Cold-Blooded Liar (The San Diego Case Files Book 1)
Cold-Blooded Liar: Chapter 4

Sam’s glasses were broken and his face hurt. Staring into the interrogation room mirror, he saw a bruise forming on his cheek- bone where his face had hit his living room floor.

At least they’d taken off the handcuffs. He could breathe normally again.

They’d started to question him, but he’d immediately asked for a lawyer. He might have been stupid enough to think he could make a damn crime board, but he knew enough not to say another word without his lawyer present. Especially since they wouldn’t address the one question he needed an answer to.

Except he didn’t have a lawyer. He’d never needed one. He’d never even had a parking ticket, for fuck’s sake. The only defense attorney he knew personally might not even take his calls anymore because their relationship had ended rather poorly, but he’d tried calling anyway.

Laura Letterman hadn’t shown up yet, but the detectives weren’t hurrying him into a holding cell. So there was that. He had a little time to figure out what to do.

It had to be close to dawn, but he didn’t know the time because they’d taken his phone. He glared at the mirror, knowing they were there, watching him.

Damn detectives. He closed his eyes, trying for the umpteenth time not to let the panic overtake him. Vivian hadn’t picked up the phone and the answering service said that she’d had a family emergency and was off call for the night.

They were supposed to forward her calls to him.

Ha! That had actually made him laugh.

He’d had to tell the answering service that he would also be unable to cover any after-hours calls. They had other therapists who could handle an emergency, so at least their clients wouldn’t be negatively impacted.

He wanted to be worried about Vivian—and he was—but worry over his own situation eclipsed everything. He was on his own for now.

Opening his eyes, he fixed his gaze on the mirror. “I can clear this up if you’d only answer my question. I can’t divulge information until I know what you found—if anything—in the park. I figure you found something because I’m here, but I can’t talk to you until I know for sure.”

No answer. He waited for what felt like an hour but must have been only a minute or two.

He sighed, exhausted. He had one more card to play before he let the panic have him. “Fine. I assume you haven’t heard from my attorney yet. Can I call another? His name is Joel Haley.”

The door opened and McKittrick strolled in like she had all the time in the world.

He really didn’t like her anymore.

“Joel Haley?” she asked, looking mildly interested—on the surface. But her eyes were more expressive than she probably realized. She was very interested. “The only Joel Haley I know is a prosecutor.”

“He’s the one.”

She regarded him levelly for a long moment. “Why Joel Haley?”

“Because he’s my best friend.”

Her eyes widened at that. “Really? Huh. Okay, then, I’ll get your phone. You should have mentioned him earlier.”

He rolled his eyes. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. I was hoping you’d be reasonable and answer the one damn question I need you to answer.”

Her expression went cold once again. “And until I know your game, Dr. Reeves, I’m not telling you anything.”

He leaned back into the very uncomfortable chair, wishing he hadn’t called from that damn pay phone. That had been a rookie move. “Just let me call Joel.”

She left the room and he yawned, cracking his jaw and making his face hurt all over again. Dammit.

She returned a few minutes later with his phone in an evidence bag. After giving it to him, she watched him intensely as he tapped his security code onto his screen. He hunched over his phone as he typed in the numbers so no one could see the code—not Detective McKittrick, not anyone on the other side of the mirror, and not the damn camera on the wall with its blinking red light.

He dialed Joel, holding his breath that the man would answer. It was hit or miss with Joel, especially on the weekend. He worked his ass off during the week and played hard starting Friday night. Which meant hooking up with someone from his little black phone app.

“Yeah?” Joel answered groggily. “What’s wrong?”

Sam exhaled in relief. “Joel, I need your help. I’m in some trouble.”

Taking a chair across the table, McKittrick snorted inelegantly. Sam ignored her.

“What kind of trouble?” Joel asked with a yawn. “Can’t it wait until later?”

“No, it can’t. If it could, I would have waited until later. I’m at the police station downtown.”

“What?” Joel demanded, sounding more awake now. “Sorry,” he murmured, presumably to his bedmate. “Go back to sleep.”

There was the sound of rustling sheets and then that of a door closing. “Okay,” Joel said. “Talk to me, Sammy.”

“It’s a long story and I can’t tell anyone anything until the police answer a question for me.”

“Did you call an attorney?”

Sam winced. “I called Laura. She’s the only one I know.”

