“You had to make this another kind of personal, didn’t you?”
“Bottom line, I believe there’s a lot of intentional distraction going on. As long as we hyper-focus on this being about me, we’re not seeing something else. We need to work the case.”
“But you said we’re doing what the killer expects.”
“And we are, but we’ve also got two dead ex-husbands or would-be ex-husbands. Naomi and Emma are both widows, but Emma also lost a husband and a brother. If Naomi was still married to Emma’s brother. That is something we need to confirm with records. And I’d bet my last bag of Cheetos that they’re all part of that damn game.”
His cellphone beeps. “Hold on,” he says, and I assume he glances at the number before he says, “I need to call you back.” And because what else do I expect from my brother? He hangs up without another word. But whatever.
I text Tic Tac a list of things I need him to handle, exchanging random messages with him. Just as we finally wrap up, my cellphone rings. I glance at the caller ID and grimace before I answer with a greeting of, “Director Murphy.”
“Agent Love. I hear you had a visitor last night.”
“With no fallout aside from the brutal injustice of mac ‘n’ cheese thrown away in the trash.”
“And?” he asks curtly.
I sigh inwardly and update him with everything in as condensed a fashion as is possible. I end with, “I need to force that game to disclose its members. I need that now.”
“With two murders, I believe I can make that happen in the next twenty-four hours. Where are we on our friend’s involvement?”
Friend. I’m so sick of him calling Pocher friend. “Can we come up with a different nickname like ‘the dirty dog,’ or I can compromise and go with ‘the dog.’ I like the dog.”
“All right. Where are we on the dog’s involvement?”
“Less than forty-eight hours later and two dead women is where we are.”
“I know you think this is just a calling card for a new killer,” he says. “But the dog coming home right as you are taunted at a crime scene feels personal, and not for you. For the killer. Think about that little nuance. I’ll go get the data you need.”
He hangs up.
I replay his little nuance.
It’s personal, not for me but for the killer.
He’s right.
And perhaps wrong.
What if it’s personal for the killer, who therefore wants to make it personal for me?
And now Kane is missing. My mind, logically, went to the cartel, but now I’m back to a killer clearly obsessed with me. I briefly remember Kane’s comment about Ghost being obsessed with me, but this, all of this, doesn’t fit his profile. Ghost is about clean kills and originality. He wouldn’t send text messages and play games and this killer is, I believe. And Ghost wouldn’t cross Kane.
For the moment, I stop worrying about involving other people in my hunt to find Kane. I call Andrew back. “I’ve talked to you more in one day than I did for the entire two years you were in California,” he says.
“Ping Kane’s phone,” I say. “He’s missing. He didn’t make it to the city, but I want this off the record. I’m worried—”
“It’s another way this case just got personal. I’ll handle it. Give me a few minutes.” He hangs up.
I push to my feet and start walking toward the door. I’m going to Kane’s office. I don’t know why that feels like the thing to do, but it does.
CHAPTER FORTY
I reach the subway entrance and Andrew hasn’t called back.
I try to call him, but he doesn’t answer. I leave a message. “I’m going into the subway. Leave me a message. I’m headed to Kane’s office.” I disconnect and jog down the stairs, eager to catch the next train out of there. As it is, I’ll have to change trains and I’m twenty minutes out. Once I’m in the tunnel, it doesn’t take long for me to make it to the train right after the doors shut. I curse and stop dead in my tracks. “Damn it to hell.” I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to breathe, but I can’t. For just a moment, I’m back on that first crime scene in L.A., back in a room that was ankle-deep in blood, suffocating with the knowledge that’s it’s slushing around my ankles. That’s what’s happening to me now. I’m suffocating in the idea that Kane is dead.
Dead.
God, where did that word come from?
Kane is not dead.
I open my eyes and force myself to calm the fuck down. He has reasons he might go silent, all likely to protect me, which means I’ll be kicking his ass tonight. And enjoying it. I try to think of anything he’s said to me that might remind me of something I’m forgetting. But nothing comes to me.