Pitch Black (12 page)

It should have been a simple task. Alec, though, found his stomach rolling at the thought of it. Not that he couldn’t control his libido, or keep himself from revealing the attraction he’d felt for her from the minute she’d opened the door Tuesday afternoon. He just wondered whether he’d be able to resist trying to get into her head a little. Searching to find the caustic woman whose words he’d read, figuring out more about what made her tick and why she’d chosen the path she was on. Filling in the profile.

And, yeah, concealing that attraction.

Throughout her marriage,
Sam had become accustomed to getting up early. Not by choice—she wasn’t what anybody would call a morning person.

She had always done her best thinking and her best work in the silence of the night, preferring the thick, heavy darkness of a sleeping world to the bright, loud one awash with daylight. She’d made friends with the shadows and the soothing voices of the smooth-toned, late-night radio deejays, had become accustomed to eating cereal at one a.m.

Her ex, however, had liked to get up with the dawn. When she’d moved into his house, she’d had to conform to his routine. Alarm at six a.m. Then a workout, which he’d harass her into doing with him, even though she’d rather go through an IRS audit than exercise. But she’d been eager to please, still shocked such a rich, handsome man had wanted her. Had pursued her. Had married her.

Then he would dress in a beautifully tailored suit and set off for another beautiful day of screwing people over in the beautiful land of get-rich-quick corporate America.
Beautiful
.

Since the divorce, she hadn’t set her alarm. Not once.

She could therefore muster no surprise when she opened one bleary eye and saw the numbers nine-five-zero shining in neon green from her bedside clock. Late for most people. Not for her. The only question was, why had she awakened at all? She’d shut down her computer right after posting her Sam’s Rant column at midnight, then spent a few hours mentally rewriting history, imagining she’d been home to receive Ryan Smith’s IMs that snowy night. It had been after four before she’d finally moved into her bedroom and fallen into her bed.

Then she heard the knocking and realized what had awakened her. “Wonderful,” she muttered. Had somebody neglected to tell her it was let’s-bother-Sam week?

It couldn’t be her mother. She never came over without calling first, ever hopeful that one day Sam would find somebody and there might be an embarrassing situation to walk in on. Tricia would be at the realty office where she worked. The rest of her casual friends had given up trying to draw her out, figuring she’d leave her postdivorce hibernation when she was ready.

The knocking continued. Her teeth grinding together so hard her jaw hurt, she got up and stalked out of the bedroom, not even stopping for a robe, a hair check, or a swish of mouthwash.

All of which she regretted when she flung the door open and saw Special Agent Alec Lambert standing on the other side of it.

“Shit,” she snapped, unable to help it.

His lips quirked. Sam almost slammed the door again. As if realizing it, Lambert moved closer, blocking the jamb with his body like some determined kid peddling magazine subscriptions. “I need to talk to you.”

“Ever heard of making an appointment?” She squirmed, bunching her nightshirt in her fists, knowing there was no chance he hadn’t read the man-bashing sentiment this time.

“Ever heard of answering your phone?” he countered. Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped around her into the living room. “We’ve been calling all morning.”

Sam cast a guilty look toward the phone. Last night, after Tricia’s fourth call demanding info on who had been in her apartment Tuesday, she had turned the ringer off. “Sorry.”

She didn’t mention she’d just gotten up and might not have answered anyway. The bare feet and nightshirt, not to mention the rat’s nest disguised as her hair, made that eminently clear.

“What do you want? What’s so important to have you at my door at this ungodly hour?”

He managed to avoid rolling his eyes. “I know you’re a night owl and this is the crack of dawn for you. But it is important. Why don’t you get cleaned up and dressed? I can wait a few minutes.” His mouth tightened. “As long as you still haven’t gone online this morning.”

Her curiosity rising, she shook her head. “I haven’t.”

“Good. Now go; I’ll be right here.”

Sam sidestepped toward her bedroom, not turning her back on him. Letting the FBI agent fully appreciate the angry-divorcée message on her nightie seemed preferable to flashing her underwear as she departed. Hopefully he had been focused on the saucy words, not on the fact that she was nearly naked beneath the shirt. She’d opened the door to a bitterly cold morning and had almost certainly greeted him with high beams fully lit.

Once in the privacy of her bathroom, Sam multitasked, raking a comb through her hair with one hand while she brutally brushed her teeth with the other. She pulled on a sweater and a pair of old, premarried khakis that still fit. Considering she’d gained back the fifteen pounds she’d lost on the good-wife-diet-and-exercise program, she didn’t have many other options.

When she returned to her living room, she found he’d made himself at home on the couch, which no longer held the mountain of laundry. She hadn’t exactly gone on a cleaning binge, but she’d picked up at least a little.

“What’s this about?” Sitting down at her desk, she flipped the power button on the surge protector behind her CPU. “You mentioned my being online?”

“You haven’t been since last night?” he confirmed again.

She shook her head.

“I read your weekly rant.”

She stiffened, though she had done nothing wrong. She hadn’t hinted about knowing a murder victim, or about being contacted by the FBI. She’d merely called the criminals who preyed on people online the scumbags they were. “And?”

“It was good.”

Though she hadn’t been looking for his approval, only his acknowledgment that she had kept her word to stay quiet about the FBI’s visit, she still liked the compliment.

“It was also pretty passionate,” he added.

“Who wouldn’t be passionate after hearing about the murders of two teenage boys?”

