The red-hot passion between them isn’t exactly an open-and-shut case…

To find her missing sister and an attacker she can’t remember, criminal profiler Mia Perez teams up with gorgeous Boston P.D. lieutenant Gray Bartlett. Their prime suspect: a psychotic serial killer. But when Mia’s prints are found on the gun used in recent murders, Gray doesn’t know what to think. Is the brainy beauty he’s falling for being framed?

Mia finds herself incredibly attracted to the hero risking his life and career to protect her. Yet she keeps a deadly secret of her past from Gray. Now she needs more than his desire—she needs him to prove her innocence, find her sister…and keep her alive.

He went in for another kiss, but she placed her hand squarely on his chest to stop him.

“No. You need to go to work.”

The spell was broken, and just in time. What were either of them thinking, groping each other on the sidewalk like a couple of teenagers? Getting involved like this was a mistake—a big one. She twisted out of his embrace and smoothed her hair.

“Mia.” His voice was hoarse. “Don’t do this.”

“You should be thanking me.” The kiss left her feeling disheveled, but as she adjusted her dress, she realized there was little actually out of place. She just felt out of order. “You can’t be seen with me, and you definitely can’t be seen kissing me. That’s a great way to end your career.”

“No one’s watching.”

“Someone’s always watching, Gray.” Mia’s gaze darted around self-consciously. She knew he’d taken a bit of a risk having dinner with her, but that could have been explained away. A kiss in front of her apartment, however…

Dear Reader,

There are several reasons why this book is special to me. One is that I wrote it while my sweet newborn son slept cradled in my arms. Another is that it’s set in Boston, one of my favorite cities. Yet another is that it was simply fun to bring Gray and Mia to life.

The title of the book, When No One Is Watching, is a reference to former UCLA basketball coach John Wooden, who said, “The true test of a man’s character is what he does when no one is watching.” Isn’t every mystery story, at its heart, about what happens when no one is watching? Aren’t they all, to a certain extent, about the character of those caught up in the middle? It seemed like the perfect quote to inspire a book about an investigator who follows a trail of clues and learns that she may not be the person she believes herself to be.

I always hope that my readers enjoy reading my books as much as I enjoyed writing them. For this one, I also hope you have someone special to snuggle up with while reading, as I did while writing.

Warmly,

Natalie

When No One Is Watching

Natalie Charles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

NATALIE CHARLES

is a practicing attorney whose day-job writing is more effective for treating insomnia than most sleeping pills. This may explain why her after-hours writing involves the incomparable combination of romance and suspense—the literary equivalent of chocolate and peanut butter. The happy sufferer of a lifelong addiction to mystery novels, Natalie has, sadly, yet to out-sleuth a detective. She lives in New England with a husband who makes her believe in Happily Ever After and two children who make her believe in miracles.

Natalie loves hearing from readers! You can contact her through her website, www.nataliecharles.net.

For Talia and Luke, with all of my love. I hope that one day you will experience the thrill of having your heart stolen the way you’ve stolen mine.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

Ten months after Lena Perez vanished, a woman’s body was found along the banks of the Charles River. The call woke Lieutenant Gray Bartlett an hour before his alarm was scheduled to go off.

“I don’t want to speak too soon, but it looks like it could be the work of Valentine,” the sergeant said. Gray didn’t need to hear anything more. Valentine meant his case, his killer. Another dead body bringing down his stats.

He rolled out of bed and staggered to his feet, sweeping his palm forehead to chin and back again before stumbling to the kitchen. One of these days he would feel as though he lived here, in this bare-walled shell of an apartment. He stood in his boxer shorts in the center of his kitchen, gulping the thick remains of yesterday’s coffee and passing his gaze across the empty countertops and the sparse table-and-chair set. He tossed his mug into the sink.

The first forty-eight hours were crucial. After that the likelihood of solving this crime went down precipitously. Gray had set the mental timer already, wondering how many hours he was behind. Had the crime occurred two days ago? Five hours ago? He was out the door, showered and shaved, in less than ten minutes. Not quite the timing he’d been able to keep when he was in the military, but Boston P.D. wasn’t the Marines.

Traffic into the city was light. The entire city felt emptier now that colleges had cleared out for the summer. He made the drive in record time and pulled his vehicle into line behind a string of squad cars parked against a hill overlooking the Charles. At the top of the embankment stood a crowd of people craning their necks like geese to glimpse the carnage. The responding officers had strung yellow police tape widely, blocking off the cement stairs that led down the embankment to the river, and closer to the scene, joggers were being redirected. They were looking backwards, too.

It’s the stuff of nightmares, folks. Keep jogging.

A young officer stood in front of the steps leading to the scene, blocking his entry. “Sir, this is a crime scene. You’re going to have to keep moving along.”

There was a time when Gray might have taken such a statement as an affront to his authority, but somewhere along the years, he’d become accustomed to it, and then he’d stopped caring altogether. It was a perk of the job that he was able to dress in plain clothes—today, jeans and a black polo shirt. No need for a uniform when you spent your workday sifting through crime scenes and interviewing junkie witnesses, but the plain-clothes policy backfired when the endless stream of new kids didn’t know who the hell he was. He reached into his back pocket and flashed his credentials. The officer immediately stepped to the side.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” he mumbled, lifting the crime scene tape to allow Gray entry to the stairs.

The young officer’s face was fat with youth, but lots of seasoned officers still looked fresh out of the academy. What identified this kid as a rookie were his blue eyes: wide and restless with unfamiliar fear. Gray had seen eyes like that at almost every crime scene he’d ever encountered. They were the eyes of disillusionment.

“Officer Hodges,” Gray read from his name tag. “You’re one of the responding officers?”

“Me and Officer Neill,” he replied. His cheeks were flushed and sweaty, and he glanced uneasily toward the bottom of the stairs as if he didn’t quite believe this was happening.

“First on the scene.” Gray pulled his shoulders back as he eyed the young officer. “You lose your breakfast?”

“Sir?” The kid’s wide eyes snapped back to meet his. “No. No, sir.”

“Then you did better than me when I saw my first body.”

“Lieutenant!”

The shout came from the bottom of the embankment, where Gray observed Officer Jude Langley waving to him. Gray brushed past the young officer without offering a condescending pat on the arm, dipping below the crime scene tape to walk the steps to the scene below. “Officer Langley,” he said as he reached the bottom stair.

“Sir. Sorry it’s so early.”

Sometimes Gray had to remind himself that Langley was a Worcester native. He acted more like some transplant from a region of the country where people still said please, thank you and sorry. He liked Langley. The kid pulled long hours and didn’t give him lip. But if he had one criticism, it was that he was too nice. Someone would take advantage of that.

“Unless you put the vic there, you have nothing to apologize for.” Gray accepted the pair of latex gloves the officer held out to him. “What’s the story?”

“A jogger found her. ME’s on the scene, but nothing’s been moved.”

Gray nodded, slipped the gloves on his hands and approached the small crowd gathered ten yards away. The medical examiner was crouched beside the body, but he rose when he saw the lieutenant. Gray had worked Homicide long enough to know all of the MEs, their strengths and shortcomings, which ones played well in front of a jury, and which ones came across as deader than the bodies they carved. Dr. Jonah McCarthy was one of the doctors whose blood still ran warm. In Gray’s opinion, he was one of the best.

“Doc.” Gray nodded to him in solemn greeting. He never made pleasantries at a death scene.

“Good to see you, Lieutenant.” He sighed and crouched down beside the body again. “Young female, probably early to mid-twenties.” Right down to business.

Around them the crime scene unit continued its work. Outdoor crime scenes were exposed to animals, insects and weather. The dead might have all the time in the world, but the living had to move quickly to avoid losing evidence.

Gray squinted at the body from behind his sunglasses. The early summer morning was already promising to be scorching, and the sun rippled across the water like flashes of silverfish. She was lying in the grass, her toes pointed toward the shore as if sunbathing. It didn’t take a medical degree to see that the woman had met a violent end delivered by the edge of a knife. It didn’t take a law degree to know that he was looking at a murder, not a homicide.

“I thought she was pulled from the river?” The vic’s hair and clothing were dry, and her features didn’t carry the characteristic bloat of floaters.

“No, although the body is slightly damp, probably from condensation,” McCarthy said. “She hasn’t been here long, either.” He gently pried open an exposed wound on the vic’s arm. “Temperature’s been above ninety degrees for three days now, and no blowfly larvae. They’re just starting to find her.” As if on cue, a fly landed on her cheek.

Gray crouched next to the doctor, trying not to reel at the stench of death and grateful he’d received the call before breakfast. The victim’s face was frozen in a grimace, and her limbs appeared stiff. “The body’s in full rigor?”

“Yes. She was most likely killed sometime overnight.”

“Dumped here early this morning,” Officer Langley said, pointing to the earth. “No blood on the ground.”

Gray frowned and surveyed the surrounding area. “Have you been able to locate the site where she was killed?”

“Not yet,” said Langley.

“Keep looking.” He nodded at the ME. “What about cause of death?”

“I’ll perform a full autopsy, but it looks like what you’d expect.” He gestured with a gloved finger as he reviewed the evidence. “She was stabbed by a serrated knife before she died, and she saw it coming.” He pointed to the cuts on her forearms and hands—evidence she’d tried to block the attack. “There are a lot of wounds. Someone was angry about something.”

Gray turned away to stare out at the Charles, where life continued as usual. White sails already billowed against the wind, pulling boats across the water. Not far away from this death scene, people were enjoying a pleasant Saturday morning.

An unfamiliar voice cut through his thoughts. “Langley, you’ll want to look for gravel and clay.”

Gray whipped around to see a woman coming from the stairs he’d just walked down. Her slender figure was clothed casually in jeans and a blue tank. Her hair was pulled away from her face and secured at the back of her neck in a messy knot, but auburn tendrils grazed her cheeks. With one hand she clutched a small stainless-steel travel mug, and with the other she shielded her eyes from the sun, leaving untouched the pair of sunglasses that dangled from the center of her tank.

She pointed to the victim. “Her knees are torn, and there’s gravel and dirt in the cuts.” She pointed the same hand at the path along the Charles. “This path is asphalt. The injuries would be different if she’d been killed here.”

“Excuse me.” Gray stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the body. No one was allowed on his scene unless authorized, and he’d never met this woman. “This is an active crime scene. What’s your role in this investigation?”

She faced him, still shielding her eyes, and then lifted the pair of sunglasses and slid them on her face. “There, that’s better.” She reached into her back pocket and removed a business card. “I’m Dr. Mia Perez. I’m an associate professor of psychology at Northeastern.”

An associate professor? She looked as if she was only in her twenties. He glanced to the top of the embankment. “Who the hell let you in here?”

She set her jaw firmly but spared a tight smile. “The officers know me. I’ve done some work for the Boston P.D. It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“What kind of work?”

“Criminal profiling. I’ve provided some insight on cold cases that has led to convictions.”

