Sophie's dreams were plagued with images of Alison Tisdale. In them, the young woman was murdered over and over again, her face first pleading and then accusing as Sophie failed again and again to save her. Each time, Sophie woke with a start and looked at the clock to see almost no time had passed.
A little after seven, she gave up trying to sleep. Her eyes were gritty, and her brain felt mangled, but she thought she'd be able to fight that off with some strong coffee.
Tiredly, she blinked in the weak light coming in her window as she stumbled to her bathroom. The apartment was quiet around her as her sisters slept off their late night.
Sophie turned her shower on its highest setting and stood under the strong spray, hoping it would wash away some of the guilt she was feeling. She closed her eyes, leaning in to let the hot water pound her body.
She continued to think of Alison Tisdale and Marvin Fisk, and she couldn't get their faces out of her mind. There was no way she was going to forget that they'd died like characters in her books, and she wished there were something she could do to help find their killer.
Suddenly, it came to her. She stilled, and the water flattened her hair to her head and dripped off the end of her nose. As the idea developed, she could feel herself growing lighter.
By the time the police came for her fan mail, Sophie was already dressed and ready to leave. She opened the door to two uniforms and a detective. He was young with Asian features and jet black, shaggy hair. His body was small and slim, and his eyes were slightly bored.
"Good morning," he said, revealing the intriguing hint of an Australian accent. "I'm Detective Jones. We've come for your mail."
Sophie smiled at him. "Good morning, Detective. Please come in. I was just going out, but I've bagged I tall up and placed it in my office. My sister, Cassandra, will help you with whatever you need," she told him before calling, "Cassie, they're here!"
Cassie appeared wearing a white and green striped sweater, cut off flowered jean shorts, and blue and green striped tights. The outfit made her look about twelve but, for her, it worked.
"Hi!" She grinned, her face lighting up. "Come with me."
A cheeky smile came to Jones's face, and his boredom dropped away. He suddenly looked much younger and much less disciplined. Sophie had a brief flash of amusement as she slipped out the door. It was gone before she reached the elevator; she as already thinking ahead and looking forward to seeing Detective Spencer again.
XXX
Hardison and Baird were already at their desks when Eliot came in with a box of books in his arms. Baird was typing on her keyboard, and Hardison was playing with his phone, but they both looked up as he approached.
"What's that?" Hardison asked, putting his phone on his desk.
"Books," Eliot said dryly before adding, "As many Sophie Devereaux books as I could find."
"They yours?" There was a hint of a smile on the younger man's face.
"Mine and Jake's. Is there a problem?"
"No, man. No problem." He shrugged but there was amusement in his eyes.
"Good," Eliot dropped them on Baird's desk, "because I want you to read them—or at least skim them. Go over every murder scene. Someone's life could depend on it."
Baird frowned. "There's a lot of books here."
He gazed at her steadily. She didn't answer the challenge. Instead, she opted for reaching in and picking up one of the books.
"Listen, I know neither of you are readers, but think about it." He took out two of the pictures he'd shown the author the night before. "Our first vic was a middle aged male lawyer. Our second was a young, female social worker. We can't find a connection, but it might be there." He pointed at the box. "You want to take a chance that we'll miss something just because you don't want to read?"
"But there's so many books. You must own everything she ever wrote." Hardison sighed, taking the book Baird was passing him.
"Suck it up," she told him.
Eliot gave her a slight nod of appreciation. "Profiling indicates a fan with low intelligence, someone who thinks he has a personal relationship with the author.
"And he likes to read." Hardison was flipping through the pages.
"Yeah, and where he's going to strike next is somewhere in there, so pay attention."
"Okay. Got it."
"Spencer!" A voice called from across the room. Eliot turned to see Detective Jones and two uniforms. Their arms were full of clear boxes piled high with mail.
He left Baird and Hardison to the books and went to meet them. "That's a lot of mail."
"Yup. Everything we could find. Her sister was a big help." There was a slight smile on Jones's face that Eliot was very familiar with.
"Stay away from the sister."
Jones just grinned wide, so Eliot shook his head. Jones was a good cop but he was still young enough to make stupid mistakes.
"Take the mail into briefing for me. I'll get to it in a minute."
"Sure thing."
"Thanks."
As Jones walked away, Baird arrived. "We got the results back from the lab."
"What did they say?"
"No DNA. No prints. Just like the last one. This guy is careful."
"Did they find any connection?"
"None but her." She waved at the captain's office.
