yet.” It wasn’t a question. The ball of dread that seemed permanently lodged in his chest intensified.
He felt her eyes on him. Met her gaze.
“I hope I’m wrong. But I have the feeling he’s just getting started.”
The man the media had unimaginatively dubbed Cop Killer had indeed picked out his next victims. He wasn’t fussy about the order in which they died, except for the one he was saving for last. He’d been focused on this for years and had planned out every last detail. But a man had to be flexible. Ready to adapt to the unexpected.
Marisa Chandler was unexpected.
He’d been prepared for cops. Was delighted by the task force. He liked the idea of a whole army of cops running around trying to figure out where he’d hit next. He was smarter than all of them. He was proving that.
Chandler didn’t worry him. Not yet. But it bothered him that no one seemed to know what her role was. None of his contacts had come up with anything.
It was always the unknown that tripped people up. Chandler wasn’t going to be allowed to trip him up.
She’d been a cop; he’d found out that much. Supposedly a good one. Then she’d left. Got herself hurt last winter in Minneapolis, although the details on the Internet had been sketchy. There’d been a few photos of her and a story that had been short on answers.
So he’d get them himself. It’d be easy enough to wait for her to leave work. Follow her home. Maybe get a feel for how big a threat she might be.
The answer to that particular question would determine if he allowed her to live.
Bonnie Christiansen wore the slightly shell-shocked expression Nate had seen on the faces of those who life had suddenly hit too hard. When he introduced Risa and himself, her smile was perfunctory but her eyes held the vacant look of someone who probably wasn’t going to remember details of this time a few years down the road.
What she would recall was the vicious way her husband had been taken from her, altering her life forever.
“We’re sorry to disturb you at this time,” Risa was saying gently. “We don’t want to intrude.”
“Have you . . . Is there news about Patrick?” They were seated in a small family room that seemed dominated by the empty leather recliner in the corner. A slight indentation was permanently worn into the seat. Nate didn’t have to be told that the chair had been her husband’s.
“The autopsy has been completed. You should receive word today about the body being released. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Good. That’s good.” Her words were vague. She reminded him of a small bird, with her short cap of smooth hair and skittish manner. Her hands on her lap fluttered as if she didn’t know what to do with them. Finally she clasped them tightly together. “I’ve been talking to Pastor Warren about the service. And our children have been helping choose pictures. We’ll need pictures. We can’t . . . Patrick isn’t . . .” Her voice choked as she repeated, “We’ll need pictures.”
“That’ll be nice.” Risa reached over and covered the woman’s hands with one of her own. “Surrounding yourself with memories always helps.”
“Thirty-one years together, we had plenty of memories.” Her attempt at a smile trembled at the edges. “Some good, some bad, like most marriages, I guess. But it’s all about the good outweighing the bad. In the end, that’s what matters.”
“Mrs. Christiansen, would you mind looking at a couple photos for me? See if you recognize the people in them?”
At her nod, Nate took the pictures of the other two dead detectives and handed them to her.
“I’ve seen them. Both of them,” she murmured.
He and Risa exchanged a glance. “You have?”
“In the newspaper.” She seemed to release the words on a little sigh as she handed them back. “They were the other detectives that died, weren’t they?”
“That’s right. But I was wondering if you recognized them from a time before that. If maybe they’d been to the house. If you saw Patrick speak to them somewhere?”
She frowned, as if trying to focus, then shook her head. “Not that I recall. Of course if he spoke to them at a police function, I wouldn’t remember. Those things are so huge, so many people . . . Patrick loved crowds, but I’m more of a homebody. After a few years I started making excuses to send him alone.”