Gray squinted at the simple business card with disinterest before handing it back to her. “With all due respect, none of that answers my original question. What’s your role in this investigation?”

Her mouth twitched. “In my experience, when someone says ‘with all due respect,’ they actually mean the opposite.” She nodded curtly at the business card. “Keep it. I have plenty of them. And as to your question, I was asked to be here.”

Gray’s eyes narrowed. “By whom?”

“Me, sir.” Officer Langley stepped forward, bobbing his head nervously. “She was working with Lieutenant Mathieson last summer on the Valentine case, and I heard this was a young woman, so...” He stood dumbly in place.

“So what, Officer?” Gray knew he didn’t have to do much to appear physically imposing, and now he just pulled up to his full height, rested his hands at his sides and waited for the explanation. “You thought this woman might be one of Valentine’s victims? He hasn’t killed in nearly a year.”

“About ten months,” said Mia. “Serial killers often take breaks in between killings. Officer Langley called me to the scene because this vic fit the profile, and because I might be helpful if this was Valentine’s scene.”

Valentine. Blame the media for the stupid moniker. A little over a year ago, bodies began to pile up in Boston. Three bodies and one missing person later, a reporter started calling the perp Valentine because an anonymous source let slip that a single killer was suspected, and that this killer left flowers at the scenes. What the reporter couldn’t know was how apt the name truly was, because the police hadn’t disclosed that Valentine had removed the heart from each of his victims. A vile souvenir, no doubt.

Officially, Valentine was a bogeyman, a figment of that reporter’s imagination. “Do we think this is the work of a single killer? It’s too soon to tell,” said the chief at a press conference when the Valentine article came out. No one at the Boston P.D. was prepared to utter the words serial killer, and a year later, no one had. Serial killers didn’t just generate hysteria in the public—they attracted the FBI, and Gray needed federal involvement in his cases like he needed another homicide file on his desk. When his predecessor retired, Gray inherited the Valentine file and the sleepless nights that came with it. All of his worrying amounted to squat, because once the chief denied Valentine’s existence, Valentine stopped killing.

“Like that fairy in Peter Pan,” an officer quipped one day. “He dies if you don’t believe in him.”

Someone should have named him Tinker Bell.

“Valentine doesn’t exist. Not officially.” Gray kept his side to her and spoke to Officer Langley instead. “And we bring profilers on board only after CSU has had the chance to process the scene.”

“That’s not always the best idea, Lieutenant.”

He spun to face her, and Mia continued. “I’ve pointed out evidence that CSU has missed on more than one occasion. Once CSU leaves the scene, this evidence can’t be used in court because the chain of custody has been broken.” She shrugged. “That’s why it’s better if I see the scene while it’s being processed rather than later.”

Gray bristled. No one told him what best practices were. “Now, wait a damn—”

“I made a mistake,” said Officer Langley. “I shouldn’t have invited her without your knowledge. Lieutenant Mathieson would have...” He shook his head. “But I should have run it by you first.”

“Lieutenant Mathieson is retired. Valentine is my case now.” He glanced at Mia, who was watching him intently. “We’ll talk about this privately, Langley. Later.”

“Yes, sir.”

Her mouth was pulled into a tight straight line. “I haven’t caught your name, Lieutenant.”

“Gray Bartlett.” It came out as more of a growl. He pointed to her travel mug. “What’s that? Coffee? It’s not allowed at the scene.”

“Sorry, I got the call while I was out and I came right away,” she said, setting the mug on the lowest step. “It’s monkey-picked oolong. Do you drink tea, Lieutenant?”

Gray rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. This all had to be some kind of bad dream. That, or someone was pranking him. “No, I don’t drink tea.”

“I drink it for the antioxidants, though I load it with sugar.” She smiled. “That probably defeats the purpose, wouldn’t you think?”

He was certain he didn’t have any opinion whatsoever about the interplay of sugar and antioxidants in her monkey tea. “What, exactly, have you been working on with regards to the Valentine case, Ms. Perez?”

“It’s ‘Doctor,’” she said, “and I’ve been working on a profile of Valentine—assuming he exists.” The corner of her mouth quirked at the little jab. Cute. “Mostly I’ve had to rely on police files, but there’s nothing like seeing a scene firsthand.” She brushed her hands together, apparently eager to begin work. “Don’t worry, this isn’t costing taxpayers a dime. I volunteer my time with the department. It complements my academic research.”

“Dr. Perez has consulted with me on some of her academic work,” Dr. McCarthy said. “Fascinating.”

“Oh?” Gray’s interest was only mildly piqued.

“I’m researching biological origins for psychopathy,” she said. “Other researchers have examined brain scans of psychopathic criminals and found an abnormal structure that may correlate with criminal activity.” She paused, and then a smile, slow as honey, spread across her lips. “I see I’m boring you, Lieutenant.”

She was awfully perky for this hour of the morning. Maybe there was something to that weird tea of hers. “You lost me at biological origins. And I don’t see what brain abnormalities have to do with homicide.”

“So you were listening.” She squared off with him and began talking animatedly. “It’s the old ‘nature versus nurture’ debate. How is it that so many people can experience bad childhoods, but only some of them will engage in criminal activity as a result?”

“Not all criminals come from broken homes. Some serial killers came from loving families.”

“Exactly.” Her hands moved when she spoke, her body lit with passion. “Just like not all psychopaths become criminals. I’m trying to understand why we behave the way we do. Wouldn’t it be interesting to isolate a brain structure that predisposes a person to criminal activity? Then we might begin to truly understand the criminal mind. It doesn’t stop there. We may be able to identify physical characteristics of the brain that influence other behaviors, as well.”

He made a valiant effort not to roll his eyes. Hadn’t he seen some brand of similar optimism a thousand times? And each was equally grating. “Don’t tell me. You’re the kind who thinks it’s possible to know another person. To truly know and understand them.”

“Of course. To an extent.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I believe we operate within certain reasonably predictable parameters,” she said. “Our lives are comprised of stressors and responses. It’s my job to try to understand why individuals respond in a particular way to the stressors they encounter.”

“I’ll save you some time. I’ve worked in this job for long enough to know that you can never understand,” Gray said flatly. “You want to boil human behavior down to brain structure? People will surprise and disappoint you.” He shook his head. “No one knows who they are or what they’re capable of when tested. Not me, and not you.”

She stood in place, locking his hidden gaze with her own. Slowly, a smile worked at the corners of her lips, and she took a step forward, closing the space between them. “Anyway, Lieutenant, I promise I won’t distract you or anyone here from their work. I know how to make myself invisible. But while I’m here, I might be able to help you with this scene.”

Gray dragged his gaze across her figure again, making no attempt to hide his appraisal. She was long limbed, curvy and attractive, with high cheekbones and a gracefully arched nose. He had the utmost faith in the men and women who worked beneath him, but any woman who looked the way Mia did was going to present some kind of distraction. “I only allow law enforcement professionals at my scenes,” Gray said. “Stand right where you are, take a good look and then leave the way you came. I’m feeling generous, so I’ll give you five minutes.”

“Fine,” she said, to his surprise. “I’ll take what I can get.” She calmly snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “I may not have graduated the police academy, but I promise you I know how to behave around a dead body.” Her hands found her hips, and she faced him in a silent challenge. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, you’re blocking my view.”

He didn’t move, except to fold his arms across his chest. “What’s your interest in the Valentine case, anyway?”

In all the years Gray had worked with Lieutenant Mathieson, he’d never known him to work with profilers. In fact, Mathieson had referred to profilers with derision more than once, calling them charlatans and “tea-leaf readers.” Gray wanted to know how Mia had managed to convince Mathieson not only to allow her onto the Valentine case, but to put her on the list of persons to call anytime someone matching the profile of one of Valentine’s victims turned up. It was no small feat.

Mia grew quiet. “It happens to be a very personal matter for me.”

“Personal? How?”

This time, she didn’t flash a smile. “My sister was one of Valentine’s victims.”

* * *

Mia should have taken the pill, because her bones and viscera already trembled inside of her skin. Instead she’d nestled it in her pocket, full of good intentions. She’d take it if she needed it, but not a second sooner. Even more than the sometimes-crippling anxiety, she hated those pills and the way they clung to her esophagus, but sometimes she needed help functioning.

It’s not Lena, she thought, releasing her breath from the vise in her chest. She couldn’t have handled seeing that, and yet part of her desperately wanted the not knowing to end. That was the worst part about having a loved one go missing: not knowing whether she would one day pass Lena on the street or pick up the phone to hear her voice. Or open the front door to see police officers charged with delivering the worst possible news.

It’s not Lena.

Mia fingered the pill in her pocket, clutching it against a wad of lint. She hadn’t touched police work in the months since she was injured, and she couldn’t exactly say she missed it. Still, she felt its tug on her, perhaps from some need to bring order to her small corner of the universe or to feel useful again. Here I go, she thought wryly. Her illustrious return to normalcy, where normal meant poring over the handiwork of psychopaths in her spare time. She let the pill fall again to the bottom of her pocket and stared at the stiff body of the woman in front of her. Was this Lena’s fate, too?

“I’m sorry about your sister,” said Gray, his tone shifting to a place somewhere between near-warmth and not-unkindness. “What was her name?”

“Lena Perez. She was a grad student at Boston University. She vanished last August. Before you think I’m some serial killer groupie, I took no interest in Valentine before then. I started working on the case last summer when Lena went missing.” Eager to avoid elaborating, Mia cocked her head at him. “Look, I’m not here to contaminate your scene and create trouble. I’ll stick to five minutes if you’re serious about that, but can I at least walk around a bit?”

He was like a stone wall, filling up her line of vision with his broad shoulders and arrogance, but she saw him flinch as he considered the request, and then he stepped aside. “You can walk, but I’m going with you.”

How gallant. She stifled a groan and didn’t respond other than to shrug and finally step around him to examine the victim.

The woman was fully clothed in jean shorts and a novelty T-shirt. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted a dark pink. “She doesn’t look like she was dressed to go out. She may have been first attacked in her home,” Mia mused, mostly to herself. “Was she a student?”

“We don’t have an ID,” said Gray.

Poor girl. Mia traced her gaze over the sad figure. The woman’s eyes were filmy and stared into nothing. Mia pointed to a wilting bouquet of flowers nestled beside her left arm. “What’s with the flowers?”

“They were left with the body,” said Dr. McCarthy. “Red roses mixed with white carnations. What do you think—is Valentine back from vacation?”

Mia frowned, folding her arms across her chest. She’d memorized the Valentine files, spending hours studying the crime scene photos and autopsy reports. This scene was wrong.

She felt a gaze and looked up to see Gray watching her. “You don’t think so, Dr. Perez.”

