Fear Nothing (Detective D.D. Warren #7) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,141

rows of true-crime novels, including nearly the entire Ann Rule library.

“He was definitely researching the genre,” she commented, flipping through titles such as The Stranger Beside Me and Green River, Running Red. Next she came across half a dozen books on writing. Then, more disturbingly, three hardcover homicide textbooks, all of which promised genuine crime scene photos.

D.D. flipped open one of the textbooks to a yellow-flagged page. “Postmortem Mutilation,” read the chapter head. All righty then.

“D.D.”

She put the book down, crossed over to where Phil was currently glued to Sgarzi’s computer screen.

“Video files,” he informed her. “Looks like from some kind of low-rent surveillance cameras, over-the-counter crap. There’s dozens of digital images, going back four to five months. All unlabeled.”

“Open the most recent.”

He shot her a look. “You think?”

She smiled at her computer-whiz partner, who was now working the mouse. She picked up the yellow legal pad sitting next to the computer.

Who am I? Charlie had scrawled across the top of the page. Good neighbor, helpful journalist.

What do I look like? Upscale professional, blends in on the elevator, nothing to look at here.

Primary motivation? Concern for her safety, just trying to help.

Purpose of operation: Saving the best for last; Harry Day’s daughter, Shana Day’s one weakness, now my final prey. Because I am not like you and you are not like me. I am better. Always have been.

Net gain: Resolution. Winner takes all.

“D.D.” Phil’s voice intruding, low and urgent.

D.D. glanced up. Phil had been forwarding through the black-and-white video file. A still shot of what appeared to be a clothes-filled closet. Except now the door was opening. The head and shoulders of a woman appeared.

Dr. Adeline Glen, walking toward the cameras.

Abruptly staring straight at them.

A white piece of tape appeared in her hands. Then the screen went blank.

“She found it,” Phil murmured.

“She taped over the lens! What time? What time?”

“I don’t know.” Phil started scrolling around. “I found a date stamp, but no time. The date, however, was . . . yesterday.”

D.D. stilled, feeling suddenly blindsided. “But Adeline was with us most of yesterday. Meaning it had to be after she returned home. Sometime last night. She searched her apartment, discovered a surveillance camera in her own bedroom and . . . didn’t call us for help?”

Phil looked up at her. “That doesn’t sound good.”

It didn’t, and then, in the next instant . . . D.D. closed her eyes. She got it. What they hadn’t known, the missing piece of the puzzle, what they’d had to come here to find. “Adeline did it,” she murmured. “Adeline is the one who created the diversion in the prison parking lot. She tossed the firecrackers under the vehicle right before walking in. The timing would fit.”

“She broke her own sister out of prison?” Phil asked, voice incredulous. “Agreed to have her own face mutilated?”

“She can’t feel pain, remember? But she can feel fear.” D.D. tapped the monitor, the frozen video frame. “She must’ve known it was the Rose Killer who was watching her. Had even been watching her for months now. If she called us, what would we do?”

“Offer police protection,” Phil said immediately.

“Which we’d already offered and she’d already declined. Whereas, if she negotiates some kind of deal with her sister . . .”

“I’ll free you from prison in return for you taking on my serial-killer stalker,” Phil provided.

“Shana won’t just protect Adeline. She’ll end this game once and for all. What did Adeline tell us that day? This is what Shana does best.”

Phil pushed back his chair. Without another word, they headed straight for Adeline’s condo.

Thirty minutes and counting.

Chapter 40

I WATCHED THE FRONT DOOR of my condo open. Sprawled on the bedroom floor, I couldn’t move a muscle to respond. My eyelids were heavy, my skin clammy, while my stomach continued to roll queasily. Flu-like symptoms, except it wasn’t the flu. It was carbon monoxide poisoning.

Charlie Sgarzi strode into my apartment. He no longer wore his oversize trench coat. Instead, he was clad in well-tailored tan slacks, a button-down pin-striped shirt. He looked both smaller and sleeker. Less a caricature, more a focused predator, finally moving in for the kill.

On his face he wore a mask that covered his mouth and nose. He also carried with him a dark-green duffel bag that contained items I knew too much about. Especially the surgical-grade scalpel and the mason jar already prepared with formaldehyde.

After closing and securing the front door behind him, Charlie slipped the copy of the key he’d obviously made for my