Joel barked out a harsh laugh. “You must be desperate. Don’t worry. I’ve got other contacts you can call. What do they think you did?”

That his best friend didn’t automatically assume he was guilty made Sam feel a little better.

Sam focused on McKittrick’s face when he answered Joel’s question. “I think they think that I murdered someone.”

McKittrick’s mouth firmed. Yeah, that was it. They think I killed someone.

Maybe I was too late. Maybe Colton already killed the lacrosse player.

“What the actual fuck?” Joel exploded. “Wait, what do you mean you can’t tell them until they answer a question? Can’t tell them what? What the hell’s going on, Sam?”

“I can’t tell you, either. I could lose my license.”

Joel huffed out a breath. “So this is a client thing? Something one of your clients did?”

Sam sighed in relief once again. “Yes.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour. Are they treating you okay?”

“My face hurts because one of the detectives took me down in my own living room, but I’m otherwise unharmed.”

“Which detectives?”

“McKittrick and Constantine.”

“Fucking hell. They should know better. Is McKittrick there?”

Sam eyed the detective, who was studying him with what he hoped was a tad less animosity. “She is.”

“Let me talk to her.”

Sam handed the detective his phone. “Joel wants to talk to you.”

Warily she took it, lifting it to her ear. “Hey, Joel.” She listened for about a minute, then rolled her eyes. “Come on in, then. Hopefully your friend will tell us something useful.” She listened some more, rolled her eyes again, then handed the phone back to Sam. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Don’t talk to anyone until I get there,” Joel instructed. “I’m calling a defense attorney as soon as I hang up. Do you need medical attention for your face?”

“Ice would be nice.”

“They’ll get it for you. We’ll get this cleared up, Sam. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks, Joel. Sorry I ruined your night.”

“You can make it up to me with some of your dad’s lasagna.”

Sam laughed softly. “Deal.” He ended the call, locked his phone, then handed it back to the detective. “Thank you.”

Rising, she shook her head. “Don’t thank me yet. Just because a prosecutor says you’re a good guy doesn’t let you off any hooks. I’ll get you some ice for your face.”

He didn’t say another word as she left the room. She was back quickly, some ice in a plastic baggie.

He took it with a nod of thanks. Pressing it to his face, he waited with her in tense silence. She looked as tired as he felt.

After a few minutes, she covered another yawn. “Did you need to take care of your dog?” she asked.

“Depends on how long I’m here. What time is it?”

“Nearly six.”

“My dog walker waits tables in a bar. Puts herself through college that way. Saturday is her day to sleep in, so I won’t bother her yet. If I’m still here by eight, I’ll call her. She won’t be happy that I woke her up, but she loves Siggy, so she’ll do it.”

“She’ll have to be escorted by an officer. She can’t just let herself into your apartment. I stationed a uniform outside your door to guard the place after CSU was finished processing the scene.”

He stared at her, stunned once more.

A uniform was stationed outside his front door. The neighbors would be waking up soon. They’d see. They’d talk. They’d wonder if he was all right and once they saw that he was, they’d wonder what he’d done. They’d speculate, and word would spread, likely to his clients. It was going to be awful.

It had been one thing to be dragged out in handcuffs when everyone was asleep or out partying. No one had seen them coming down the elevator. But now . . .

“I was trying to do the right thing and still protect my career,” he said quietly. “Now I’ll be the subject of gossip and my career will be tarnished.”

Something changed in her expression, a flicker of emotion in her eyes. “What was the right thing that you were trying to do?”

He pulled the ice pack from his face and set it on the table with a sigh. “I told you that I could explain if you only told me what you found at the park. I didn’t hurt anyone. I risked my career so that someone wouldn’t get hurt.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, and he could practically see the wheels turning in her mind. “A body,” she finally said very quietly.

He sucked in a breath, remembering the tiny sunken plot of earth. “Dammit,” he breathed. He hadn’t wanted to be right. He hadn’t wanted Colton to have been telling the only truth of his miserable life.

“Is that enough information?” she asked.

The door opened, startling them both. “Don’t answer that question,” said a very familiar female voice.

Laura’s here. And was she ever. She blew into the room, four-inch heels clacking on the cheap tile, and took the seat next to Sam. She looked as put together as always, her power suit intimidating, her makeup flawless, and her eyes bright, as if she’d had a full night’s sleep. She probably hadn’t. She’d been an incurable insomniac in the four years they’d been together.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Sam murmured, his feelings conflicted. On one hand, he was grateful she’d come. On the other, he’d honestly hoped he’d never have to see her again.