When she’d first spotted him from the top of the embankment, she swore her heart had stopped. He was unexpected, standing like some marvelous Greek sculpture by the bank of the river, the fine, straight angles of his body incongruent with the ugly chaos over which he loomed. The morning was hot, but the blood in her cheeks ran still warmer at the intensity of his stare. If he weren’t so grouchy, she might have found him attractive.

“It’s all wrong,” she said, shaking her head. “The flowers, for one. It’s a cheap arrangement, something you’d buy from a grocery store. Valentine has never left bouquets like that.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“No.” The word flew from her lips on instinct, and she scrambled to produce a basis for that conclusion. “That would be like a fashionista dressing in cheap clothes. It’s not who he is. Valentine leaves a single kind of flower, and the choice is always symbolic. The flowers aren’t meant to honor the woman—they are meant to say something about her. This arrangement is all wrong. The body is posed improperly, too.” She pointed to the straight arms. “Her arms should be crossed over her chest, and the flowers should be in the center, over her sternum.” She paused as she braced herself. “Doc, what about her heart?”

McCarthy reached forward and gently felt along the victim’s sternum. “Valentine cuts through the bone. This sternum appears intact.”

“No,” Mia repeated, breathing easier. “This isn’t Valentine.”

“Are you saying we have a copycat?” Gray said.

“I didn’t say that, but you can’t ignore the similarities. Also—” she gestured to the gaping wounds on the victim’s palms “—Valentine restrains his victims. We’ve never found defensive wounds.”

Gray removed his sunglasses and blinked against the glare. Mia watched him out of the corner of her eye, not wanting to be too obvious. He looked as if he were carved out of marble, but behind his dark eyes was a softness. She’d always believed the eyes were the window to the soul, and she wondered what he was hiding behind that wall he’d constructed to protect himself.

He knelt beside the body, his brow tense with concentration. “Valentine may have screwed up this time,” he said. “Maybe she broke free of the restraints.”

“But there are no ligature marks on her wrist,” noted Dr. McCarthy. “There’s no evidence she was ever restrained in the first place.”

“The media doesn’t know about the bonds or the missing heart,” Mia said. “A copycat wouldn’t know, either.”

“Hey, wait a second.” Dr. McCarthy pressed a gloved hand to the victim’s side. “Since when does Valentine carry a gun?”

Mia’s pulse quickened, and she and Gray rushed to the ME’s side as he probed his index finger against the stiff edges of a hole in the victim’s shirt. “I didn’t notice it before with all of the blood on the shirt, but this is a bullet hole.” He leaned closer and frowned. “Not much blood. She may have been shot postmortem.”

“Overkill.” A shiver swept up Mia’s spine. “Why would he shoot a corpse?”

“Maybe he didn’t trust that the knife would work?” Dr. McCarthy offered.

“No.” This time it was Gray who spoke. He glanced at Mia before placing his sunglasses back on his face. “With all of those knife wounds? He knew she was dead.”

He straightened and turned his back to them, staring out over the Charles. After a moment, he turned back. “I agree with Dr. Perez. This isn’t Valentine.”

“Wow, you’re listening to me. I’m flattered.” She gave a small smile.

“Don’t be flattered,” he replied flatly. “I listen to evidence.”

Her shoulders tightened. Arrogant jerk. She’d fought hard to be taken seriously by the police officers she’d worked with, and she’d succeeded by producing real results. It had been years since anyone had treated her with such hostility, and Mia tamped down the irritation surging in her chest. This was her reward for trying to be personable.

“A copycat.” Gray cursed under his breath. “This is the last thing I need.”

“Lieutenant!” an officer called from farther down the path. “Any chance a gun was involved?” He held up a handgun with a gloved hand. “We just found this in the grass here.”

Gray’s face darkened. “What’s the caliber?”

The officer turned the gun. “Looks like a .32. White handle. Looks expensive.”

Gray and Mia exchanged a quick glance. “Yeah,” said Gray. “Bag it.”

Mia tucked a strand of hair behind her ears and swept the back of her hand across her brow. Her lungs were heavy from the thick summer air, and she was already imagining how good it might feel to plunge into the cold water of the river. Thinking and doing were completely different things, though. She didn’t normally like to bathe with E. coli. “I think my five minutes are up. Unless you want me to stick around and help you find more evidence for you to listen to.”

She didn’t expect him to flinch, and he didn’t disappoint her. “I’m a man of my word. I said five minutes, and I meant it.”

She shrugged. “Then I guess I’m off. Nice to see you, Dr. McCarthy. And maybe I’ll see you around, Lieutenant.”

“Nice to see you, Mia,” said Dr. McCarthy.

Gray grunted an indecipherable response, then added, “Don’t forget your monkey tea.”

A simple “thank you” would have sufficed. She turned with a sigh and started walking toward the cement steps. “It’s monkey-picked oolong,” she muttered under her breath as she retrieved her mug. She placed one foot on the landing before pausing and turning back toward Gray. “You have my card, Lieutenant,” she said.

“Yes.” He didn’t bother looking up from whatever object on the ground was holding his attention.

Mia nodded. “Good.”

She paused when she heard the quick successive clicks of a camera. Up at the top of the embankment, reporters were waiting for her. Mia turned her back to them. “Hey, Lieutenant?”

He glanced in her direction. “Yes?”

“You’ll want to be careful what you say to them.” She pointed to the media. “Valentine won’t take kindly to hearing about a copycat.”

She proceeded away from the scene and ignored the reporters who nearly tackled her when she reached street level. By then uneasiness had settled in her gut. She couldn’t place its origin. All she knew was that she couldn’t shake the feeling that something very bad might have just happened, and that she’d failed to recognize it.

Chapter 2

Mia couldn’t hide in the bathroom stall forever. She knew that. Someone would inevitably come looking for her, slipping beneath the stall door to find her perched on the back of the toilet like a queen on some perverse throne, her high heels wobbling on the seat, her fists clutching at the fabric of her gown to keep it from falling into the chemical-blue water.

Just the guest of honor having another anxiety attack. Nothing strange about that.

Thirty minutes until dinner. Mia propped her head up on the heel of her palms, resting her elbows on her knees, and tried not to think about the crowd. Her doctors assured her she was making progress and that her difficulty processing information wouldn’t last forever. Progress was slow. Tonight there would be swirls of colors and smells and noises that confused her senses, and she doubted she was equipped to manage this. Not yet.

Mia closed her eyes and focused on her breath, trying to resurrect the calm she’d felt on those few occasions she’d actually made it to yoga class. These days peace and solitude were indulgences that she could enjoy in only small doses before those around her became alarmed. The key was to find that sweet spot between enjoying much-needed isolation and triggering a minor manhunt. Everyone was always so concerned, and she found it exhausting. She winced when people spoke to her in ellipses. How are you holding up, Mia? You know, considering....

Was it any wonder she needed to hide?

Somewhere to the left, a toilet flushed. Mia opened her silver clutch to check her watch. The hotel ballroom was right down the hall. She could wait here for twenty-six more minutes and still have time to make the dinner.

A group of women came chattering into the restroom. It would be only a matter of time before someone curious fidgeted with the stall door, found it locked and started to wonder why she couldn’t see feet when she peered underneath. Time’s up.

Mia eased herself to the floor. She exited the stall and saw the line beginning to form. She took care washing her hands, singing “Happy Birthday” to herself twice while lathering, and then entered the fray.

The ballroom was so much louder than the muffled bliss of the women’s restroom, and her senses were instantly assaulted by a wash of colors, conversations and smells. She hovered by the back of the room, starting when someone pressed a cold glass into her hand.

“I thought you’d made a run for it.” Mark flashed his own tumbler and raised it to his lips. “Drink up. You’ll feel better.”

She doubted that very much but did as instructed. She cringed at the burn of the liquid. “Rum and Coke?”

“Diet Coke. Finish it. It’ll put some hair on your chest.”

“Not the look I was going for.” She lowered the glass to her waist, happy to at least have something besides her clutch to hold on to. Being empty-handed felt so awkward.

Mark issued a shrug that told her she could suit herself. Then he leaned forward until his breath was in her ear. “I know this isn’t easy for you. But you should at least pretend you’re enjoying yourself. Do it for Lena.”

Her gut still tensed at the mention of her sister. “Are you trying to motivate me, or make me feel guilty?”

He straightened. “Whatever works at this point. You can’t hide in the bathroom. You’re a guest of honor, and it’s undignified. People here are excited about your triumphant return to the spotlight.”

“I’ve never sought the spotlight,” she said wryly.

“But the spotlight sure found you, Dr. Perez.”

Mark Lewis would know about minor celebrity. He’d sought and found it as a young entrepreneur. Now he was a millionaire many times over, and his construction company, Eminence Corp, was poised to break ground on what would become the city’s tallest skyscraper. He lived in a penthouse at the Ritz-Carlton next to some of Boston’s athletic heroes, and he had standing invitations to the most exclusive events in the area.

All of it fascinated Mia, who had less than no desire to actually live such a life. Growing up the daughter of a father who taught high school and a mother who sold an occasional painting, she hadn’t learned a thing about high-fashion designers, crystal or silver. His was a foreign lifestyle. But since Lena’s murder, she and Mark each understood what the other felt in a way almost no one else in the world could. They’d each lost one of the people they’d loved the most, because before she’d vanished, Mark and Lena had been engaged.

Mia smoothed a clammy palm down the front of her dress before remembering how much it had cost her. Wouldn’t Lena have loved to see her older sister in a designer gown? Mia must have selected the garment in a weak moment, because when she’d put it on that evening, she’d been appalled to see how the dress she’d convinced herself was tasteful and modest was actually quite sexy. The shimmering steel-blue fabric clung to places her other clothes normally smoothed over, and the slit up the left side was much higher than she’d appreciated at first. She took another sip of her drink, and her face puckered again.

“You look beautiful,” said Mark. “Try to enjoy yourself.”

“I am enjoying myself.”

“And I’m Santa Claus.” With a flick of his wrist, he lifted the drink from her hand and helped himself to a generous gulp. “What can I give you that you’ll actually drink? I need to get you from completely frozen to thawed around the edges before your speech begins.”

She smiled. Mark wasn’t one of the people who spoke in ellipses, and she’d always appreciated that about him. She touched him lightly on the arm. “I’ll get my own drink. Can I get you a seltzer water?”

His face soured. “Is that a hint?”

“We’re both dropping them.”

She didn’t bother to wait for a response. She’d get him a seltzer with a dash of cranberry juice and a twist of lime. For herself...she didn’t much feel like drinking as she approached the bar, but then she thought of the night ahead, with all of the handshakes and pictures that would be taken. Then she thought of her sister and how there were a hundred reasons Mia would give anything to not be where she was at the moment. When the bartender asked her what she’d have to drink, Mia said, “Vodka tonic.”

While she waited, she traced her fingernails against the gleaming surface of the bar, admiring the red-and-gold flecks of the wood. Such rich colors, especially when compared to the dull yellow oak desk that sat in her office. She smiled to herself. What was it that Lena had called the desk when Mia first showed it to her? Utilitarian.