Eliot glanced that way and was surprised to see Sophie Devereaux in there, chatting Captain Ford's head off. The captain was smiling at her, and his features were softer than Eliot was used to.
"What's she doing here?"
Baird shrugged. "Maybe she likes you."
"More like she wants to torture me for taking her away from her party last night."
"She sure doesn't fit in around here."
Devereaux was wearing a simple black dress that came to mid-thigh. It hugged her curves, and the thin spaghetti straps accentuated her smooth, white shoulders. It made her look soft and sexy, and Eliot could feel the danger vibes coming off her in waves.
"No," he agreed.
Ford came to the door and barked, "Spencer!"
"I'm not going to like this, am I?" he murmured to Baird. She gave him a sort of sideways smile that was equal parts amusement and sympathy.
As he approached the office, he tried not to scowl.
"Captain?" he asked, going in.
Devereaux was looking at him, delight lighting her eyes. It made him feel uncomfortable.
"Ms. Devereaux has offered to assist with the investigation," Ford said.
Eliot couldn't tell what the captain's thoughts on this was. "She has?"
He studied her face, and she smiled slightly. Eliot's unease grew.
"It's the least I can do. After all, the killer is using my words."
"Listen..." Eliot started, but Ford interrupted him.
"I think it's a great idea."
"What?"
"She's right. No one knows her words like she does. She could be an asset."
"But...Can I talk to you in private, sir?"
"'Fraid not. Sophie's a part of the team, for now. Make use of her."
Devereaux's grin widened. Eliot sighed.
"Fine."
"I'm so excited to be working with you, Detective," she said, coming forward and placing her hand on his arm, touching him again. "What do we do first?"
"How do you feel about reading fan mail?"
XXX
Sophie sat in the stern, dim room across the table from Detective Spencer. He was quiet as he read, and he seemed to not even remember she was in the room.
He had such a serious face. Sophie glanced up from a letter from a male fan who wondered if she was 'as hot as Rebecca Storm' to study him. This close, she could see his eyes were blue, and he had lashes any woman would envy. Despite his gruff demeanor, she liked looking at him. In fact, she liked him.
He must have felt her gaze because, without looking up, he asked, "What?"
"Are you enjoying reading my mail?"
"What do you think?" His eyes flicked up to her face.
"Just think, all of these people think more of me than you do."
"Most of them haven't met you."
For some reason, he'd seemed to dislike her from the moment they'd met. As far as she could see, she'd done nothing to gain his animosity. She sat up straighter, placing her letter on the table and frowning slightly. "I'm not sure I understand why you have a problem with me."
He finally looked at her, and his gaze was so direct, it almost made her flinch. "What are you doing here?"
"I want to help."
He scowled. "I don't believe you. You don't care about Alison Tisdale. You want something else. Whatever it is, it better not get in the way of this investigation, famous author or no famous author."
Sophie studied his face. It was obvious he'd already made up his mind about her, and nothing she could say would change it. Instead of trying to answer him, she asked, "May I call you Eliot?"
This startled the frown from his face. "What?"
"If we're going to be working together..."
"Just for this case."
"...I'd like to call you Eliot."
"People around here call me Spencer," he told her.
"I like your name."
"Do what you want." He went back to the letter, but she kept watching him, wondering what made him tick. "Are you just going to stare at me?"
"You have amazingly expressive eyes, Detective."
"And what are they saying right now?"
She couldn't help the soft laugh his words produced. "They're saying if I don't let you get back to my fan mail, you might just hit me over the head with one of those boxes."
His eyes softened unexpectedly, which intrigued her.
"Just read some letters, Devereaux. Please."
"You said please." She smiled. "How can I say no?"
"I have a feeling you always do exactly the opposite of what anyone tells you to."
"You've been talking to Cassie."
His smile was sudden, and it crinkled the corners of his eyes. "One of your sisters?"
"The one who worries about me."
"Does she have a reason to worry?" His tone was light and curious.
"Sometimes. I once got drunk and flashed a tour bus. Cassie was mortified."
His eyes dropped to her chest before quickly coming back up to her face. "Is that all?"
"And I have terrible taste in men." He didn't ask for clarification, but she added, "My last five boyfriends were wankers."
"Wankers?"
"Marcel stole $15 000; Clive slept with at least three of my friends; John wanted me to be a cash cow for him and his husband; Frankie gave away the ending to one of my books before it was released; and Todd broke two of my ribs." She waved a hand at him to show it didn't matter, unsure why she'd told him this. A blush tinged her cheeks, and she picked her letter back up, even though it was obvious the creep wasn't a deranged killer.
