Page 23 of Secrets in the Dark
Could they be right?
Della didn’t know what it had been about the man in the bar—Jesse Miller—that had caused her to make sure that he didn’t leave with the young woman.
And maybe it was true that he had taken off because he was afraid of the police, or—
No. They knew his name. And that he had a record.
And they knew, too, that there were no known warrants out against him. He hadn’t, however, proven to have a known address in the United Kingdom. His last listed residence had been in Northern Ireland and authorities there had assured them that he hadn’t been living at the residence since his parents had died four years ago.
They knew who he was—they had nothing on him. All they had was his prints.
But the killer wasn’t leaving prints.
There were, of course, those people who just didn’t like the police or law enforcement of any kind. And maybe his past experiences had made him think that no woman was worthy of being picked up for a night if she brought along questions from the authorities.
Maybe they had help now. She lowered her head and smiled, thinking that Mrs. Abigail Scott might well be the catalyst they needed to discover the truth. While death didn’t change the fact that a person could only be in one place at a time, they could be in that place without being seen.
And while Abigail wouldn’t be able to knock out a would-be killer, she could find them—and send them in the right direction.
It was all coming together...
And yet there were still so many simple questions.
Questions kept flooding her mind as she sat in front of her computer at headquarters. It had been good to meet up with François Bisset and Jeanne Lapierre—both men had been professional and warm—doggedly determined to pursue justice, truth, and human kindness as well.
“Blackbird is back,” Mason had whispered to her, which had allowed her a smile. Technically, she and Mason were the only members of their dedicated European Krewe team. But if all the top brass from the countries involved agreed, they’d be great members of a permanent team.
She didn’t want to be technical. She didn’t care what any officials from any country wanted to call them—they all made a hell of a team. Blackbird was back, or would be once Wilhelm arrived from Norway, the country where she and Mason had begun their hunt for the vampire killer, though he’d struck before arriving on Norse shores. Bisset and Lapierre, in contrast to Edmund Taylor who was only in his early thirties, were in their forties and fifties, respectively, men who had long been involved with law enforcement. While Lapierre was still a detective in Paris, Bisset had started as a patrolman in that same city before going on to become a key part of Interpol. He could reach almost anyone at any time and was an incredible asset, having a comprehensive knowledge of Europe, its different countries and their laws.
Jeanne Lapierre was just one damned good detective.
She was reflecting on their team as she went through the various footage they had received from local businesses, banks and traffic cams.
And in spite of the fact that they’d been happy to be back together—Frenchmen greeting Americans, Edmund and Sean Johnstone, who was now with them as well—the large conference room that had been dedicated to them was oddly silent.
They were all focused on the screens in front of them.
She wasn’t sure just how long she’d been staring at her screen, concentrating on the streets where the alley began and ended, when she noted someone turning out of the alley. Glancing at the traffic cam’s time stamp, she saw that the time had been just about 2:30 a.m.
“My God!” she breathed, sitting back.
“What?”
Della wasn’t sure how many people said the word, but it was a chorus from around the room.
She looked up, freezing the image on her screen.
She shook her head. “You can’t see his face, but this is one cocky and arrogant killer. I’m throwing it up on the big screen,” she said, hitting another key on her computer to send the moment she had captured onto the large screen suspended at the far end of the room.
“Arrogant, surely,” Mason murmured.
“He’s wearing a deerstalker hat! The bloody nerve!” Edmund declared.
“And he waves at the camera,” Jeanne Lapierre said, shaking his head. “It’s as if he’s saying, I’m right here, you’re impotent and I’ll show you.”
“Where was he heading?” Mason asked.
“Let’s see...”