She shot him her don’t-be-an-idiot look. He’d been on the receiving end of that look more times than he could count. “I’m not going to let the cops railroad you.”

The detective cleared her throat. “I’m Detective McKittrick.”

Laura gave the detective a brusque nod. “I know. I’m Laura Letterman, Dr. Reeves’s attorney. This interview is over.”

“Laura, stop.” Joel strolled in and closed the door behind him. He met Sam’s gaze, brows lifted. “We met up in the lobby, but she walks too fast for me.”

It was a lie. Joel didn’t like Laura any more than Sam did and had probably let her charge ahead so that he could put off having to interact with her for a few minutes longer.

Laura skewered Joel with a cutting glare. “Sam doesn’t say anything to the cops until I know what’s going on.”

“That’s fair,” Joel said mildly. “But I think he wants to cooperate. Detective, can you give us a few minutes alone with Ms. Letterman’s client?”

Eyes narrowed, McKittrick looked from Joel to Laura to Sam, lingering on Sam’s face. “Of course. I’ll be on the other side of the glass and I’ll turn down the volume. Wave when you’re ready to talk.”

When she was gone, Laura turned to Joel with a slight snarl. “Why are you here?”

Joel smoothed a hand down his tie. He was also dressed in a snazzy suit, making Sam feel like a schlub in his sweatpants and T-shirt. “Sam asked me to come.”

“Well, I’m here now,” she said coolly. “You may go.”

“No,” Sam interjected, before their argument could gain steam. Sam’s breakup with Laura had been cold and final, with no conversation. Joel’s, on the other hand, had been explosive, with much shouting and gnashing of teeth. Which had always made Sam curious since he’d been with Laura for four years. Joel had only dated her casually for two months, but he’d been much more emotional about Laura’s infidelity, which Sam now knew wasn’t like him at all.

Laura bit back whatever she was about to say to Joel and turned to Sam. “Explain, please.”

So he did. He didn’t give specifics about Colton or what he’d suspected, but he did tell them that he’d had an ethical conflict and how he’d resolved it.

“So let me get this straight,” Laura said when he was finished. “You suspect a client did something, you made two anonymous calls to McKittrick, and you only need her to tell you what she found in the park before you can tell all?”

“Basically, yes. If I’d just told her what I knew, I could lose my license. And the client could sue me in civil court on top of that. I didn’t know if he was telling the truth or making up some grand story, so I couldn’t spill until I knew.”

“Do you know now?” Joel asked.

“McKittrick said it was a body,” Sam said. “Right before you came in, she finally told me.”

Laura tilted her head. “Would you have spilled all without a lawyer?”

Sam shook his head. “Not at this point. I was going to at least wait for Joel.” He stroked his thumb over his bruised cheekbone, some of the anger he’d suppressed roiling back to the surface. “They were far more aggressive than they needed to be. Scared my dog.” He grimaced. “Scared me, too.”

“I’d guess so,” she said sympathetically. “You’re like the quintessential Dudley Do-Right, and I’m not being mean. You’ve always done the right thing, Sam. Getting arrested has to have shaken you up.”

He nodded wearily. “You have no idea.”

“So you think you know who this guy’s next victim is?” Joel asked.

“I’ve narrowed it down to two teenagers. I couldn’t wait any longer to replace out what they found in the park. I couldn’t have lived with myself if either girl was hurt.”

Laura’s gaze softened. “So what do you want me to do?” She glanced at Joel, a flash of regret in her eyes that she’d never aimed toward Sam. “Or us to do, I guess.”

“I want you to get them to drop any charges once I tell them what I know,” Sam said to Laura, then turned to Joel. “I’d like you to be a character witness. And if they don’t let me go, I need you to take Siggy until I’m out of here. They can’t keep me forever. I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Laura murmured. “They can do whatever they want.” She glared at Joel again. “Prosecutors and cops.”

“Not fair,” Joel said quietly.

She sighed. “No, it wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

Joel nodded tightly, then waved at the mirror to motion McKittrick back into the room. “Why’d you pick Kit, Sam?”

“Because you respect her. You said that she was a good cop and a decent person. She’s your friend. I hoped she’d take me seriously.” And it seemed that she’d done exactly that.

She’d found a body in Longview Park.

