Speak No Evil

He took her home in silence. They never spoke about that night, never spoke again for that matter. She transferred to another school two weeks later.

After she found her dog dead.

Still, he’d been nervous for months. But his fears gradually began to subside. Randi hadn’t told anyone what happened that night. And besides, what had happened? It was all a misunderstanding.

But he’d never let another woman scream.

What he’d learned from Randi he’d applied to Angie. What he’d learned with Angie, he would apply to the next whore.

Jodi.

He had lots of planning to do before Angie’s funeral, and he couldn’t afford to miss class today even though listening to a boring lecture was the last thing he wanted to do. But missing class would be a mistake and he didn’t make mistakes. Not anymore.

He definitely wouldn’t make any mistakes with Jodi.

TWELVE

NICK PULLED HIS LAPTOP COMPUTER from the bottom of his overnight bag. He wasn’t a computer expert by any stretch, but it was the twenty-first century and he’d broken down and bought one a couple years ago.

He glanced at Steve’s closed bedroom door. His brother had come in late the night before while Nick tried to sleep on the couch. He didn’t let on that he was awake, and Steve quietly went into the bedroom and shut the door. It sounded like he was still asleep, which was good. Nick wanted to do this alone.

He set up his laptop on Steve’s desk and hooked in the Internet connection.

There was a family picture on the desk. Nick, Steve, their parents. Paul Thomas had his arm around Steve’s shoulders, Miriam Thomas had her arm around Nick’s. That’s how Nick always remembered the family. Nick was the outsider to his father. It must have been evident from the day he was born because his mother overcompensated when his father left for his monthly reserve duty.

But when Dad was around, the world revolved around Steve, and Nick was a distant star falling deep in Steve’s shadow. It had bothered him a lot when he was a kid. Except that Steve had always been good to him.

Nick poured coffee he’d brewed earlier, then opened the sliding glass door to let in the ocean breeze. He breathed in the unfamiliar salty air and listened to the squawk of the seagulls. They were loud scavengers, but they never pretended to be anything but.

The rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves rolling over the sand and even the annoying birds were somehow relaxing, so he left the door open and sat at his laptop. He didn’t have Angie’s Web address, but he knew it was part of the MyJournal community, so he started there.

After a half-dozen searches he found it. An entry dated today popped up and he frowned at the “Tribute.” The more he read the more uncomfortable he became. He wondered if the detectives had seen this.

He also wondered if one of the “S’s” was Steve. The older man. Coincidence? Maybe. But if the entry really was written by the victim’s friends, they would be here in San Diego. Nick didn’t believe it was a coincidence.

“I don’t make it a habit dating girls at the college. Angie was the only one.”

Nick’s heart sank as he realized Steve had probably lied to him. He hadn’t fully believed him at the time because Steve hadn’t looked him in the eye, but the evidence in front of him was still a blow.

Nick read as much of Angie’s journal as he could stomach, skimming most of it, until he found a few paragraphs in the middle of a long commentary about a variety of subjects. His heart twisted at the anguish in the few short lines.

I just received my first quarter report card. 4.0. That’s perfect. No one is surprised because I’ve always been a straight-A student. I couldn’t be anything but, right? I mean, people see what they want and we give them what they want to see.

Sometimes I want people to see the real me, to hear what I really say. But they don’t. This journal is a perfect example. Is this me? No, it’s not. It’s what you think I am, so I give it to you.

I don’t know me. I don’t think I ever have.

Hopeless. She sounded desperate and begging for something that even she couldn’t name. Her friends hadn’t seen it, and the men who lusted after her sexy writing certainly didn’t see it. Had Steve? Or had he been as blind as everyone else?

Nick focused next on the comments left by visitors to her site. Steve believed Angie’s killer had frequented her Web page. If that were the case, would he have commented? Positive or negative? There were several men who wanted her phone number. Some who wrote lewd descriptions of what they wanted to do with her. And many were downright mean.

Repent now, sinner, or you’re going to Hell.

I used to be addicted to sex. You can be cured.

Fucking whore.

Nick frowned at that last comment. He clicked on the ID and suddenly the page went blank.

404. Page not found.

He surfed around a bit, was able to view other pages, but Angie’s was gone.

The police must have worked with the MyJournal company to take down her journal. It was both a relief and frustrating to Nick. After reading the Butcher’s personal journals-handwritten, not online-he’d developed a feeling for how these sick predators thought. How they communicated. He’d hoped to read more of the comments and come up with something solid to take to Detectives Kincaid and Hooper. A profile of sorts, proof his brother was innocent. If he could use his experience with serial killers to narrow down the suspects, maybe they could get ahead of the game.

Hell, he would have given his right arm for something solid on the Butcher before twenty-two women had died.

Nick poured another cup of coffee, then sat back down at the computer to download a map to the police station. He was here to help Steve, but he felt for Angie Vance. She’d been confused, desperate, and very sad. No one in her life had seen that she needed help, maybe because she was so good at hiding her pain. But wasn’t that why he’d become a cop? To help young people straighten out their lives before it was too late?

It was too late for Angie, but he could damn well do something to help find her killer.

Behind him, a woman cleared her throat.

Nick stood slowly and turned. A tall, slender girl holding her own steaming mug leaned against the door. She had straight golden-blond hair that touched her waist, and worry lines creased her pretty face.

“How did you get up here?”

“I live next door.” She gestured to the half-railing that separated Steve’s apartment from his neighbor’s. “What happened to Steve? There’s a rumor around campus that the police were here searching his apartment. That they think he killed Angie.”

“And you are?”

“Ava James. You’re his brother, Nick, aren’t you?”

Nick nodded.

“Steve talks about you all the time.”

Nick hid his surprise.

“Where’s Steve?” she asked.