“Beautiful bar.”

Mia jumped at the masculine voice by her ear, reflexively placing a hand over her heart. Her gaze turned to the left, where Lieutenant Gray Bartlett stood watching her with slight alarm.

“Sorry,” she said, not sure what she was apologizing for.

“No, I startled you. I didn’t mean to.” The gentleness of his tone belied the edgy look of his five-o’clock shadow and slick dark hair. “I was just making conversation.”

Gray regarded her with concern, and annoyance bubbled into her chest. Everyone was so concerned all the time.

“Don’t mention it,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I was just wondering how this bar would look chopped up and reconstructed into a desk for my office.”

“Mahogany,” he mused, rubbing long fingers smoothly against the grain. “You have good taste.”

He didn’t mean it to come across as a compliment, she was sure. He was just being polite, and yet a burning flush crept into Mia’s face and momentarily consumed her breath. “Well, taste is one thing, and ability to pay is another.” She shook her head when she realized she was talking about money with a complete stranger. How tacky. “I’m a professor,” she nearly stammered in her own defense. “Associate professor. I don’t... We don’t earn enough to be able to afford mahogany.”

He rose to his full height and regarded her with dark, stormy eyes. Gray eyes. How funny that they matched his name. “I know, Dr. Perez. I have your business card, remember? And now I know all about you.”

She was sure he noticed her entire body burning under the intensity of his gaze. The bartender placed her drink in front of her, and she reached for it gratefully, hoping Gray didn’t notice the tremor in her fingers. “A lot of women might find that kind of statement creepy, you know.”

“I would think you’d be flattered that I’d bothered to read the program,” he said. “Your picture is in it. So is your biography.”

Of course they were. Because that was what happened when a prominent nonprofit honored you with an award. “Right. Well, now you know that I haven’t bothered to read the program. Don’t tell anyone.” She gripped the tumbler in one hand and wiped the other palm down the side of her dress, again forgetting that this was expensive fabric, not made for hand wiping. “I should get back to my friend.”

He turned his head to toss a glance in Mark’s direction. “Your boyfriend?”

“What? No. More like a brother. He was Lena’s fiancé.” As if being a hot cop entitled him to an explanation.

He didn’t move to the side to allow Mia to pass. “The Nelson Seaver Award,” he murmured. “That must be for your work for the Boston P.D., correct?”

The Seaver Award was given by the Boston Victims’ Rights Coalition at their annual awards night to recognize excellence in law enforcement on behalf of victims. “Yes. Like I’ve told you before, I’ve helped with quite a few cold cases.”

“Ironic that you’ve helped so many victims’ families find their justice, and no one’s helped you find yours.”

She halted, unsure of where he was going. “I don’t believe that meets the definition of irony, no.”

His mouth tightened into a small smile. “Charming. Tell me, is this how all child prodigies are? Always the smartest person in the room? Fine, then, it’s not ironic. But it’s unfortunate that you don’t have an answer.”

“These things take time,” she began cautiously. “My sister’s body hasn’t even been recovered—”

“I’m not just talking about your sister,” he said. “I’m talking about you.”

Her eyes snapped to meet his. He knew. He’d done his research. Of course he had. Her cheeks grew hot as she realized how exposed she was. “What happened to me was a random attack, that’s all. Those cases, where the victim has no connection to the assailant, can be nearly impossible to solve.”

He allowed her words to settle before speaking. “You know what I think? I think that you don’t think it was random,” he said quietly.

The statement pressed against her body as surely as if he’d pushed her. “Of course it was random. I know it was. Why...?” The words eluded her, scurrying in her mind like lab rats through a maze. “What are you suggesting?”

“A partnership, Mia. Nothing more.”

* * *

Gray loathed these events. There were too many people in the room and not enough air to breathe, and he’d had to rent this monkey suit. But when the chief told you to go to a fundraiser, you went. “It’s for the Boston Victims’ Rights Coalition,” the chief had said. “It’s important that the Boston P.D. give a show of support.”

Newsflash: The Boston Police Department supports victims’ rights.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been slightly more interested in the event when he’d heard Mia Perez would be a guest of honor. She might be irritatingly effervescent, but she was easy on the eyes, and she’d been running through his mind ever since she’d shown up at the crime scene on the Charles. All of this was nothing more than evidence that he needed to date a little more than he had been since his divorce was finalized. A relationship was out of the question, but dating...maybe.

He wouldn’t be dating Mia, though. Not given the way she was looking at him now, her amber eyes sizing him up with a look that was one part heavy suspicion, two parts panic, as if he’d just informed her he could see through her dress. Part of him wondered what the psychologist thought of him. A larger part of him didn’t give a damn what she thought. He wasn’t at this fundraiser for psychoanalysis. He was here to do his job, and right now Mia Perez was a means to an end.

“A partnership?”

Her eyes narrowed. Gray couldn’t help but run his gaze from those eyes to her tense red-stained lips and then to the smattering of brown freckles on her olive skin. He observed the peachlike hair on her jaw and the small diamonds that sparkled in her earlobes. Dr. Perez cleaned up nicely.

The bartender pulled up against the side of the bar and pointed to Gray. “Coke with a twist of lime.” He shot Mia a glance. “I’m on duty tonight.”

“That’s too bad,” she said coolly. “All work and no play. It’s not good for the psyche.”

“You would know more about that than me. All I know is I like to work. Playing gets me in trouble.” He accepted the drink the bartender handed him and dropped a few dollars into a glass bowl. “Which personality disorder makes a person work too much?”

She could have frozen his drink with that smile. “Unlike you, I’m not on duty. I’m not diagnosing tonight.”

“Maybe another time, then.” He reached forward to touch her on the elbow. “I was hoping we could chat for a few minutes.”

“I really should be getting back to my friend,” Mia said, turning her long neck back from where she’d come.

“Ten minutes, that’s all.”

She reached a long, manicured finger to the spot where her ear met her jaw. “I don’t know....”

Behind them a quartet was playing, and a few couples were turning across the dance floor. Mia gripped her glass with white knuckles, darting her gaze around the room like a frightened animal. In his informal background search, he’d learned she’d suffered anxiety in crowds ever since the attack. It couldn’t make an event like this easy, and he needed her to focus on something other than the crowd.

He gently took her drink from her hands and set it on the bar, placing his beside it. Her eyes widened. “Hey, wait a minute—”

“You don’t even like whatever you ordered. Come with me.”

He took her by one of her cold hands. To his amazement, she went with him. “Where are we going?”

“I want to dance with you.”

He wound her through the crowd to the dance floor. “I can’t dance,” she said.

“Then I’ll teach you.”

They reached the floor and he turned to face her. She stood in place. “No. I can’t dance.”

“I’ve seen you walk. You carry yourself like a dancer, so I know you can dance. If you’re saying you don’t know the steps, I’ll teach you.” He took her hand again when she squinted at him, looking unconvinced. “Come on. Give me a cheap thrill.”

She rolled her eyes, but her facade melted just slightly into a smile. It was a start. “Fine. One dance.”

A waltz began and they fell naturally into place, chest to chest, his right arm encircling her back, her left hand draping his shoulder. She had a glint in her eyes that he didn’t comment on. He just smiled. He knew she was a dancer.

They glided across the floor as though they were sliding on glass, he leading and she following with regal grace. Gray had hoped only to relieve some of her anxiety, but now he felt her body turning with his, meeting his direction with fluid movement that left him feeling downright amateur. Not that he minded. He could hardly focus on his pride when someone like Mia was in his arms.

He dipped her back. “You lied to me,” he whispered against her ear in mock consternation. “You’re good at this.”

Her eyes didn’t leave his as they came back to standing. “I’m good at a lot of things, Gray.”

Indeed. His collar tightened.

They turned around the floor, lost in the music, and her muscles relaxed beneath his fingers. Then Mia drew closer to his ear and said, “What did you mean when you said you wanted to discuss a partnership?”

Business. It was like glass shattering. “You impressed me last week with your analysis of the murder scene at the Charles.” More than impressed him. The forensic evidence had confirmed her nearly immediate conclusion that the person who’d killed the young woman was a copycat, not Valentine. Then a concerned citizen had reported a large puddle of blood behind a row house in the South End. She’d been right about the gravel, too. Mia knew her stuff, and right now he needed someone who knew Valentine. “You obviously know your way around the Valentine files.”

“I have reason to.”

“I know. That’s why I want your help. I want you to look at the Valentine files again and tell me everything you see.”

“It would take me longer than five minutes.”

“Five min—?” He stopped. Right. He’d limited her time at the scene last week to five minutes. So she was angry with him for that? He spun her around and dipped her back again. “That was my scene. You’re lucky you even got five minutes.”

“You’re a real charmer, you know that?” She righted herself. “I told Lieutenant Mathieson everything I thought about the Valentine files, so why don’t you ask him?”

“Valentine is the key to finding out what happened to your sister, and finding out what happened to her is the key to finding out who assaulted you within an inch of your life last summer.”

Her grip tightened on his shoulder, and she looked away from him. “You keep saying the incidents are related. Why?”

“Call it a hunch. A woman disappears, and then a person investigating her crime—her sister—is attacked.” He shrugged. “Don’t think I’m in this just for your benefit. I think someone was trying to shut you up. You must know something damning about Valentine, and I want to know what it is.”

He’d struck a nerve. She chewed her lower lip. “I don’t remember much. I was in a coma for days. I can’t even tell you why I was by the Charles River that night.”

As she spoke about the attack, Gray felt her movements stiffen. She became distracted and stepped on his toes. “You think I’m right. You think you might know your attacker. And you think he still wants you dead.” The terror was evident in the way she turned her face to him. Then she stopped dancing, dropping her hands and looking away. “It’s all right,” he continued. “You don’t need to respond.”

“There’s nothing to respond to.” The proud tilt of her chin told him the shield was back up, the vulnerability concealed. “I answered Officer Langley’s call last week and came to the crime scene, but in hindsight, that was a mistake. I know it wasn’t Lena, and it wasn’t Valentine, but I haven’t slept much since then. I hope you understand if I decline to review those files. I’m too close to the case to be objective.”

Mia walked off the dance floor and he followed. Gray considered calling her out for using an excuse but then reconsidered. She’d been the victim of a crime, and if she didn’t want to revisit that time, then all the pleading and bargaining and coercion in the world wouldn’t do a damn thing. “Can’t blame me for trying,” he said.

She didn’t reply but simply nodded. “By the way, I think that officer made a mistake in speaking with that reporter last week. He said that the woman found by the Charles was a victim of a copycat killer.”

“So? That’s the truth.”

“You’re dealing with Valentine, who has a significant need to prove his power. When you suggest someone is copying him, you risk flushing him out of hiding.”

She didn’t know how right she was. “What’s done is done,” he said.

