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  Another drag from my cigarette. The elevator doors slide open; the sound echoing through the otherwise oppressive silence. She hovers in the doorway. Her face is a bit pale tonight. What’s that in her hand? Pepper spray? Ha! Like that’s going to stop me. As exhausting as the past few months have been, there’s something to be said for the genuine pleasure I’ve received watching her anxiety mount every night. Seeing the subtle changes in her as apprehension and fear slowly engulf her. To make this quick would be to shortchange justice.

  She crosses to the motorcycle, mounts it, and drives off. I’m not far behind. She’s probably heading to his apartment. It’s a ten-minute drive at this hour.

  She parks in the visitor’s lot in front of the building and goes inside. I pull up to the curb across the street. It’s one of those older apartment complexes that’s been renovated with all the latest amenities. But the brick facade still gives it that old city look. An indoor pool. Fitness center. Private parking. Guarded entrance. And ridiculously high rent. Not the kind of place I’d be happy with or could afford.

  The front desk security must know her. She cruises right on in. Through the glass doors, I can see her wave at the burly guard. She acts like she owns the place. She disappears in the elevator. I need another cigarette.

  I remember the first time I realized who she was. It was seven, maybe eight months ago. I arrived on time for my therapy appointment, but Dr. Lloyd, as usual, was running behind. He was a decent enough psychologist. Just a bit disorganized. I’ve been seeing him for over twelve years. Damn, has it really been that long? He probably knows more about me than anyone else. He knows better than anyone how I feel about Laura.

  While I was waiting, I picked up one of the obligatory magazines that were scattered throughout the waiting room. Philadelphia Magazine’s “Best of Philly” issue. Maybe a month or two old, but not so out of date that I’d read it already. I scanned the pages, reading the headlines but missing most of the words. I didn’t even see the pictures. I mean I saw them, of course, but what they showed didn’t register. But then that one picture caught my eyes. Tickled something in the back of my mind. Wisps of better, happier days. I wasn’t sure at first, but something was so familiar about the face staring at me from the pages of Philadelphia magazine. Was it her? Could it be her? Different name, different hairstyle. But that smile. I couldn’t mistake that smile. It had to be her. Ironic that she’d be called the “best of Philly.”

  If I could have spoken to her . . . just for a moment. To know that she hadn’t forgotten. Maybe she was just as shattered as I was, just as broken. Perhaps we could share a drink and raise a glass in memory of what we lost. But . . .

  It was hard to hide my excitement during my therapy session. Lloyd may not have it all together, but he’s damn good at picking up changes in my behavior.

  “You seem a bit agitated today,” he said.

  “No. What made you think that?”

  He reclined back in his chair and looked at me across the small office. “Just a few small things. Your foot is working like a piston. You keep wringing your hands. And you’ve avoided my gaze for the past ten minutes.”

  I did some fast-talking and serious lying to avoid telling him what was setting out in his waiting room. I doubt he believed me, but he jotted a few notes on his notepad and let the matter drop. Forty minutes later, I was out of his office and racing out of the city. I now had a purpose. I needed to find out all I could about Laura Hobson.

  That was the last time I saw him, or any other therapist. She is the only therapy I need.

  I take another long drag on my cigarette and let the smoke drift out the partially open window. She’ll be here for the rest of the night. No point in sticking around. Best to head home and grab a couple hours of sleep. I’ll catch up with her in the morning.

  Maybe this would be a good night to crank things up a notch. An escalation, as the profilers would call it. Perhaps a little surprise at home would do the trick. I need to make another visit there anyway. The bedroom’s out of focus. Need to make a quick adjustment. Yes, a little surprise at home would be just the thing. Something to say I know where she lives. The clock on the car stereo says it’s 1:45. I’ve got a few hours before daybreak. Plenty of time to run over to her house.

