Chapter Thirteen.

Emilie rummaged through her mix and match gla.s.ses until she located the delicate, crystal wine goblets she'd managed to procure in the divorce. Evan had laid claim to any material item of worth, but she hid the goblets at the bottom of her closet, buried under a pile of old clothes.

She clutched a gla.s.s of Merlot and padded across the gleaming floor. Emilie sank into her dusty-blue, overstuffed chair. She burrowed into the chair's plush microfiber and knocked back a healthy gulp of wine.

"Are you sure?" Sarah sat down on the matching sofa and crossed her long legs. Emilie had always been envious of them. "The cops have been chasing this b.a.s.t.a.r.d for five days. You really think he's going to walk into a building loaded with security cameras and leave a love letter? And what's this 'Taker' c.r.a.p?"

"Read the clipping. It's all in there. That stupid reporter came up with the name. I called him Creepy Guy before but I guess the Taker stuck in my head."

"When did this article run?"

"The day after it happened."

Sarah spread out the crumpled clipping on the gla.s.s coffee table. "Jesus. Your mother's a bigger b.i.t.c.h than I thought. How nice of her to divulge your life's story."

"She didn't tell it all. Just the parts that made her look like a victim. She didn't dare mention the real reason I left."

Of course not-the truth would threaten Claire's precious social status. Her mother's high-society friends didn't want to know about the skeletons in Claire's closet. That would mean they were a.s.sociating with the worst sort of person. Better to turn the other cheek and a.s.sume everything was Emilie's fault, just as they had when the scandal of her dating Evan broke. Claire had been the victim, embarra.s.sed by her s.l.u.tty daughter. As punishment, her friends had made sure their kids didn't socialize with Emilie.

"What is the real reason?" Sarah asked.

"You and Jeremy both know I discovered something terrible. It's in the past, and that's where it's going to stay." Emilie took another gulp of wine.

Sarah shook her head but didn't argue. "I see the reporter found out about your visit to the psych ward. You okay with that?"

"Does it matter? My mother already made me look like a teenage wh.o.r.e." Her vision blurred as she stared at the newspaper. She wished it would disappear. "I still don't see how the Taker could have left this."

"Me either, but who else would do such a thing? And someone got it into the mailbox."

Exhaustion overwhelmed Emilie. She drained her gla.s.s. "I'm so d.a.m.ned tired, Sarah. I have awful dreams, even when I'm awake."

"Is that what happened back there?"

"I had a flashback of something the Taker said in the bank." Emilie leaned forward in the chair. "He talked about the past affecting us forever. I don't know where, but I've heard that before. And I'm sure this man knows about my past. He knows too much."

"Like what?"

Emilie recounted the Taker's comments about the innocence of children, his observation that she knew about burdens, and the exact words she'd just remembered. "And what about the Blake poem? No one knew about that. The FBI thinks I'm projecting, but I know in my gut he's talking about me specifically."

Sarah's violet eyes were wide with fear. "Em, if this guy does know these things, how long has he been stalking you? You didn't recognize him, did you?"

"Something about him seemed familiar, but nothing specific. Just a vague notion."

"You've got to call Agent Ronson now and tell her everything."

Ronson showed up half an hour later with Avery on her heels.

"Has anyone else touched the clipping?"

"Just Sarah and me." Emilie motioned to her friend. Avery's eyes swept over Sarah's voluptuous frame. Emilie cleared her throat, and his gaze snapped to hers. Avery had the b.a.l.l.s to smirk.

Ronson looked up from the clipping. "Vance's wife?"

Sarah extended her hand. "Yes."

"Have you seen anyone suspicious today?" Ronson asked.

"No one, but I just got back from vacation this morning. I found Emilie with the clipping."

"It was in your mailbox?" Ronson turned back to Emilie.

"Yes."

"Could anyone else have a copy of your key?

"I've got the only one."

Avery stepped forward, determined to get in on the interview. His pasty forehead glistened with sweat and his tie looked too tight. He addressed his questions to Sarah. "This building has an alarm, correct?"

"Not the lobby." Sarah took a step back from the detective to stand next to Emilie. "You have to be buzzed into the individual units."

"Forensics is on their way," Ronson said. "We'll bag the clipping and dust for fingerprints, but it's unlikely we'll find any."

"I'll talk to the mail carrier and get the footage from the security cameras," Avery said.

"How is she supposed to feel safe in her home with stuff like this happening?" Sarah demanded.

"Don't get too excited about this," Ronson said. "Someone as organized as the Taker wouldn't make such a brazen attempt. I'd guess it's just some a.s.shole messing with you, but we might be able to get some more information."

"I remembered something when I found the article."

Ronson listened carefully to the details. Avery took notes, but Emilie doubted they made much sense. The p.r.i.c.k couldn't keep his eyes off Sarah.