Colton Driscoll was a murderer.

At least now Sam knew for sure. He could turn Colton in with no guilt or career repercussions.

He only hoped he wasn’t too late.

SDPD, San Diego, California

Saturday, April 9, 6:30 a.m.

“What do you think?” Baz asked, standing next to Kit on the other side of the mirror.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, studying the faces of the three people sitting around the interview room table. “I know Joel, of course, as do you.”

“He’s a good guy.”

And he was. Joel Haley was a hard-nosed prosecutor with a winning record. Kit both liked and respected him. She didn’t think he’d lie. But he could be mistaken about his friend’s character. If Samuel Reeves had committed a murder, Joel would have to recuse himself.

But Kit didn’t think that Reeves had done it. She hadn’t thought so when she’d first seen his photo.

And, because of that, Kit didn’t trust herself. But she’d taken the chance. She’d answered his question.

When she’d told him that they’d found a body, his reaction had been one of pain. And resignation. Like he’d expected it but hadn’t wanted it to be so.

“Reeves still has a lot to explain,” she murmured. “Mainly the two photos he had taped up in his apartment.”

“Neither of the two girls had ever seen him before, nor had their parents.”

Baz had personally checked on the two teenagers after they’d deposited Reeves in the interview room. The two girls had been in their respective homes, one already in bed and the other watching TV with her boyfriend on the family’s living room sofa.

They’d both known Cecilia Sheppard, the teen who’d gone missing eight months before. She’d played on their lacrosse team. They’d been friends.

“I want to hear his explanation,” Kit murmured.

Baz made a face. “I know his attorney. Letterman’s a real shark. She defended a guy I booked on aggravated arson five years ago and questioned me on the stand. She is very, very good. She tied me into so many knots that she almost had me second-guessing myself. We got a conviction, but it was close. Do not underestimate her.”

Kit would not. She’d never met a defense attorney whom she’d trusted. “They have history,” she said, nodding at the three talking animatedly around the interview room table. “All of them.”

“I figured the same. Letterman has feelings for both Reeves and Haley. Not necessarily good feelings, but feelings nonetheless.”

Kit had thought the same. It was in the way they’d greeted one another. It was as if Reeves hadn’t wanted her to come, even though he’d also been grateful that she had. And Kit bet that Joel’s casualness was a facade.

There was a story there, but for now she only wanted to get to the truth of this story. Jaelyn Watts and Cecilia Sheppard and four other young women had lost their lives.

The three ceased their conversation and Joel waved at the mirror.

“That’s my cue.” Kit grabbed the case folder and went into the interrogation room, taking her seat across the table from Reeves, Joel Haley, and the shark attorney. Laura Letterman. Don’t underestimate her.

Kit hit the record button on the room’s video camera remote. “I’m listening.”

“I’m a psychologist,” Reeves began. “I have a court-ordered client who is a pathological liar. Talks about having tea with royalty, dinner with various Hollywood celebrities. But then he started talking about a grave he visited and how much he missed his ‘pretty young thing.’ ” He used air quotes. “This came up during more than one session, and I began to wonder if this was the one truth he was telling me.”

“The grave in the park?” Kit asked, and he nodded.

“I’m not allowed to report a client for a past murder, only one that’s about to happen. In that case, I have a duty to warn, and I take that very seriously. But I didn’t know if this was fabrication or truth. Even if it was true, I still couldn’t divulge the past murder. Unless a minor was involved.” He tilted his head. “Was the victim a minor?”

Kit nodded, relieved. He’d been telling the truth. He hadn’t killed anyone. She hoped, at least. She wasn’t going to let her gut lead her, though. She’d play this like he was still guilty until she was positive. “Yes, she was.”

Reeves closed his eyes, his expression tight and pained. “Was she a child? The grave looked small.”

“She was petite,” Kit agreed. Jaelyn had been barely five-one. “A minor, but not a young child. What made you risk your career and make that first call?”

Reeves opened his eyes and they were filled with worry. “He recently started talking about a new ‘pretty young thing.’ I shared my concerns with my boss and we decided the best way to proceed was to determine if he was lying or telling the truth.”

“So you told me to check for the grave.”

“Yes. I watched the news, but I saw nothing on any bodies being found in Longview Park. I’d planned to wait until I did before I did anything more, but then my client and I had a session today. I was able to glean enough information from his ramblings to know that the new young woman was a lacrosse player. He called her ‘Lilac.’ He said she had blond hair.” His shoulders sagged. “I googled girls’ lacrosse teams in the area and only one school has lilac uniforms.”