“I can give you the name of a colleague of mine to help you with the file. He’s very thorough, and he’s helped private citizens review cold cases. He may have some additional insight.”

Gray shrugged. “Sure, why not? Though it’s not a cold case anymore.”

That caught her attention. “What do you mean, it’s not a cold case?”

“Exactly what you think. I received the call just twenty minutes ago. A young woman disappeared from her Back Bay apartment this afternoon.” He crept closer, watching the effect of his words settle in the lines that were appearing on her forehead. “This time, all of the signs are there. Missing coed. No sign of forced entry. The right kind of flowers. Valentine’s hunting again.”

* * *

Mia’s lungs might as well have been encased in cement. She’d known this day would come. What—did she really believe that Valentine had disappeared for good? That he’d relocated and started killing elsewhere? At best she knew he was lying dormant, possibly finding other outlets for his violent urges, and the fact that he was active again should have come as no surprise. Except that Mia still couldn’t breathe.

“I need to sit,” she managed, then spanned her gaze across the sea of tuxedos and gowns.

“Come with me.”

She didn’t object as Gray took charge, not even when he placed one of his large hands on the small of her back to guide her as if they were intimate friends. She was walking in fog, thinking only about the night her sister vanished. Blood in the hall of her apartment. Broken glass in the kitchen. A front door left wide open. A bouquet of wild forget-me-nots tied with a silk ribbon and left beside a smashed photograph of their family. Mia had been the first to see the scene. Then she called her sister’s cell phone, heard it vibrate on the kitchen counter and called the police.

As wrenching as those first few hours had been, the next hours had been worse, and the hours after that worse still. No initial shock could compare to the reality that her sister was missing and probably dead. Nothing in her education had prepared her for that moment. Just like now, when she could draw on no knowledge to slow the frantic stammering of her heart.

Valentine is hunting. Her stomach roiled.

“Here.” Gray leveled the order and gently guided Mia downward onto a leather chair in the lobby of the hotel, far away from the bustle of the event.

“Thank you.” She leaned back against the chair, cradled by the rounded back and sides. “I knew this moment would come...”

“But that doesn’t mean you were ready for it,” Gray finished, settling himself in the matching chair beside her.

“No. It doesn’t.”

He leaned closer, propping his elbows on his knees and folding his hands as if in prayer. They were quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. “I’m very sorry, Mia. This is a big night for you, and it wasn’t my intention to upset you.”

She was glad she was sitting down for this. This arrogant man—he was actually apologizing to her now? Mia didn’t know whether to be touched or outraged at the thought that he believed she was so fragile. “I couldn’t have predicted how I would react to that news,” she replied carefully, weighing her words. “How could you have known?”

He tilted his head at her and then looked back down at his folded hands. “Well, one thing is certain.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re correct about not being the right person for this job. I won’t bother you again. Not about Valentine, anyway.” He patted her knee as he stood. “Stay here until you feel better. Take whatever time you need. I’ll let the organizers know what’s going on.”

“You’ll do no such thing. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

She didn’t appreciate that. “And where are you going now?”

“I’m here, aren’t I? I’m wearing this thing.” He gestured at his tuxedo. “I’ve got front-row seats and dinner at a table with the chief of police, so I’m going back into the ballroom for a couple more hours.”

Something about the tone of his voice tipped her off. “No, you’re not. You’re leaving now, and you’re going to work.”

The double take told her she was right. “Like I said, I’ll be at the dinner.” He turned to leave. “It was nice seeing you again. Thanks for the dance.” Without so much as a glance, Gray proceeded back toward the ballroom and into the crowd they’d just left.

In hindsight, Mia would describe the force that compelled her to follow Gray Bartlett as something outside of herself and very powerful. But in that moment, Mia didn’t think about it. Gray clung to the edges of the room, following the walls until he reached the far exit that would lead to the south side of the building. She didn’t congratulate herself for picking up on his lie. She didn’t think of anything as she was pulled along the current of dinner attendees like a drop of water through a pipe, until she and Gray were deposited into the waning sunlight of that summer evening. He didn’t even notice her until then, when he pulled his sunglasses from somewhere and turned his head and said, “You’re following me.” It wasn’t a question, because he knew the answer.

“I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

Gray turned and marched toward the parking lot. Mia quickened her pace, feeling the effort in the pinching of her high heels. “You’re the one who asked me for help. You said you wanted to help me find closure for my sister. Now you tell me that Valentine is killing again, and I’m supposed to sit around and wait?”

Gray halted and sighed heavily, as if he were dealing with a tedious child. “Mia. Would I like to have your insight on the case? Yes. But you have too many other things to sort out. Let the police take care of this one.” He didn’t bother waiting for a response before turning and continuing on his way.

Mia stood frozen in place between a crosswalk and a traffic island decorated with stumps of peonies and a small tree. She couldn’t be so pathetic as to run after him and demand that he allow her to tag along on his investigation. Except Gray Bartlett was her only remaining connection to her sister, and that meant he was going to be as stuck with her as she was with him until this case was closed. This was about finding answers for Lena.

She took a deep breath. “You need me, Lieutenant.” She practically had to shout it. He was nearly twenty yards away.

Mia’s heart skipped with a twinge of hopefulness when she saw him halt again and slowly turn. She couldn’t read the expression in his eyes, concealed as they were by mirrored sunglasses, but she could tell from the set of his jaw and the angle of his broad shoulders that he was going to hear her out. She walked toward him, attempting to look more confident than she felt at that moment and trying not to catch the thin tips of her heels in one of the many cracks in the pavement.

“You know it’s true. Valentine’s a ghost. He walks through walls, abducts women without leaving a clue and brazenly dumps their bodies for the police to find. If this woman is another victim, that makes five.” She stepped forward, closing in on his personal space. “Five victims. You’re going to have a hard time convincing anyone that you don’t have a serial killer on the loose in Boston.”

“Who says I care about declaring Valentine to be a serial killer?”

He was lying. She saw it in the twitch of his mouth. “Do you want the publicity that goes along with a serial killer, Lieutenant? The frenzy? Do you want to be the one responsible for fixing that problem?” She said it gently, folding her arms across her chest. “You know as well as I that if this is Valentine, the clock is ticking.”

Now she had his full attention. “Explain.”

“Valentine follows a pattern. He abducts his victims and holds them for between three days and a week. We don’t know what he does with them during that time, but we know they are kept alive somewhere. If this girl was recently abducted, you can try to find her before she winds up like the others. You can try to stop him.” She took one more step forward, coming close enough to catch the smell of his cologne on a passing breeze. “But time is of the essence, and no one knows those files better than I do. That’s why you need me.”

Even through the mirrored glasses, his gaze penetrated to her core. This time she didn’t flush or look away but held that hidden gaze with an intensity of her own. Being accepted into this investigation was about more than finding Valentine or the person who’d attacked her. It was about Lena.

“All right,” he finally said, his lips barely moving. “You can look at the scene and give me your thoughts, but I can’t promise you any additional access.”

Mia nodded. “I understand that.”

“And even if—when—we catch Valentine, I can’t promise we’ll ever recover your sister or find out who attacked you.”

Recover your sister. The police didn’t recover living people. She swallowed. “Got it.”

He lifted the handle to his car and swung the door halfway open, pausing. “I’m heading to the scene. I can show you around later tonight. Say, eleven?”

He was giving her time to accept her award. Mia had ascribed to him all the charm of a roadside motel, but this simple gesture challenged her impression. “Eleven works. Just send me the address.”

“I’ll text it.” He began to climb into the car. “And I’ll be expecting you to blend in with the other cops and not call attention to yourself, so you’ll want to change first. In fact, if you show up in that gown and heels, I’ll send you home and pretend this conversation never happened.”

Mia’s mouth tensed. Had she just reconsidered Gray’s manners? Whenever would she learn to trust first impressions? “Of course I’ll change first,” she said. “But you should know, if you want my help, that I don’t work well with being ordered around. Either you trust me to do what I do and to do it well, or you don’t trust me at all, in which case this arrangement isn’t going to work.”

He paused, and for a moment Mia thought he was going to call the entire thing off. To her surprise, he issued a tense “Fine.”

“Fine,” she echoed, stunned. He’d actually agreed. “Fine. Good. I’ll see you later, then.”

He looked as if he was on the verge of saying something. Instead he closed his door, backed the car away and left Mia standing alone in the middle of the parking lot.

Chapter 3

Mia took the T to Kenmore Square and walked the rest of the way to the address Gray had texted. Peterborough Street was only a ten-minute walk from the train stop, but she regretted not calling a cab as soon as she neared the footbridge to cross the Fens. Down below her, in that night-blackened, marshy valley, was the perfect hiding place for criminals. Or corpses.

Mia clutched a small can of pepper spray under white knuckles. She’d lived in Boston for twelve years now. She knew how to maneuver a city, and until her attack, she’d felt safe in this one. It’s still safe. She passed the Fens and the rows of gardens planted by city residents, crossed the road and breathed easier. Here the walk was better lit, and she’d have more warning if someone approached her.

She was in the Fenway Park area now, but the Sox were in Baltimore, so the streets were less rowdy, and she missed the smells of hot-dog carts and roasting chestnuts. When she’d first arrived in Boston, this had been a neighborhood for young professionals and college students, but apartment buildings had since been leveled and luxury condos had been constructed in their place. A resident of the Back Bay for years, Mia had observed the gentrification with sadness. She’d always been charmed by the area, and part of that charm had come from the well-worn buildings. But tonight she didn’t lament the fact that so many neighborhood restaurants had given way to noisy bars. Bars meant people, and it was almost eleven o’clock at night.

She didn’t need to check the address again once she turned onto Peterborough. Three squad cars and a CSU van were parked outside a brick building with white marble steps flanked by matching lions. The missing woman’s name was Katherine Haley, but when Mia checked the list of names beside the buzzers, the name next to 3A, her apartment, was blank. She pressed it and waited. After a few moments, she heard a buzz and the click of the front door unlocking. Mia stepped inside to a modest lobby where white marble steps with gray veins were littered with discarded flyers for groceries, postcards for nightclubs and free weekly papers. To the right was a large wooden staircase in good repair, and to the left were a series of small brass combination mailboxes. “You’re five minutes early,” boomed a voice from a few floors above.

She tried to suppress a smile as she mounted the stairs and looked up to see Gray looking down the stairwell. The walk from Kenmore had left her more jittery than she’d anticipated, and it was nice to see a familiar face, even if that face was currently glowering at her. “Is that a problem?”

It was more like a challenge than a question, and predictably, Gray chose to ignore it. “You left your ball gown at home, I see.”

She’d changed into jeans and a plain black T-shirt that emphasized her coppery hair, which fell in tousled waves around her shoulders. She’d even washed off her makeup, leaving her olive skin looking softer, her features muted. Smoky eyes and blush seemed out of place at a crime scene. “Just following orders, Lieutenant,” she replied as she reached the third-story landing.