  6

  Rodney Shapiro cursed at the driver in front of him in the pale blue Ford Escort. His headache left him with a shortage of patience and an even shorter temper. With a hangover drumming on his temples, the last thing he wanted to do on a Saturday morning was get stuck behind a driver who actually obeyed the speed limit. Perhaps he should have tossed the teardrop light on the roof after all.

  He tried to remember how much he’d had to drink the previous night . . . and how much money he’d lost. The monthly Friday night poker game with his old college buddies had gone on later than usual, and now he was paying the price. Thank god he wasn’t headed to a murder scene. He was certain he’d not be able to handle a murder on a morning like this.

  Thumping his thumbs on the steering wheel, Rodney tossed the previous night around in his head. He’d been on a roll. He remembered that much. A full house, a couple straights, and a straight flush had put him up early in the evening. But he couldn’t quite remember where it had all gone wrong. He really needed to lay off the Jim Beam while playing poker. He must’ve lost at least a few hundred last night. What was that quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald? He smiled as he remembered. “First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you.” Yep, that was just about how it happened.

  The morning’s call from the dispatcher had jarred him awake. A possible stalking case. He’d been tempted to hang up and go back to bed. Couldn’t uniform handle a stalker? A minor celebrity, the dispatcher had told him. Fifteen years on the force, and this is what it got him. Celebrity stalking cases. Probably some overreacting rich businessman whose donations have earned him the mayor’s personal phone number. He knew the kind, demanding twenty-four-hour protection because they received some junk mail. What a way to spend the weekend, and with a hangover none the less.

  There was a silver lining, he figured. At least he didn’t work for the Philadelphia Police. With a serial killer on the loose, he heard Philly detectives were working around the clock with no end in sight. The search for the GBT Strangler headlined the news every night. The latest victim—a twenty-three-year-old gay man—had been found in an alley near Penns Landing yesterday morning. That was seven in the past five months. Rodney didn’t envy Philly police. Not one bit.

  To his relief, the Ford Escort turned onto a side road. Rodney pushed on the accelerator, and he stuck his hand out the window, about to wave his middle finger high in the air. But after a moment’s thought, he drew his hand back in the car. It was the hangover talking, nothing more.

  As Rodney drew his car up to the house on Garnet Lane, he saw Detective Julie Lewis leaning against one of the two police cars parked in the driveway. She chatted with a young uniformed officer he didn’t recognize. Must be one of the rookies. When he turned off his car, Julie nodded in his direction and the officer followed her gaze. They both laughed for a moment before she stepped away from the car and moved down the driveway toward him. He wondered what she’d said to make the rookie laugh. Probably told him about last year’s Christmas party. God, will she never let him hear the end of that?

  As he stepped from the car, he noticed the steaming Starbucks cup in her hand. He smiled. Perhaps he could forgive her just this once. As Julie approached, she extended the cup toward him. He took it in both hands and drew it up to his face. He sighed.

  “I figured you’d need that,” she said. “Last night was poker night, wasn’t it?”

  Rodney nodded, taking a long sip from the cup. One cream, two sugars. It was perfect. “Thanks for this. I really needed it.”

  “How much did you lose?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

  Julie laughed. “That bad, huh?”

  As
he took another sip, he gave Julie a quick once-over. Black knee-high boots, grey slacks, and navy blouse, all covered with a light windbreaker. Her short hair—dyed cranberry red—was immaculate. Even on a weekend call out, she managed to look professional. Particularly when compared to his Villanova sweatshirt, blue jeans, and Nike sneakers. At least he managed to remember his badge. It hung from his neck on a silver chain.

  “Did you hear about GBT?”

  “Yeah. That’s the second one this month. He’s upping his game.” Rodney nodded toward the house. “What’ve we got?”

  Julie pulled a notepad from her coat pocket. She flipped through a few pages until she found what she was looking for. “Victim’s name is Kaitlyn Ashe. Have you heard of her?”

  The name sounded familiar, but he didn’t know why. He shrugged his shoulders. “Should I have?”

  “WPLX. She does the evening show.” She looked at him as if waiting for a sign of recognition. When none came, she added, “Love Songs at Ten?”