“Tomlinson High.”

He nodded. “I assumed that because the last victim was petite, this was his type. Two girls on the Tomlinson team fit the profile. I couldn’t live with myself if another girl got hurt because I was protecting my career. So I called you again.” He met her gaze, his own anguished and anxious. “Are they all right? The two girls?”

“They’re fine,” Kit said.

He slumped where he sat. “Thank goodness.”

“Your boss can corroborate all of this?”

He nodded. “She’s not available right now, though. She was the first person I called, but the answering service says she’s not taking calls. I’m not sure why.”

Suspicion pinged Kit’s mind. That the one person who could corroborate his testimony wasn’t available was too convenient. Apparently both Joel Haley and the defense attorney thought the same thing because they both winced.

“Is she the only one?” Kit asked.

Sam looked around the table, his brows furrowing at the expressions on their faces. “No,” he said, his voice slightly strained. “She told her therapist as well.”

“I’ll need his name.”

Reeves hesitated. “I don’t know it. Her assistant probably would, or maybe even her husband, but I never asked and she never offered.”

Too fucking convenient. Kit sighed, disappointed in her gut once more. She’d really wanted to believe this man, which wasn’t like her at all. “What was with the photos you had taped to that board?”

“Stop, Sam,” his lawyer advised. “I don’t like the way this is going.”

Reeves looked at Joel. “Do you agree with her?”

Joel waffled his hand in a so-so motion. “I believe you, but that your boss is suddenly unavailable to corroborate doesn’t look good.”

“She will, once she’s back,” Reeves insisted. He turned to Kit, looking her in the eye. “I didn’t think you believed me. Four days passed from my first call and I’d neither seen nor heard anything about any bodies found in the park. I figured there’d be something about police digging a hole, at least, but there wasn’t.”

This was true. They’d barricaded off the area when they’d started digging so that no one would witness the activity and had asked the park’s management to say it was a broken pipe if anyone asked why the ground had been disrupted. Kit hadn’t thought it would work, but there had been no media coverage, much to SDPD’s relief.

“When I called a second time, you were suspicious,” Sam went on. “I figured you hadn’t taken me seriously, so I decided to figure out who the next victim was and warn her myself if I had to.”

He sounded so goddamn sincere. Why does he have to be so goddamn sincere?

“So you did what?” She smiled condescendingly, just to see his reaction. “Thought you’d make a murder board like we use in Homicide?”

His cheeks flushed with color and he clenched his jaw for a second before answering. “Yes. I told you that I take my duty to warn seriously. I’m glad you replace this so amusing, Detective,” he said bitterly. “At least ‘Lilac’ is safe.”

Kit kept her gaze fixed on his face, watching for his reaction to her next disclosure. “No, she isn’t. The two teenagers you pointed us to are all right. But one of their teammates went missing eight months ago. She was blond and petite and played lacrosse wearing a lilac uniform.”

The color drained from Reeves’s face. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “Did she like the TV show Avondale?”

Kit blinked at the question. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Because my client said they watched that show together. Did he kill her? Could she still be alive?”

“What is your client’s name?” Kit asked, fully expecting him not to answer.

“Colton Driscoll,” he said, still appearing horrified. “He was referred to me for anger management as a requirement of his probation after he beat his neighbor and tried to hit him with his car.”

Colton Driscoll. Excitement prickled over her skin. Now they had a name.

“And he got probation?” Joel demanded. “What the hell? I hate the system sometimes.”

“Me too,” Kit said coolly. “How old is Mr. Driscoll?”

Reeves frowned at her, confused. “Forty-five. Why?”

Old enough to have done all the murders. He’d have started when he was twenty-five. Maybe even earlier if there were victims they hadn’t yet found.

“Is he from the area?” she asked, ignoring his question. “Or did he move here from somewhere else?”

Reeves’s confusion intensified. “I don’t know. According to him, he’s from up north, the Midwest, out east, or from England, depending on which day it is. It changes from session to session. He’s a pathological liar.”

“I got that part,” Kit said. “Was there anything else that you remember about Mr. Driscoll? Anything that you yourself observed?”

Reeves swallowed. “When he talked about his ‘pretty young thing,’ he’d do this around the water bottle he was holding.” He squeezed his hands together, twisting them.