Was it her imagination, or had he looked her over? In either case, Gray was back to business quickly enough, pointing his index finger at her and observing, “You didn’t bring anything to write on.”

“I don’t take notes. Never have.” Mia was reluctant to reveal to most people that she had a photographic memory. It was an ability that had served her well in school, landing her at Harvard at the ripe age of sixteen, but a photographic memory served only to make her look freakish in social circles.

Like right now. Gray was arching his eyebrow suspiciously. “You don’t take notes? Then how the hell do you keep all the facts of these cases straight?”

The question he was really asking was, how did he know whether he could trust her memory? Mia released a small sigh. “You can quiz me if you want to. Or you could take my word for it. It’s not something I can explain.”

He was about to reply when a dark figure came ambling out of apartment 3A. He saw Mia and broke into a wide, bright smile. “Mia Perez. It’s good to see you.”

Mia smiled, too. Sergeant Joe D’Augostino’s smile was contagious. “Joe.” She stepped forward to give him a kiss on the cheek. “I haven’t seen you in months.”

“You look well, Mia.”

His kind dark brown eyes were warmly familiar, and Mia felt a clutch in her chest. She hadn’t seen Joe since Lena disappeared, when he’d so kindly offered to assist her with anything she needed to get through that time. The few times he’d checked on her, Mia had allowed his calls to go to voice mail and had never responded. She shifted a little at the memory, embarrassed at her own manners.

Gray watched the two of them, clearly impatient at the reunion. “What’s the lovefest about? You two work a case together?”

“I live a few buildings down from her sister,” D’Augostino replied. “Lived.” He shot Mia a glance.

She gave Gray a quick smile. “They were friendly. Joe joined me and Lena a few times for drinks in her apartment.”

“I met Lena in a local place. We used to grab our coffee at the same time every morning.”

“Fascinating.” Gray turned back to the apartment. “Maybe we should work.” He tossed a pair of latex gloves and paper booties to Mia. “Don’t move another inch before you put those on.”

She did as she was instructed, but not before shooting him a look. “All right. I’m suited up.”

“Her name is Katherine Haley,” D’Augostino said. “Twenty-three-year-old grad student at Boston University.”

Mia’s stomach tightened as the familiar scenario unfolded. “Do we know her course of study?”

“English. She’s a doctoral candidate.”

They entered the threshold of a small apartment with wood floors and bare white walls. A few members of CSU were still gathering evidence. Mia walked with the two detectives toward a small living area with a sagging love seat with a white slipcover, a wide brown wooden coffee table and a scarred leather chair. Gray picked up one of the thick volumes stacked on the coffee table. “Looks like some medieval crap.”

Mia lifted the book from his hands. “No, that’s Renaissance crap,” she deadpanned. “These playwrights are from the Jacobean era.” She returned the book to the table. “You disappoint me, Lieutenant. Every good detective should read Shakespeare.”

“Oh, really? And what should every good psychologist read?”

“Shakespeare. He was a tremendous study of human nature.” She pointed to the table. “That’s a pretty high stack of books. Were they like that when you arrived?”

“Nothing’s been touched,” Gray said. “We received the call earlier tonight. The vic was supposed to meet a friend at a bar on Boylston and she never showed. Then her friend tried calling, and when she didn’t get an answer, she came to the apartment. She said the door was open, but just barely, and the vic was gone. Then she saw... Well, I’ll show you.” Gray began the trek around the apartment. “Nothing was off in the sitting area, as you noticed. This is obviously a student apartment. Books everywhere, cheap furniture, posters in plastic frames hanging on the walls. Lots of things that could be easily knocked down or damaged in a struggle.”

“Lots of boxes,” Mia mused, pointing to a stack against the far wall. “And her name wasn’t beside the buzzer downstairs. Did she just move here?”

“Less than a month ago,” said D’Augostino. “She’s lived in the city for about a year, but this is a new apartment.”

“So there was no struggle,” Mia continued, talking to herself.

“You haven’t seen the kitchen. Watch your step,” Gray warned, pointing to an area on the floor. “CSU found some broken glass and water there. I think they got all the glass, but just be careful.”

He led her farther into the apartment, where she could see a white galley kitchen. And, Mia observed with a sinking stomach, blood. Smears on the white cabinets, a well-defined handprint on the floor. Slick, shiny puddles. Members of CSU were photographing and swabbing the scene. “That looks like arterial spatter,” Mia said, nodding at the thick spots and smears across the white refrigerator, microwave and toaster oven. “Are we sure she’s alive?”

“No,” Gray replied. “But we haven’t found her body yet.” At least he was honest.

This explained all of the cops and crime scene investigators for a missing-persons case. Mia reached up to massage her right temple, where a tension headache had started to gather. “Valentine usually drugs his victims,” she said. “He’s never left so much blood at a scene.”

To her left D’Augostino cleared his throat. “Well. There was your sister’s case.”

He looked almost ashamed that he’d said it, glancing down when she looked at him. Mia turned back to Gray and was troubled to see concern in his eyes. Pull yourself together, or he’s going to send you home.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, working to keep her voice calm. “There was blood in my sister’s apartment, too. But nothing like this.”

Gray planted himself right at her side. “You think this is the work of the copycat?”

He was close. Close enough that she could look away and still know he was there, just from the heat rising from his body. “I couldn’t say. Not yet.”

Gray was dressed in plain clothes, jeans and a dark blue polo that suggested the chiseled body below, but the suggestion was enough. He might consider himself the “all work, no play” type, but he’d clearly been logging hours in the weight room. Mia’s heart scampered at the memory of their dance earlier that night. Now all she could think about was how strong his hand had felt in hers, and her mind wandered to thoughts of what it might feel like to touch other parts of him. His biceps. His shoulders.

She’d lived alone ever since she’d started graduate school, and she’d never considered herself in need of a man to protect her. She didn’t need a man now, either, but the thought of sleeping beside someone strong was a seductive one. Maybe she’d rest easy for a change and not wake at every creak and thud in the building.

“That reporter called him Valentine for a reason,” she said, partly to fill the silence in the room and partly to clear her mind of ridiculous thoughts. “It seems his victims invite him into their homes. There’s never an open window or a sign of forced entry, and when there’s blood, it’s usually minimal. Valentine doesn’t like a challenge.”

D’Augostino folded his arms across his chest. “How do you think he gets in? What would make a young woman invite a serial killer into her home?”

“That’s the question.” She continued to walk around the apartment, looking for subtle clues as to what had transpired hours before: dents in the wall, chips in the woodwork or maybe an overturned cup of pens. “We don’t have much to go on. All of the victims were young women, and all of them were graduate students at an area college or university.”

“Smart women,” Gray said. Mia felt his gaze following her around the unit. “But they still let him in. Must be a good-looking guy.”

Mia might have believed the same thing, but her sister had been engaged to a handsome, rich and well-connected man, and she knew Lena wasn’t the straying type. Neither would she have opened her door to any strange man, charming and attractive or otherwise. “Maybe, maybe not.”

They entered a dining area with a small wooden table and four matching chairs. “My theory is that he’s a person who seems innocuous. Someone who comes across as trustworthy, maybe because of his manner or maybe because of his job or position. The victims let him in not because he’s good-looking but because he’s harmless.” Aside from the blood in the kitchen, everything in that apartment was maddeningly neat.

“Position?” Gray was immediately behind her, keeping a close watch. “What are we talking about? A professor?”

“I doubt it. The victims were from different schools. It’s only a theory, but it’s possible Valentine works in a job that permits him access to homes. A plumber or electrician.” Mia saw nothing unusual in the dining room and proceeded to the bedroom.

“D’Augostino,” Gray said, “make a note to ask around and see if the vic had any problems with her apartment. Water leaks, electrical problems, mice, things like that.”

“Will do.”

“We shouldn’t overlook the obvious, either,” she said to Gray.

“Which is?”

“Maybe he delivers flowers.”

The bedroom was decorated sparsely, with a dresser, two nightstands and a queen bed occupying most of the small space. “That’s odd. The bed is bare.” She froze when she saw the arrangement on the dresser: long stems of blue-and-white hydrangeas in a drinking glass.

“The flowers.” Mia held her breath as she approached the arrangement. A white translucent ribbon was secured around the glass in a complicated bow. “Hydrangeas symbolize vanity.” She reached for a small framed picture of a woman with blond hair and blue eyes standing next to a tall, attractive man. “Is this her?” she asked Gray.

“The vic? Yes.”

“She’s very beautiful,” she murmured. “And this must be her boyfriend?”

“We think so.”

“Have you spoken with him yet?”

“We haven’t been able to speak with the boyfriend. They don’t live together.”

Mia set the picture back on the dresser. “This is how it usually looks. Valentine leaves the flowers beside a picture of the victim.” The gesture reminded her of a wake, where funeral wreaths were set beside pictures of the deceased. She gently turned the makeshift vase. “Some of these stems are broken.” Really, it was a sad-looking arrangement, and that wasn’t Valentine’s style. Some of the blooms were missing, giving the flowery globes a shabby, moth-eaten look. “Is it possible these flowers are from the boyfriend? Can we rule that out?”

“There’s this.”

Gray reached forward to remove a small white envelope hidden between the hydrangeas. He opened the flap and pulled out a card decorated with a cupid poised to shoot an arrow from a bow. Mia felt the blood rush to her feet. “What’s this, some kind of joke?”

“He signed the back ‘V.’” Gray flipped the card.

“Damn.” She took the card from him and delicately turned it over in her hand. “Valentine is making himself known.”

* * *

Mia pouted her lower lip when she was deep in thought. She probably didn’t even realize that, but Gray sure noticed it, just as he’d taken notice of everything else about her. Back at the hotel, he’d thought she was a beautiful woman, with her hair pulled back and that sexy slit up her dress. Now, with her hair in waves and her makeup washed off, he realized she was stunning. He told himself that her appearance wasn’t the reason he’d allowed her to come here, but now as she looked at him with those dark, almond-shaped eyes, he wondered if he wasn’t fooling himself.

“So what do we have, Dr. Perez? A copycat or Valentine?”

She did that thing with her lip again as she considered the card in her fingers. Damn, she was cute. “Serial killers evolve. It’s not like they commit the same cookie-cutter crime over and over. They’re human. What I saw at the Charles last week looked like a copycat killing, but this?” She handed the card back to him. “The blood in the kitchen bothers me. Valentine doesn’t kill his victims right away. He cages and tortures them first. Has anyone called the boyfriend?”

“The friend tried earlier,” Gray said. “Then she gave us his contact information—cell, work and home phones. Email. Nothing.”

Mia’s face darkened. “I wonder if that blood in the kitchen is his.”

She turned and walked out of the bedroom, passing Gray and D’Augostino. The two men followed her into the living area, where she was standing by the door. “I suspect Valentine isn’t a very imposing man, physically. All of his victims are diminutive in stature. All of them were women five feet one inch or shorter, and all of them were thin. Drag marks have been found at the dump sites, indicating he’s not physically strong enough to carry even these petite women.”