  He shrugged again. “I got nothing.”

  Julie looked disappointed. He waited for the usual diatribe that followed any of his “geographic lapses.” She was always critical of his lack of interest in the community around him.

  “How can you have lived here for twenty-five years and not know the area radio stations?”

  “I don’t listen to the radio.”

  “I know, you’ve said. You don’t listen to the radio. You barely watch TV. What the hell do you do in your spare time?”

  “Lose money at poker.” He took another sip from his coffee. “Can we get back to Ms. Ashe?”

  She looked back down at her notepad. “Kaitlyn Ashe came home this morning to find a threatening letter taped to her front door.”

  Draining the remaining coffee from his cup, Rodney gestured toward the house. “One letter? One letter does not a stalker make.”

  Julie raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like Yoda.”

  “Aristotle.”

  She placed a hand on her hip, tilting her head to the side. “What the hell do you know about Aristotle?”

  Rodney only grinned. They’d worked together for two years, but there was plenty she didn’t know about him. He’d always been guarded when it came to the details of his personal life. Over time, she’d picked up bits and pieces—like the poker game—but it was rare that his personal and professional lives ever crossed paths. It was the way he liked it.

  Rodney rubbed his cheek and felt the roughness of day-old stubble. He could only imagine what he must look like. He’d rolled out of bed, thrown on some clothes, and headed out the door, never even stopping to comb his hair. At least the coffee took the edge off the headache. He glanced at Julie. “You got a Tic Tac? My breath’s probably strong enough to cut through bank vaults.”

  She pulled a box of mints from her pocket, dumping a few into his outstretched hand. “The letter consisted of magazine clippings pasted on a sheet of paper. Uniform bagged and tagged it before I got here.”

  “You spoken to her yet?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. I just arrived a few minutes before you.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “Then let’s go speak to Ms. Ashe.”

  The young woman seated on the beige leather sofa was leaning forward, her head bowed, and hands folded between her knees. Her long auburn hair fell forward and concealed her face. Rodney nodded to the man seated next to her. His dark hair was disheveled, looking as if he’d just rolled out of bed. God, I hope mine doesn’t look that bad.

  When the young woman lifted her head, he was momentarily taken aback. The hair, the face. She looked a lot like Carol. The auburn hair was longer than his daughter’s, and the face was filled out a little more. The woman was older, but the distinct resemblance was uncanny. She could be Carol’s doppelgänger. Rodney drew in a deep breath. How long had it been since he’d visited her? A year, maybe two?

  The young woman’s eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks blotchy. She’d been crying. Pushing the hair back from her face, she tried to smile, but he could tell it was half-hearted. She began to rise to her feet, but he quickly waved for her to remain seated. Rodney’s gaze fell on the third person in the room. Craig Peterson, a uniformed officer, stood in the far corner. Rodney gave a brief wave of his hand to Peterson, and then approached the couple on the sofa.

  “I’m Detective Rodney Shapiro from the Lower Merion Township police,” he said. Gesturing behind him, he added, “And this is Detective Julie Lewis.”

  Julie drew up beside him, nodding toward the couple. The man sitting on the sofa ran a hand through his hair, then said, “Brad Ludlow. This is my girlfriend, Kaitlyn Ashe. Thanks for coming.”

  As Rodney lowered himself onto the leather love seat across from the couple, he noticed Brad reach over to take hold of Kaitlyn’s hand. The loving grasp of reassurance. He’d seen it so many times between loved ones. A quick squeeze to bolster the courage of a grieving or injured friend or family member. He’d often wondered if it really worked.

  “Ms. Ashe. Can you tell me what happened? How you found the letter?” he said.

  Kaitlyn’s gaze drifted from him to Julie, where it lingered for a long moment. “I was staying at Brad’s place last night.”

  “I have an apartment in downtown Philly,” Brad added.

  “We were sharing a bottle of wine to unwind—it was anti-dedication night,” Kaitlyn said.

