of proportion, but nothing as crazy as this.” She’d pulled her blonde hair into a ponytail high on her head, and she looked young and very vulnerable. A slight purple bruise marked her collarbone. It was hardly noticeable really, but Quinn had noticed within seconds of seeing her. Maybe because he’d put it there.

Quinn had spent the past three days interviewing Robert Patterson’s friends and relatives, going over phone records and credit card receipts. He’d discovered that, like the other victims, Robert had dated heavily online. Quinn had gathered a list of names from Robert’s e-mail program; many of them he’d already crossed off the suspect list. Quinn had spent a lot of time rethinking the direction of the investigation, too. Perhaps Breathless wasn’t meeting men online. And he’d spent a lot of time thinking about Lucy. Maybe he could have done some things differently where she’d been concerned.

As Kurt pressed Lucy about her friends and fans, Quinn’s gaze moved to her full, pink mouth. He’d been working undercover to stop a killer. He’d worked within the legal guidelines, which allowed him to do or say anything as long