"Not this one," she said brightly, reaching in the container for another letter.
"This one either," he replied, the gruff note back in his voice. For one minute, Sophie had enjoyed talking to him, and she'd ruined it by bringing Todd into the conversation.
"Maybe the next one." She glanced at him. Spencer was digging in his own box for another letter.
"Maybe. You've got some pretty cracked fans."
"There's also some sweet ones."
"I haven't seen any." After a pause, he added, "Christ."
"What is it?" He handed it to her wordlessly, and she read the practically pornographic words, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "And then there are these."
"Get many of those?"
"Enough."
"Sick, but he's not our guy."
"Probably not."
She slid her thumb under the flap and ripped the top of the next envelope open. As she unfolded one of the two sheets of paper, she felt excitement tingle through her limbs.
"Detective Spencer?"
"Yeah?"
She turned to show him the hand drawing that perfectly matched both the the crime scene from Flowers for your Grave and the last picture taken of Alison Tisdale. "I think this might be what you're looking for."
XXX
Sophie was excited when Spencer led her into the bullpen. She was curious to see where he worked and who he worked with. You could tell a lot about a person by his or her desk.
Spencer's desk was neat. Everything was in its place, and it looked as if no work had ever been done there. The one piece of personalization was a small picture in a plain frame of two little boys. They were both serious looking, though one of them was smiling slightly, and they had the same face. As she studied it, she realized that one of them was Detective Spencer, but she couldn't tell which one.
"You're a twin!" she said in surprise.
"Yeah."
"That's so interesting! When I was a little girl, I always wanted to be a twin. My sisters were so much younger that I wished for someone my own age to talk to." She tapped the faces on the picture. "You were cute."
"Still am."
His humour surprised her, and it took a moment for her to react. When she did, she couldn't help the delighted smile she gave him.
"Who's this?" someone asked, and Sophie turned to see two people behind her. The one who had spoken was a young and lanky African American man. Beside him was a very tall woman, blond with kind eyes.
"Baird, Hardison, this is Sophie Devereaux. The captain has agreed to let her help on our case."
"You're the writer?" Hardison asked. "I started Death by Chocolate this morning. Good stuff."
"Thanks."
"We found a letter from someone who might fit our profile in her fan mail. The letter's in the lab."
"You had more success than we did," Baird told him.
Sophie studied her curiously. She seemed like a woman who was comfortable in her own skin.
"What's our next move?" she asked.
"Now, we wait," Spencer told her, pulling out his chair to sit down.
"Wait for what?"
"The lab to call."
"Oh."
"Have a seat," Baird offered, indicating an uncomfortable looking chair in front of her desk.
"Can you think of anything that connects Flowers for your Grave with Hell Hath no Fury?" Spencer asked as she took the offered chair.
Sophie thought about this. "Not off the top of my head. In one, it was an obsessive man's need for control. In the other, it was a woman with supernatural powers hurt beyond her ability to cope."
"Spoilers!" Hardison said, looking up from his cell phone.
"Yeah, like you were planning on reading anything past this case," Spencer scoffed.
"Is he always this abrasive?" Sophie turned to Baird.
"No. Sometimes he's worse."
"Is this some kind of women's bonding thing?" Sophie could have sworn she saw amusement in Spencer's eyes.
"Nah, man. I'm with them." Hardison pointed his thumb at Sophie, and she couldn't hold back a small laugh.
Even though Spencer seemed to have all of his attention on the conversation, he snatched up his phone before it was done its first ring.
"Spencer...Okay, thanks." He hung up and said, "That was the lab. There were prints on the letter. It's being sent for testing."
"Great. When will we find out who they belong to?" Sophie was ready to jump back out of her chair.
"Three to five days."
"What?" She was stunned.
"That's pretty fast. It usually takes at least a week."
"We can't wait three days."
"There's a line. We're at the end."
"But..."
"We're at the end of the line, Devereaux. That's how it is here in the real world."
"Maybe," she agreed, "but not today."
She took out her cell phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Calling in a favour."
There was no way she was going to wait three days. Anything could happen in three days. As if in answer to that thought, Jones came over, his face serious. Sophie stopped dialing; she had a feeling her call would have to wait.
"Spencer," he said, "they found another one."
XXX
As they walked into the pool room at the Mont Blanc building, Sophie felt equal parts excited, nervous, and apprehensive. It was her first real crime scene, and she wasn't sure how it would be to see how things she'd previously only imagined were in reality.