As if strangling someone. All the known victims had been strangled to death.

“It was . . . disturbing,” he added quietly. “That was what initially caught my notice. He didn’t make the hand motions when he was talking about his fabricated life. You know, the actors and the royalty.”

“I imagine that would be disturbing,” Kit murmured. “Do you have his address in your client files?”

“I have the address he provided on his intake paperwork, but it wasn’t the right one. When I started to become uncomfortable with his disclosures, I checked his address against his arrest report. I figured that was the correct one. The one he provided to us was a mansion in Del Mar, but he really lives in a two-bedroom in Mira Mesa.”

Kit drew in a slow breath as she understood. “Mira Mesa was the fourth dot on the map.” He’d marked on his murder board the addresses of both young women and the park where Jaelyn Watts had been buried. The fourth dot had been unlabeled. It made sense now.

“Yes.”

She leaned back in her chair, studying him. “Why did you mark his address on the map?”

He held her gaze. “I thought it might show a pattern.”

No, she thought. That was a lie. His voice had gone slightly flat. Barely noticeable, if she hadn’t been listening for it.

“Were you planning on following him?” she asked.

“Sam,” his lawyer broke in. “I don’t think you should say anything else.”

He flicked the woman a sharp look before locking Kit’s gaze with his. “I hadn’t decided.”

Laura Letterman’s head dropped back, and she stared at the ceiling. “I’m clearly not needed here. I’m going home and back to bed.”

“I see,” Kit told Reeves levelly, ignoring the dramatic attorney, who made no move to leave. “You were going to see if he went to either of the girls’ homes?”

The attorney abruptly straightened in her chair. “Do not answer that, Sam,” she hissed. “I swear to God, you need to keep your mouth shut.”

He glanced at his attorney again before meeting Kit’s eyes. “Will you arrest Colton Driscoll?”

She wanted to say yes. His green eyes were so vivid. So goddamn sincere. This is a genuinely good man.

Who might be manipulating me right now. He was a shrink, after all. Baz was right not to trust them. They knew the human mind. They knew how to use their words, their voice, their body language to get people to say things they never would have otherwise said.

This Kit knew from experience. This was why she’d been avoiding Dr. Scott.

“We’ll check him out.” That was all she would commit to at this point.

Logically, Driscoll made a better suspect than Reeves. Driscoll was the right age and—if Reeves could be believed—had a history of violence. Both things were easily checked out.

“You’ll have to remain here until we’ve investigated this lead,” Kit said, rising.

Reeves’s jaw tightened and his eyes flashed with anger, but he said nothing.

“Arrest him or let him go,” Laura Letterman demanded.

“Oh, we already arrested him for resisting arrest,” Kit said dryly. “That one doesn’t go away.”

Letterman turned raised eyebrows to Sam.

He shrugged. “I panicked. She . . .” He closed his eyes. “She grabbed my arms.”

“Oh.” Letterman nodded, understanding softening her harsh expression. “We can make that go away,” she said softly, then glared up at Kit. “He was trying to help you.”

Kit felt a momentary pang of guilt, then shoved it away. Not yet. Not until she was certain that he wasn’t involved. “He was also in possession of an unregistered gun, which he was holding when he answered the door.”

Reeves frowned. “It is registered.”

“In California?”

He winced. “No. In Arizona. I inherited it from my grandfather. I only take it with me when I go camping.”

“Stop, Sam,” Letterman repeated with growing frustration. “We will discuss your weapon once we are alone.”

Reeves sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Fine.”

Kit looked down at Reeves, willing him to say something—anything—to make her believe him. But he looked away, his mouth tight.

“I’ll need your boss’s contact information.” She slid her notebook across the table. “Name and number.”

“I’ll need my phone.”

She returned it to him, noticing that both Joel Haley and Laura Letterman shifted to hide his hand while he tapped in his password.

Reeves engendered loyalty, even in someone with whom it appeared he had bad history. He wrote Vivian Carlisle in a neat, compact script, then paged through his contacts before adding a phone number and an address in La Jolla. Looked like Dr. Carlisle did all right for herself. That was a nice part of town.

Wordlessly he pushed her notebook back to her. His expression, which had been so open, was now shuttered and cold.

It seemed he was finally taking his attorney’s advice.

That left her feeling . . . sad.

Stop. Stop liking him. Stop wanting him to be innocent.