Lena’s the exception, thought Gray. He’d just read her stats earlier that week and had noted that she was about the same size as Mia: approximately five eight, with a similar athletic build. “Valentine has a type?”

“It may be that the victims fit a certain physical profile for Valentine,” she continued, “but victim selection is usually about opportunity.”

“He looks for women who are small enough for him to overpower,” said D’Augostino.

“That’s my theory, anyway.” Mia rested her hands on her hips. “So Valentine comes to the door under some pretense. He knocks.” She knocked in the air with one hand, talking more to herself than to the officers in the room. “He’s tracked Katherine, singled her out, and he expects her to answer the door, but someone else answers. Let’s say it’s the missing boyfriend.”

Gray watched her intently as she worked through the crime scene. “What’s his pretense for being here? Why didn’t he just abandon it and leave when the boyfriend answered the door?”

“That’s a fair point. Valentine has a fantasy of being in control, but that fantasy has never involved overpowering a man—at least not to our knowledge. If he’d known the boyfriend was home, he probably would have run.” She paused and tapped one index finger against her hip as she thought. “Maybe Katherine answered the door. She let him in. Perhaps he had flowers for her, and he offered to set them down. He attacked. Then he was interrupted.”

“The boyfriend came over.”

“Yes.” Mia gazed at the floor as she imagined the scenario. “Valentine is drugging Katherine. The medical examiner has found injection sites on the victims, none of whom were recreational drug users. We think he injected them with Rohypnol to keep them sedated. Again, this would play into his fantasy of being powerful, to have total control of his victims with minimal effort. He is drugging Katherine, and the boyfriend comes home and sees them.” She scratched her head. “But then the boyfriend would have fought him and probably overpowered him. There’s no sign of struggle here.” She looked up. “Maybe Valentine was in the kitchen.”

She headed toward the kitchen with such purpose that Gray came up behind her to restrain her from walking on the bloody floor, but she stopped on her own just short of the tile. “Valentine is in the kitchen,” she repeated to herself. “But what is he doing?”

Her brow furrowed as she thought. D’Augostino pointed to a wooden block of knives on the counter. “The carving knife is missing,” he said. “Maybe he was getting a weapon?”

Gray thought about this. “His victim is already sedated. Why would he be getting a knife?”

“Maybe when the boyfriend came home, he ran into the kitchen to get a weapon,” D’Augostino offered.

“Maybe,” Mia began, stretching the word slowly. “But if he was in the living area, would he have time to run into the kitchen and locate a sharp knife before the boyfriend began to pummel him?” She paused. “Those hydrangeas had broken stems. They also looked like they’d been stepped on. What if...?”

She stepped toward the kitchen, and Gray immediately grabbed her shoulder. “Hold on. We’re still processing this scene.” The last thing he needed was for her to go and muck up the blood evidence on the floor.

“Fine.” Mia stepped back grudgingly. “But one of you should go look around the sink.”

“What’s in the sink?”

“Maybe nothing, but someone should look.”

Gray and D’Augostino exchanged a glance, and then Gray stepped forward toward the sink, careful to walk on the white parts of the floor. The sink was stainless steel and spattered with blood. He glanced inside. “There are some dirty dishes. What else am I looking for here? Wait a sec.” He reached for a wet blob tucked behind a mug half-filled with coffee. He pulled it out with gloved fingers. “Looks like wilted lettuce.”

“Look carefully,” Mia said, leaning forward. “That’s not lettuce.”

He held it in one palm and pried the blob open gently with the index finger of his other hand. She was right—it wasn’t lettuce. He pressed the object open and it slowly took shape, revealing one sphere, then another. Gray shook his head. “I’ll be damned. It’s from a hydrangea.” He looked up to see Mia smiling with satisfaction. “CSU almost missed it. So what’s this mean?”

“I noticed the hydrangea stems were broken, and some of the blooms had gaps in them. Then there’s the fact that they’re in one of Katherine’s drinking glasses, but Valentine always supplies his own vases. And the broken glass CSU found between the kitchen and the living area—” She gestured with one finger. “That could be from a broken vase.”

“Put it all together, Mia,” said D’Augostino.

“Valentine brought the flowers. Maybe they’re part of his pretense in entering the apartment, or maybe he has them on hand as his calling card. Regardless, my theory is that he was in the kitchen putting water in the vase when the boyfriend walked in. He panicked, threw the vase at him, breaking the glass. Then he reached for a knife.” She gestured with her hands as she spoke. “If it’s Valentine, he killed him in a panic. He didn’t plan it.” She pointed to the blood. “I’ll bet you have two blood types here.”

“The boyfriend’s and Valentine’s,” Gray finished.

“Right. You’ll want to talk to area hospitals in case he’s sought treatment. And look.” Mia pointed to streaks of droplets on the cabinets. “That looks like cast off from the knife. CSU may be able to get an idea of the suspect’s height based on the location of those droplets.”

“And if the boyfriend’s dead,” said Gray, “what did Valentine do with the body?”

“He let him bleed out for a while, based on that puddle. There are drag marks on the tile, right there. But then they stop.” Her forehead tensed. “The bed was empty. It didn’t even have sheets on it.”

Without explanation, she again left and headed toward the bedroom. Gray heard her talking to herself as he followed. “Valentine may have wrapped the body in the sheets and comforter to move it. You know, to make it easier to slide him across the floor.”

Gray stood by the bedroom door. Mia was opening the only window in the bedroom and looking out. “Here’s a fire escape, and there’s a Dumpster below.” She turned around. “Did CSU check the Dumpster?”

Gray nodded gravely. “Sure did. That’s exactly where we found him.”

“You—what?” She spun around, her eyes wide with confusion. “You found him already?”

“One Gregory Stoddard,” said D’Augostino, reading from a small notepad. “Wrapped in a bloody blanket and sheets. He was still wearing the suit and tie he wore to work.” He folded the notebook and placed it in his pocket. “Apparently he’d been pulling a long day.”

“Wait a minute.” The confusion in Mia’s eyes slowly turned to anger. “You let me go through this entire exercise when you already knew what had happened? Why?”

Gray shrugged. “I wanted to see how you work and how you’d respond to a Valentine scene.” After the incident at the hotel, when he’d thought she’d been about to fall apart, he’d had to make sure Mia was up to the task. He gave her a reassuring pat on the back. “You had some good ideas. You passed, Mia. You’re on the team.”

“I don’t believe this.” She yanked her shoulder out of his reach. “You lied to me. You asked me for my professional assistance, and then you lied to me.”

“Now, wait a minute. I never lied to you. I just didn’t tell you everything we’d found.”

Gray suspected it didn’t matter what he said just then. Her cheeks were heated, her eyes hot with rage. She’d clenched her fists, and he wondered how difficult it was for her to fight the urge to strike him. “You’re the one who wanted to work this case, remember?” He tried to keep his voice from rising, but he didn’t like the way she was looking at him. “Now, I think you’re good. I like the way you worked the scene. But this is how I work, and if you don’t like that, then I’ll show you the door. It’s nothing personal, Mia.”

She glared at him, frozen in her anger and no doubt struggling to keep her control. “You withheld information from me. I can’t work with someone like that.”

“Me, neither,” Gray said, “which is why I had to make sure you weren’t deceiving me when you said you were comfortable working a Valentine scene. It’s simple. If you don’t want to work with me—”

“No.” Her voice was calmer, despite her still-flashing eyes. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He looked her up and down. She had every right to feel enraged, but she’d maintained her self-control. He admired that. “Good,” he said, and meant it.

* * *

When Gray had offered her a ride home, Mia had refused, but she’d accepted one from D’Augostino. Gray had shrugged. What did he care if she was mad at him? As long as she helped him to find the missing girl.

He entered his apartment at almost two in the morning, but he couldn’t sleep. His bed felt uncomfortable, his apartment too warm. He took a cold shower, then sat on his couch wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and read through some of the Valentine files he’d taken home. Sleep wasn’t a priority. Somewhere, some sick freak was torturing a young grad student. Her time was running out, and Gray had to find her.

His brain felt unusually cluttered, and he had difficulty focusing. Maybe it was because he was looking at the Lena Perez file, but thoughts of Mia kept disrupting his work. He did things his way and never felt a twinge of guilt. It was just part of his job.

Yet he couldn’t get that look on her face out of his mind—the one she’d shot him when he’d told her he’d been testing her. She was just another professional consultant, so why should he care what she thought of him? But he’d hated seeing that look in her eyes. The look of disappointment. He gritted his teeth. Maybe he’d try to smooth things over with her, but an apology was out of the question. He’d done nothing wrong.

He pored over the documents for hours, watching the time pass on the clock on his wall. Three in the morning, then four, then five. Gray was never far from a clock. Lives depended on his willingness to work, no matter the hour. He must have fallen asleep at some point, because when the phone rang, he opened his eyes, disoriented and with a stack of papers on the floor beside him.

“Bartlett,” he growled into the phone.

“Lieutenant. It’s Mindy, from CSU. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Gray glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty. He bolted upright and rubbed his eyes. “No, I was just heading out the door. What’ve you got?”

“We have an ID on that body you found by the Charles last week. The vic’s name is Samantha Watkinson. Sound familiar?”

His mind was a fog. “Not really.”

“She’s a reporter for the Globe. That’s the second Globe reporter who’s been killed in the past year. You remember that Jake Smith turned up dead not too long ago?”

“Any connection?”

“I had Ballistics check the bullets. Same gun, Lieutenant.”

Gray gave a low whistle as the news settled, unsure of what the implications were. Mindy took a breath. “There’s something else. I understand Mia Perez is working with you.”

Word sure traveled quickly. “Yes, she is.”

She hesitated. “She was at the scene last week, right? Were you watching her the entire time?”

He sat up straighter. “What are you asking, Mindy?”

“This sounds crazy. I mean, I’ve worked with Dr. Perez, and she’s always been so professional, but...was she wearing gloves? Did she happen to touch anything at the scene?”

Gray thought back. Of course he’d made Mia put on gloves. He made everyone at the scene wear gloves...right? His gut worked into a knot. “Mindy, just get to the point.”

He heard her take another breath. “I don’t want to get anyone into trouble, but you might want to ask Dr. Perez a few questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, why are her fingerprints all over the gun that was used to shoot Samantha Watkinson and Jake Smith?”

Chapter 4

“You had me worried last night,” Mark said as Mia walked down the front steps to her apartment building. “You took off after the ceremony like the place was on fire.”

“Sorry. Everything’s fine.” Her cell-phone reception was spotty again, and she felt as if she was yelling into the phone. “I ran into a contact at the police department and he had some questions about a case, that’s all.”

“Oh, yeah? Are you working again?”