“You might be surprised.”

That said a lot about the human race that she didn’t want to contemplate. “So what’s the problem? I kept my word; there’s nothing in it about Ryan or the investigation. Or you.”

Especially you
. She’d made a concerted effort to think of anything but Lambert. Especially after he’d called yesterday, all big, bad, protective FBI agent criticizing choices she’d made when writing her book. Screw him. He knew nothing about what drove her. Few did.

Actually, maybe he’d done her a favor with the disapproving reaction. It had made it easier to pretend she hadn’t felt a spark of interest in the man. To suppose she’d simply imagined how his hand had felt on her shoulder.

Instead of answering, he reached into his leather attaché and pulled out a few sheets of paper. When he handed them to her, she realized what they were and frowned in bewilderment. “I know what I wrote.”

“Look at the second page. The comments.”

She did, quickly scanning them from the top down.

“Regulars?” he asked.

“Most.”

“What about number six?”

She read it. “Darwin? Doesn’t ring any bells, beyond the obvious reference.”

“So he’s not a frequent visitor?”

“Not under this name.” Frowning, she read the words again. “And I don’t usually have visitors who are quite so . . .”

“Condescending?”

“I was going to say hateful. I guess you were right about being surprised by people’s reactions.” She shook her head in disgust. “This guy doesn’t sound at all bothered by the idea of victims walking right into the hands of psychopaths who want to do them harm.”

“We don’t think he is.”

The words were low, measured, his tone even. Sam’s gaze flew up as she realized he was telling her something big. Very big. She forced herself to remain calm, despite a sudden rising dismay. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

He didn’t reply, waiting for her to lay it out there.

“Do you think this Darwin could be the person who killed the boys?”

He leaned forward, dropping his elbows onto his knees. “Read his other comments.”

She immediately obeyed, noting they were again signed Darwin, though he’d apparently been so riled up he’d mistyped his own name once. “Dar
wen
?”

Alec pointed to the paragraph below. Sam studied the words, gasping as their implication sank in. Then, needing to be sure, she read them again, out loud this time.

“‘What would you have us do, Samantha? Should we who have a brain cell in our heads lie in front of the cars of those so foolish they willingly drive into peril? Do we save the reckless ones from the mishaps that so rightfully remove them from our world? Stop the imbecilic female from falling into the machine, or the greedy youth from drowning or freezing to death?’”

Her voice trailed off in shock as the reality of it hit her. Swallowing hard, she let the pages flutter from her hand to the floor, as if she’d been touched by something toxic.

Maybe she had.

“Coincidence?” she asked, trying to convince herself more than him. “He could have chosen those words because he saw the story about the boys on the news.”

“The woman killed answering the online help-wanted ad five weeks ago was tricked into falling into an industrial hopper.” The details in the case file had been horrific, and he did not elaborate.

She couldn’t manage more than a whisper. “That case was also in the news. I saw it.”

“The specific details weren’t.” Some things were too gruesome even for the evening news.

He fell silent, waiting for her to accept it. Something she truly didn’t want to do. But finally, seeing the certainty in his stare, she knew she had to believe it, to swallow down the truth like bitter medicine and move on.

“A psychotic killer is trying to contact me.”

Lambert nodded. “I think so.”

Her head spinning, she sagged back in her chair. God, no wonder he had been so anxious to reach her. What if she’d gotten back online this morning—or if she’d checked the site one more time before going to sleep last night? In the state she’d been in, she would have given Darwin a piece of her mind. Her response could have angered him so much he might have wanted to rip the rest of her to pieces, too.

She shuddered. “Thank God I didn’t respond.”

For the first time since he’d arrived, the agent’s stare didn’t quite meet her own. He glanced down at his hands, folded together and dangling between his knees. “Yes. Thank God.”

She hesitated; then understanding washed over her. She finally got the whole picture. What he’d come for, what he wanted from her, why he looked both excited and disturbed. Why he couldn’t meet her eye right now.

Excited because he had a lead in his case. Disturbed and unable to look her in the eye because . . . “Wait, you
want
there to be a response.”

He nodded.

Speaking in a voice that had suddenly lost most of its volume, she continued. “You want to use my Web site to strike up a conversation with a murderer?”

“No, Mrs. Dalton.” He didn’t offend her intelligence by even trying to soften it. “I want
you
to use your Web site to strike up a conversation with a murderer.”

“Y
ou know, Agent Lambert,
if you’re going to use me as bait to catch a serial killer, you might as well call me Sam.”

Alec managed to keep his eyes on the road and not look over at his passenger, whose mood had vacillated from shock to horror to acceptance in the hour since he’d shown up at her door. They’d left her apartment, heading back to headquarters. Not his first choice, but she had given him no other options. “It’s Alec. And we’re not using you as bait.”

She blew out a disbelieving breath. “Oh, right. Uh, what should we call me? An appetizer? First course?”

He glanced over, gauging how serious she was. If she was having second thoughts, no way would he force her. “Nobody said you had to do this. Do you want me to turn around?”

She huffed a little and crossed her arms over her chest, running her hands up and down her arms to ward off the morning chill. He reached out and jacked up the slow-to-warm heater in the government-issue sedan. Focusing on the road and the city traffic, he ordered himself not to notice the way her soft sweater hugged her body with every move, or the visible puffs of air emerging from her full lips each time she exhaled.