She slid her notebook into her pocket. “Sit tight, Dr. Reeves. I’ll be back.”

San Diego, California

Saturday, April 9, 7:20 a.m.

“What’s wrong with you?” Baz asked as he pulled away from the department lot. Their boss had sent a small army of officers to back them up. They’d surround Colton Driscoll’s house before knocking on his door.

This was the closest they’d come to solving a decades-old string of serial murders, and Lieutenant Navarro was unwilling to allow Driscoll to get away.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Baz snorted. “Don’t try that with me. I’ve known you too long. We’re about to take down a notorious killer and you’re all mopey. What’s wrong?”

Kit should feel elated. They were about to take a monster off the streets.

But she just felt . . . off. “I want Colton Driscoll to be the killer.”

“Because you want the doctor to be telling the truth,” Baz observed, not unkindly.

She didn’t answer because she didn’t want to admit it out loud, because it was true. But she also refused to be a victim of a shrink’s manipulation, no matter how goddamn sincere Reeves appeared to be.

“Driscoll is a more logical choice than Reeves,” she said quietly. “He’s the right age and he has a history of violence.” She thumbed through the man’s rap sheet displayed on her phone. “His neighbor wasn’t the first person he assaulted. He’s been convicted of four additional misdemeanors—two bar fights and two counts of domestic violence with his first two wives. But he’s never done a day of time. He’s lived in San Diego since high school, at least, and he’s worked in the mail room in the Ruby Building for five years. He was an IT professional before that.”

“So what feels wrong? About Driscoll, I mean.”

He’d left her reaction to Reeves unacknowledged, allowing her to focus on the man they were on their way to see. “That a man with that history of violence—impulsive violence—has managed to stay under our radar for twenty years.”

“He’s not stupid,” Baz said. “He worked in IT.”

“For a lot of different companies. Never held a job for more than a few years. His temper kept getting him fired. He’s supposed to be charming, though. Makes women fall for him. He’s been married four times.”

“Where did you read that?”

“In his probation file.”

“Maybe you should be the one to question him, then. Pretend to fall under his charms when we get him into interview.”

“We’ll see,” she said doubtfully.

Baz blew out an exasperated breath. “Look a little more alive, will you? We’re about to bag a serial killer. This will be a feather in both our caps.”

Kit straightened her spine. Baz was right. She needed her head in the game. “More alive, coming up.”

They spent the rest of the drive going over Driscoll’s file.

Kit frowned, her mind sorting through the data. “He lured four barely legal wives into marriage. He’d certainly be able to charm a teenage girl with stars in her eyes. But how is he replaceing them? Did he lie and tell them that he was a talent scout or a producer?”

“That’d be my guess. We’ll search him and his house and see what we replace.”

Baz stopped the car in front of a dilapidated two-story house matching the address on Driscoll’s police report. The house looked like it hadn’t been touched in a decade, with peeling paint and sagging doorframes. The lawn was patchy and taken over by weeds.

The other houses nearby, in contrast, were well kept. Not new, but maintained with pride by their owners. It was still early enough that only one person was out on the street—a jogger who eyed them curiously as he passed.

“The probation file says that none of his neighbors like him,” Kit said. “I mean, beating someone up aside, I can see why.”

“Wonder why he didn’t try to charm his neighbors.”

Kit tugged on the straps of her tactical vest. All of them wore full tactical gear because they weren’t sure what they’d replace. “Good question.”

Putting her reservations—and concerns about Dr. Reeves—aside, she got out of the car, quieting her mind and readying herself to break into the house if need be.

Two uniforms headed out to the back of the house, guarding all the possible exits. Two more followed Baz and Kit up the front sidewalk.

The others stayed back, awaiting orders to move in if necessary.

“You good?” Baz asked.

She nodded resolutely, her head finally on straight again. “Yes. Let’s go.”

They approached the house carefully, watching the windows for any sign of Colton Driscoll. They’d been shot at from windows before and Kit wasn’t keen on making that a regular thing.

They made it to the front door with no altercations and Kit rapped briskly. “Mr. Driscoll? It’s San Diego PD. We want to talk to you.”

Nothing. Not a sound. No scurrying, no rustling. Nothing.

Kit and Baz frowned at each other.

“I don’t hear anything,” Baz whispered.

A feeling of foreboding shivered down her spine. “Me either.”