  Rodney closed his eyes for a moment. Maybe the coffee’s worn off. He was already lost in the conversation. Maybe Julie was right. He needed to pay more attention to the community around him. “Anti-dedication?”

  Julie leaned over his shoulder. “She plays a song that’s basically the opposite of a love song, and people can call in their dedications for it.”

  “I only do it on Friday nights.” Kaitlyn took a longer-than-usual look at Julie, perhaps out of appreciation that, unlike him, she knew of her work. “Sorry, have we met before?”

  “No,” Julie said, shaking her head. “I don’t think so.”

  Rodney cleared his throat. “Can we get back to the letter? You said you stayed in Philly last night.”

  Kaitlyn turned toward him. “That’s right. This morning, I drove home to find a letter taped to my door.”

  Her gaze locked on his. Rodney was unable to shake her singular likeness to his daughter. This was how he’d hoped his daughter would’ve looked in ten years, but after his last visit to see Carol, he’d given up on that dream. “What time did you leave Brad’s apartment?”

  “We had breakfast around nine, and she left close to ten,” Brad said.

  Rodney gave the man a half-smile. He couldn’t stand loved ones who answered questions for the victim. Too controlling in his mind. Have to be patient, he thought. I’m sure he means well.

  “I got back here about ten-thirty. I knew what it was as soon as I saw it on the door,” said Kaitlyn.

  “She called me in a panic,” Brad said. “I rushed over immediately.”

  Rodney turned her words over in his head. Something she’d just said had caught his attention. “How did you know?”

  Kaitlyn looked puzzled for a moment. “What?”

  “You said you knew right away what it was,” Rodney said. “How did you know?”

  “There’ve been other letters.”

  7

  Rodney watched the silver BMW as it backed out of the driveway, moved along Garnet Lane, and then turned onto Belmont Avenue. As the car sped off, he caught a brief wave from Brad. Kaitlyn slouched in the passenger seat, looking despondent. Her fidgeting throughout their interview revealed how uncomfortable she was with his questioning. She was visibly shaken by recent events. Spending the rest of the weekend at Brad’s apartment had seemed to come as a welcome suggestion. Rodney had waited with the others in the living room while Kaitlyn went upstairs to pack a few things in an overnight bag.

  While she was upstairs, he studied the bookshelves in the living room. He smiled as his eyes scanned the title
s. War and Peace. Anna Karenina. Milton’s Paradise Lost. Pride and Prejudice. This was where the resemblance between Kaitlyn and his daughter ended. Carol could never stand the classics. He shook his head slowly. The last time he’d seen her, Carol had lost a lot of weight. She’d looked bony and emaciated. Her once auburn hair had been dyed jet black and looked like it hadn’t been washed in days. The red marks on her arm had been a dead giveaway. She was on drugs, he was sure. He had resolved to talk to the warden and bring this to his attention, knowing full well that drugs seemed even easier to get and harder to combat inside than on the street. That last meeting hadn’t gone well, with his daughter seeming more resentful than ever. She’d spewed a litany of scornful words across the cold, metal table while he sat silent, feeling her every vicious word like a dagger to the heart. When Carol was escorted back to her cell, he could do nothing but remain motionless and watch her vanish back into the prison.

  Rodney glanced at his watch. 2:35. He leaned against his car and folded his arms. “What do you think?”

  Julie stood before him, gazing over the pages of her notepad. They’d spent two hours talking to Brad and Kaitlyn. It hadn’t been anywhere near as fruitful as he would have liked it to be.

  “Not a lot to go on,” Julie said.

  “I know. Eight other letters,” he said. “All in the trash. If forensics can’t find a fingerprint on this latest one, we’ll have damn near nothing to work with.”

  “Since the other seven were delivered to the radio station, should I liaise with Philly police to see what they can do?”

  Rodney nodded. “Talk to them. I doubt there’ll be much they can do unless things escalate further. They’ve got enough going on with the GBT Strangler running amok in the city.”