"Now that's interesting," Ronson said. "It definitely reaffirms he's intelligent and thinks highly of himself. And the fact he called you 'Miss Emilie' also displays politeness, something you already mentioned."

"So what now?"

"Let's see what the techs find. We'll let you know if anything comes out of the security cameras or from the mail carrier."

"In the meantime, keep up with the security measures. Don't go anywhere alone," Avery said.

"I won't." She didn't bother to hide her distain.

"Despite what Officer Madigan may have led you to believe, Ms. Davis, I am a competent detective. I wouldn't be working your case if I wasn't."

"Nathan didn't say anything negative about you, no matter how much I tried to bait him." Emilie bristled. "I came to those conclusions on my own."

"Very well. We'll call you as soon as we know anything."

Emilie locked the door behind the cops and turned to Sarah. "What an a.s.shole."

Early morning raids were a lesson in stamina and patience. SWAT hit its first target around four a.m. and the rest of the morning was controlled chaos as the team moved from location to location. Nathan usually reveled in ferreting drug dealers out of their hideouts, but he was so tired he couldn't get any satisfaction out of the seven suspects SWAT had arrested. He'd nearly fallen asleep in the shower after the team had returned to the precinct, and barely remembered getting dressed.

"Shirt's on backwards," Chris said.

"f.u.c.k it." Nathan slammed his locker shut and sat down on the steel bench to put his shoes on.

"You look like s.h.i.t, man."

"So do you."

"Yeah, but that's because Amy was over last night. We didn't go to bed until a couple of hours before the alarm went off. What's your excuse?"

"Maybe I had a woman over, too."

"No you didn't." Chris laughed. "You're a relationship guy, not a one-night-stand guy. And you're choosy. So unless you reconciled with Ava-"

"h.e.l.l, no."

"Then what's your excuse?"

"I was just up late doing some research."

"On what?"

"Stuff."

"Bulls.h.i.t." Chris kicked him hard in the shin with his boot. "On what?"

"Ouch! Obsession crimes, all right?"

"Why?"

"They're interesting."

"Come on. Even for a nerd like you, research is a form of torture. What's this all about?"

"The Taker."

"The Taker?" Chris dropped his duffle bag and sat down next to Nathan. "Isn't that the nickname that fame-whoring reporter gave the kidnapper?"

"Her article was a self-indulging piece of s.h.i.t, but you gotta admit, the name's fitting."

"I guess. But why the research?"

"I want to know more about what makes people like the Taker tick," Nathan said.

"What brought this on?"

"Avery is incompetent. And Ronson wanted my opinion."

Nathan wasn't sure that was the real answer. Since his encounter with Emilie at the station, he'd been unable to forget her pain and lack of faith in the police. He wanted to help her.

"You know you're not a profiler, right? Not officially, anyway."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Nathan asked.

"It means you've got some kind of bizarre sixth sense. Somehow you always know what kind of person you're dealing with and how they're going to react, especially in crisis situations. Isn't that a lot like profiling?"

"Now you sound like my sister. I suppose you're going to tell me I should apply to the FBI, too?"

"I would, but I'm a selfish a.s.shole." Chris stood and hefted his bag over his shoulder. "They're bound to s.n.a.t.c.h you up, and I like you being around. Most of the time."

"Thanks."

"In all seriousness though, what are you hoping to get out of the research other than frustration at not being able to do anything?"

"There's something important about his behavior we've missed. I just haven't figured out what yet."

"You always were the knight in shining Kevlar."

"Shut it. I'm going home to pa.s.s out until tomorrow morning. Don't call me unless you want a boot up your a.s.s."

Nathan trudged down the hall, thinking only of his comfortable bed and eight straight hours of rest. Several feet in front of him, Agent Ronson struggled to keep up with Avery's long strides. Nathan kept his head down-he was in no mood for Avery's G.o.d complex.

"The d.a.m.ned kid is a junkie," Ronson said. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d paid him twenty bucks to pick Davis's mailbox and leave that clipping."

Nathan forgot about Avery and increased his pace.

"Can he add anything to the sketch?" Avery asked.

"No. Wore a facemask. Kid was too high to give any other details."

"Another dead end. This has become a high-profile case that could make or break a cop's career. Stupid article from The Sun went national. And I don't want a red mark on my file."

Ronson stopped abruptly and slammed her hand into Avery's chest.

Nathan slowed his pace and ducked his head. He didn't want to miss this.

"Do you ever think of anyone but yourself? We need to solve this case to save Emilie Davis's life. Pleasing the mayor is the least of my concerns. Get your priorities in line or stay behind the desk."

"Agent Ronson, I know you don't like politics, but they're a factor."