Chances Are - By Christy Reece Page 0,65

been existing on adrenaline and not much more. The longer it took to find her, the more hopeless he felt.

Everyone in Europe was on the lookout. Border patrols for England, Germany, Italy and Spain swore no one matching the description of the van or its driver had come into their country. But who the hell knew if that was correct? The little information Jake had been able to provide was piss-poor and almost useless—a white van and a Caucasian male of indeterminate age who could disguise himself. Not exactly solid clues to identify and find a killer.

He and McCall were holed up in a hotel in Reims, France—the city they’d been headed when the GPS signal stopped. A sorry-assed location if the bastard had changed directions or managed to cross into another country. But it was all they could do until something came up.

And when they did find her, he was never letting her go. How damn arrogant and stupid he’d been. As if denying his feelings could make them any less real. He wanted to be with Angela, in every way possible. Period.

The hotel door swung open. Jake whirled around to face McCall. The man looked as haggard and worn as Jake felt.

“From the look on your face, the news isn’t good,” Jake said.

McCall had met with the special branch of detectives assigned to this case. His sigh of disgust was loud enough to be heard in the next room. “They have jack-shit, just like we do.”

Jake returned his gaze to the computer screen. He felt as if he’d looked at the registration of every white van ever purchased or rented in Europe. Deidre had done the bulk of the research but all names that needed further investigation she’d forwarded to Jake.

Angela had described the vehicle as an older Volkswagen van, possibly five years old. Had the killer purchased the van when he arrived in Paris? Had he ferried over in it from England? Had he stolen the damn thing? Jake clicked profile after profile. Five LCR operatives were dedicated to checking any leads but so far there’d been too damn few.

Useless. This was all so fucking useless. There wasn’t a person with that vehicle description that remotely matched the—

Another profile popped up on the screen. A middle-aged actor named Derrick Delacourte had rented a Volkswagen van in Paris five days ago. Delacourte had enjoyed a brief spurt of minor stardom years ago but hadn’t had steady theater work since his wife, Rose, also an actor, died.

Delacourte had inherited wealth and had no job.

Cautious hope blossomed. If Delacourte had enough money not to have to work, that would give him the freedom to stalk his victims and the ability to spend a protracted amount of time with them. And an actor could disguise himself to look like anyone or no one. The man’s wife’s name had been Rose…

Why the hell had they never considered an actor before?

Jake’s eyes quickly skimmed the rest of the profile. His gaze stopped abruptly and ice ran through his veins. The last play Delacourte had starred in was at a small dinner club in Durham, England. His role—Jack the Ripper.

Surging to his feet, Jake growled, “Got him.”

McCall was beside him in a second and quickly scanned the screen. “Damn, that fits.” Punching a number on his cellphone, he held it to his ear and said, “Deidre, find out as much as you can about an actor named Derrick Delacourte. Houses, properties…anything.”

Not ready to assume anything, Jake forced himself to sit down again and continue his search. If Delacourte wasn’t their guy, then the bastard had to be here somewhere.

Time slogged in slow motion. Jake continued to click on profile after profile, nothing else seemed to fit. Where the hell was Deidre? Why hadn’t she called? Even as a small voice told him that it took time to do research, another voice snarled that Angela didn’t have time. They needed information. Now.

A cellphone blared.

McCall answered, “What’d you find out?”

Jake watched his face. Dammit, never had he resented not being able to read the man’s expression more than he did as this moment. Why didn’t—

“Deidre,” McCall said, “I’m putting you on speaker phone. Repeat what you just told me.”

In a no-nonsense tone, completely different from her usual cheerful voice, Deidre said, “Delacourte owns a house outside London. As soon as I found the address, I called our Scotland Yard contact. Just received a call back. The police stormed the house and found what they’re calling a