Baz motioned to the two officers standing behind them. “If you would.”

The two men swung a battering ram at the door, breaking it open. Kit and Baz entered, guns drawn.

“Mr. Driscoll,” Baz boomed loudly, “San Diego PD.”

But then they froze, three feet into Driscoll’s living room. Kit stared up into the cold eyes of Colton Driscoll.

Into his cold, dead eyes.

He swung from the rope tight around his neck, his face a purplish color, his tongue slightly extended, his head bent at an unnatural angle.

“Well, shit,” Kit muttered. She pressed gloved fingers to his wrist, just in case, then frowned. “He’s still a little warm. He hasn’t been dead that long.”

“We must have been just too late.”

And Baz didn’t sound too torn up about that. Kit understood, although the identities of the remaining victims would remain a mystery unless Driscoll had left records of some kind.

“We need to tell Navarro,” she said.

Their boss was anxiously awaiting news, hoping to tell the brass that they’d solved a cold serial murder case.

“He’s going to be unhappy,” Baz murmured, still staring at Driscoll’s face.

Kit dialed Navarro, who answered on the first ring. “Did you get him?” he demanded.

“He’s dead,” Kit said flatly. “Hanged himself.”

“Motherfucker,” Navarro hissed. “Is there a note? Anything?”

“We haven’t looked around yet,” Kit told him. “We’ll search and call you back, but I thought you needed to know. More later.” She ended the call and turned to Baz. “I’ll call the ME, you call CSU.”

She and Baz made their calls, then began searching the house.

“There’s a note on the printer,” Baz called and Kit hurried over to see.

“ ‘To whom it may concern,’ ” she read, “ ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve done terrible things. I’ve killed five young women. Five innocents. I could no longer live with myself and knew I’d do it again and again, so I’m taking myself out of the equation. Please tell their parents that I’m sorry.’ ”

“A confession,” Baz said, sounding stunned.

But Kit wasn’t convinced. “Five? What about Cecilia Sheppard? She should have been number six.”

Baz slid the note into an evidence bag. “Maybe he didn’t want to admit to all of his victims. We’ve always thought there were likely more than the bodies we found by accident. Or maybe Cecilia Sheppard was killed by someone else. She was only reported missing. We don’t even know for sure that she’s dead.”

That was technically true, but Kit didn’t think Cecilia was still alive, or that she’d been killed by someone else. The lacrosse and lilac references had been too spot-on. “Why admit to five, then? Why five? Could he know we’d found five victims? Did he know we’d just found Jaelyn’s body in Longview Park? We’ve kept a tight lid on this information. Need-to-know only. Do we have a leak?”

“All good questions,” Baz acknowledged. “Let’s keep looking. We might replace answers.”

Frowning, Kit went back to Driscoll’s body, studying it as it lightly swung. “He hit something recently.” His knuckles had abrasions, but they’d started to scab over. “And he dressed up.” He wore a nice shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, along with trousers and a sport jacket. A folded tie peeked out of the jacket pocket, like he’d taken his tie off at some point. “Did he dress up to kill himself or did he go somewhere last night and come home to kill himself?”

Her gaze stopped at his feet. He still wore his shoes.

“Baz, look at his shoes. Sperry Top-Siders.”

“Same as the prints we found at the Longview Park scene.” Baz lifted his eyebrows. “Same as the shoes we found in Dr. Reeves’s closet. Looks to be about the same size, too, but Reeves’s were more worn.”

Kit hunkered down until the shoes were at her eye level. “These are new. Not even broken in. Forensics can tell us which shoe made the print.”

But she knew in her gut that these shoes wouldn’t be a match. Besides, Dr. Reeves had already admitted going to the park to see if there was a grave. He’d left the print.

She rose and began searching the kitchen. “Wallet and keys are here on the counter. If he cooked anything last night, he tidied up afterward.”

“Everything’s tidy,” Baz observed. “Not even a speck of dust on the bookshelves.”

“He doesn’t even have a junk drawer,” she said after opening all the kitchen drawers. She moved on to the cabinets but found nothing of immediate interest, so she went to the bedroom.

And froze at the first dresser drawer she opened.

“Holy fucking shit,” she muttered.

“What?” Baz asked, coming up behind her. Then he whistled softly. “Bingo.”

Six pairs of brand-new handcuffs were piled in the drawer and, beside them, lying on its side, was a can of sparkly pink spray paint.