“I don’t know,” she replied as an ache unfurled in the center of her chest. She’d been unable to sleep last night as her heart hammered, thinking about that awful crime scene. Maybe she should count her capacity to compartmentalize her professional work among the many things she’d lost. “I miss Lena so much. It was hard enough to return to the classroom last semester, and now to get involved with police work again...” She realized she was staring down at the sidewalk as she spoke, and she lifted her head to cross the street to the neighborhood café. Be alert. “I don’t remember being this bothered by these things before.”

“That’s understandable,” said Mark.

He was silent then, and she felt oddly ashamed by her confession. She and Mark weren’t those kinds of friends, and she shouldn’t be showing him weakness or confiding in him. He had his own problems to work through. “Sorry. I’ll feel better after breakfast. Thanks for calling.”

“As I said, I was concerned, that’s all.” He cleared his throat. “Got to run. I’m about to meet with an investor.”

Mia didn’t see too much of Mark these days, but every time they spoke, it seemed he was meeting with one investor or another, trying to secure funding for Eminence Tower. The architectural renderings for the project had been published in the papers, and they were nothing short of stunning. The tower would include high-end retail and restaurants on the first three levels, business offices in the middle, and posh residences at the very top. From what she’d seen, the aesthetics were sleek and modern but with a nod to classic design, with gray marble floors and sweeping windows to admit natural lighting. On the very top floor, an observation deck would be constructed from which visitors could gaze at the Boston skyline and harbor.

Despite the project’s magnificence, a core group of residents was unhappy with the development, citing it as one more example of gentrification. Mark wouldn’t have cared, except the project was partly funded with taxpayer money, and Lena had mentioned once that Mark received angry phone calls and threatening emails from a taxpayer group almost daily.

“A business meeting? You know it’s Sunday, right?” Mia chided him. “Some people rest on Sundays.”

“You’re working today, too,” he said. “Some people may rest on Sundays. Not us.”

She couldn’t argue with that. She’d been planning to call Gray during breakfast. “You’re right—I’m not one to talk. Have a good meeting.”

“Talk to you later, Mia. Take care.”

She ended the call and slipped the cell phone into her bag. The brutal summer heat had dissipated in an overnight thunderstorm, leaving the city breezy and warm. Mia had dressed in a simple brown linen dress and sandals, and the light fabric twirled pleasantly around her legs as she walked the sun-dappled sidewalk. She slowed her pace to extend the pleasure of being alive and walking down a beautiful city street.

“Nice day.”

He was sitting on the front steps of a brick Victorian row house, wearing jeans and a white oxford shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows to reveal his muscular forearms. He was reading the newspaper. When she met his eyes, he wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look as grouchy as she knew he could be.

“Gray.” It was a statement in itself, and in her tone she twisted her complete surprise with a small measure of annoyance. “What are you doing here?”

He folded the paper and tucked it under one arm before rising from the step and walking to her side, making the trip in easy strides. “I love the South End, don’t you?”

“Yes. That’s why I live here. You didn’t answer my question.”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost eleven, but I haven’t eaten breakfast yet. Would you like to join me?”

Mia couldn’t decide whether to be completely irritated or flattered, but where Gray was concerned, she was trending toward irritated. She enjoyed lingering over her Sunday coffee alone or with the newspaper or a book as a companion—the solitude gave her space to think. Yet she couldn’t deny, despite her still-simmering fury over the hazing he’d subjected her to last night, that Gray’s request had sent butterflies flitting in her stomach.

So he’s hot, she thought, taking in his slow smile and freshly shaved cheeks. His dark hair was tousled, giving him a rolled-out-of-bed look. Hot, arrogant and so emotionally unavailable. Great choice, Mia. Everything about him sent up red flags.

“I was just heading out for breakfast,” she said. “You can join me.”

“I’d like that.”

He smiled boyishly, as if it were such a coincidence that they’d run into each other this way. In her neighborhood. A block from her home. “You still didn’t tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Waiting for you.”

She snapped her gaze toward him in surprise, and he said, “What? I thought you demanded honesty from your colleagues?”

“Yes, but...most people aren’t so forthright.”

Now her heart was jutting around, and she clung to the straps of her bag with both hands, as if afraid it might fly off her shoulder. These nerves. She had to figure out how to get a handle on them. “You could’ve just called. You have my number.” She swept her fingers across her forehead to catch a tendril that had blown out of place. “This approach feels sneaky.”

He looked at her with interest. “Forthright and sneaky in the same breath? Maybe I just like surprises.”

An angry huff escaped her lips, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. They walked a little farther in silence, and Mia had just resigned herself to trying to enjoy breakfast to the extent possible when Gray said, “We got an ID on that woman by the Charles. Samantha Watkinson.”

“Oh.” Mia always felt a pang of sadness when unidentified victims were finally named. A name placed them in a family and a social circle. A name meant someone the victim loved had identified her body.

“Did you know her?”

Gray’s tone was casual, but Mia glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “What an odd question. No, I didn’t. Why do you ask?”

He handed her the section of newspaper he’d been reading and pointed to a column byline. “Samantha Watkinson,” she read, and looked at the date. “This is dated from a few weeks ago.”

“I’m a little behind on my recycling.” He scratched his temple self-consciously. “Did you catch the title? ‘Purveyors of Pleasure.’ Looks like she was working on an exposé about the sex trade in the Boston region. Prostitution. Human trafficking. She’s apparently been working undercover, visiting various pickup sites, trying to interview the girls and johns.”

Mia thought back to the shorts and T-shirt the victim had been wearing when she was attacked. “She didn’t look like she was working undercover the night she was killed.”

“She wasn’t. She was killed outside of her apartment, only a few blocks from here.”

A jarring thought, that someone in the surrounding neighborhood had been so violently killed. “So Samantha was probably in a low-risk situation at the time of the attack, killed right outside her own home in a densely populated neighborhood.”

Gray stuffed his hands into his pockets as they walked. “What’s that mean to you?”

“It means the killer took a big risk to get to her. In this neighborhood, he could have been seen and identified or stopped midattack.”

“Someone went to some trouble.”

“Right, and that suggests that this wasn’t a crime of opportunity. The steps that the perpetrator took following the crime—buying the flowers and disposing of the body—also suggest a more organized criminal.”

“Premeditation?”

“Yes. It seems to me that someone sought her out.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on the risk the killer took in killing her. If any victim would have done, he would probably have chosen an easier target. I don’t know how many times Samantha was stabbed, and I only got to spend five minutes at the scene.” She glanced at Gray, but he didn’t register a response. The guy should play poker. “But it looked like she was stabbed many times before she was shot, postmortem.”

“Which means?”

“Overkill. A possible rage-retaliatory motive. It suggests this was personal.”

“Retribution for something that she published? Or knew?”

Mia shrugged. “I’ll leave that to the investigators.”

Gray was silent for several steps as he seemed to digest the analysis. “Thirty-seven,” he said.

“What’s that?”

He looked at her. “You said you didn’t know how many times she’d been stabbed. Thirty-seven.”

Mia attempted to muster a response and failed.

They crossed a one-way street, narrowly missing a collision with a cyclist riding on the sidewalk. Gray cursed under his breath. Still grumpy.

“Look, if you want to find this killer, you should learn as much as you can about Samantha,” Mia said. “And I don’t mean just what she was doing that night. I mean you need to know who she was and how she enjoyed spending her time. You should interview her family and those close to her.”

The rich trumpet peals of Miles Davis billowed from the open window of an apartment. Mia noticed a shift in Gray’s posture as he slumped slightly forward. “You criminal profilers talk a lot about victims.”

“It makes some investigators uncomfortable to think about a dead body as a human being. That’s understandable. They want to distance themselves from the victim’s humanity as a way to keep from feeling horror and sadness at what the victim suffered. But in my experience, you can’t know the criminal without also knowing the victim. Sometimes that means admitting that the victim wasn’t a perfect angel. Sometimes they engage in behavior that makes them more susceptible to an attack. If we know about that behavior, we may be able to obtain a profile of a criminal who would take advantage under those circumstances.”

Gray appeared lost in thought as he chewed on the statement, gazing at the sidewalk before them. “So, hypothetically speaking, if I were trying to find the person who attacked you last summer, I should first get to know everything about you, even if that means having to air some skeletons in your closet?”

Her spine stiffened at something pointed in the tone of his question. “Yes. Hypothetically speaking.”

They stopped in front of the café. Many of the patrons were sitting outside at round wrought-iron tables with red umbrellas, enjoying the cloudless morning. “Should we dine alfresco?” Gray asked.

Opportunities to indulge in summer sunshine were rare enough that even the temptation to eat indoors, where service would surely be faster, could not dissuade Mia. “Why not?”

They selected a table in the corner, closest to the brick edifice of the café. Gray pulled out Mia’s chair, scraping the feet along the concrete sidewalk and then brushing the seat free of crumbs. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“My pleasure. Thank you for inviting me to breakfast.”

She opened her mouth to remind him that he’d invited himself, but then she remembered what he’d said the night before about her need to be the smartest person in the room. Maybe he’d had a point. But telling him that she was delighted he could join her would be a lie, so she settled on a tight smile.

With strong hands, he helped her to adjust her seat until she was comfortably at the table. Then he seated himself directly beside her. He ordered a coffee with an omelet and sourdough toast, and she ordered an oversize cranberry-orange muffin with a cappuccino. “The cranberry muffins are amazing,” she said as the server left the table. “They use cranberries fresh from Cape Cod. You should take a few with you when you leave.”

Gray didn’t respond for a time, and his demeanor darkened. Mia brushed a hand across her throat. Gray’s friendliness had vanished abruptly. Something was off. She twisted the glass beads in her necklace and looked away from him toward a group of sparrows pecking at a piece of discarded bagel. She envied those birds. If she’d had wings, she’d have flown away right then.

Then Gray cleared his throat and punctured the silence. “Mia, have you ever owned a gun?”

* * *

Gray had learned investigation techniques from some of the best cops in the department. When he was a rookie officer, his sergeant had taken him under his wing and given him morsels of advice that had proven as valuable as any formal training Gray had received. “Use the element of surprise” was one of them.

Mia looked more than surprised. She looked stunned, and then she looked furious. Her dark eyes blinked several times before narrowing, and she leaned closer and hissed, “What’s this about, Gray?”

He leaned back in his chair and held up his hands innocently. “It’s just a question. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“You startled me on my walk this morning, waiting outside my apartment like some stalker. Then you asked me without any provocation whether I knew the murdered woman, Samantha Watkinson.” She counted out his offenses with her fingers. “Then you suggested I may have skeletons in my closet and asked me if I’ve ever owned a gun.” A mirthless laugh sputtered from her throat. “I guess my question is, do I need a lawyer?”

“You’re not under arrest. You’re not even under investigation. I’m just making conversation.”

“Well, if this is how you socialize, you must not have many friends.” She thrust herself back in her chair.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.