The room looked completely innocent. It didn't reek of death. Empty chairs waited by small tables for people to come sit in them. An old discarded towel lay balled up in one of the corners. The most remarkable thing about the room was the amount of light. The outside wall was made of windows, and a skylight above the pool highlighted the water. A shaft of light glinted off the knife protruding from the back of the killer's latest victim.
Sophie winced as her eyes fell on the young woman who floated there face down. A yellow prom dress surrounded her like a cloud.
Detective Spencer stood beside Sophie, so close that she could feel the heat from his body and smell the light scent of his cologne. She wondered if he saw the scene as she did or whether his experienced eyes saw clues she couldn't pick up on her own.
As she studied the body, unable to look away, she noticed everything that was familiar about the scene.
"Death of a Prom Queen," she said aloud.
"Yeah," Detective Spencer agreed.
One of the officers milling around the pool caught sight of him and came over. The man ignored Sophie completely as he said, "Maintenance found her an hour ago. Kendra Pitney. She lived in the building."
Spencer nodded, studying the scene. "Okay. If John's finished, get her out of the water. We'll let Jake have a look at her." He turned to Sophie. "You stay here. I don't need you contaminating the crime scene."
"But..." she protested wanting to get a closer look.
"Stay here, Devereaux."
Sophie sighed but didn't reply, annoyed that he thought she'd to anything to compromise his investigation. She wasn't a five year old who couldn't keep her hands to herself.
She watched as the body was fished out of the pool and laid in front of a man she hadn't noticed before. He was wearing a medical examiner's jacket and kneeling beside a blue kit. Sophie was surprised to discover he was the brother Detective Spencer had been talking about earlier. While they had incredibly similar faces, Spencer's brother was more clean cut. He lacked the stubble, his hair was neatly cut, and his face was slightly rounder.
Since Spencer seemed to be busy, Sophie decided to risk walking over to his brother, who had started examining the victim's hand.
"Hi," she said softly, not wanting her voice to carry. "I'm Sophie Devereaux. I'm working with Detective Spencer on this case."
He looked up, his eyes holding the same intensity as his brother's. "Sophie Devereaux the writer?"
She smiled. "Guilty as charged."
"I read your books."
"Do you like them?"
He returned her smile. She noticed he had a kinder face than Spencer. "Very much."
"Can I watch what you're doing? I promise not to interfere."
"Sure. Right now, I'm checking under her fingernails."
Sophie glanced at the victim and felt her stomach get heavy. Ignoring the feeling, she knelt so she could see better.
"I'm Jake Spencer, by the way."
"Nice to meet you. I must say, you are the more pleasant of the Spencer brothers."
He laughed. "I've heard that. You say you're helping Eliot on this?"
"Yes. Captain Ford thought I'd offer a unique perspective because I wrote the murder scenes."
"Makes sense."
"Dammit, Devereaux, what are you doing?" Detective Spencer's voice sounded beside her. "What part of stay out of the crime scene didn't you understand?"
She quickly got to her feet. "I didn't touch anything."
He ignored her and addressed his brother. "COD?"
"I can't be positive without a full exam," Jake told him, "But this wasn't a stabbing."
"Lack of blood around the wound," Sophie commented without thinking.
Spencer threw her a quelling look.
"Right," Jake agreed, "and she didn't drown. No foam around the mouth. She was killed somewhere else and planted here."
Sophie once more studied the body, this time clinically. She noted things she had thoroughly researched, intrigued to see how they displayed themselves in real life.
"You were supposed to be over there," Spencer spoke to her again. He was near enough that his breath rustled her hair. "When I say stay here, I mean stay here. If you're gonna be with me, you have to listen."
"I'm not a child," she voiced her internal protest from earlier. "I know to respect a crime scene."
"I don't want to have to worry about what you're doing while I'm supposed to be doing my job."
"I won't get in the way." She glanced once more at Jake, who had resumed working on the body. "Did you realize the dress is the wrong color?"
"What?"
"The dress. In the book, it was blue."
He waved this away. "You're hung up on the dress color?"
"It just seems strange."
"What about this case isn't?"
Sophie had to concede the point, but the detail still bothered her.
"I don't think there's anything else we can do," he continued. "I'm leaving Baird and Hardison here to question people in the building. You should go home. We're just going to be waiting for Jake's report on how she died. Unless there's another murder, most of what's next is waiting—waiting for Jake, waiting for the prints, waiting to hear from Baird and Hardison."
Sophie remembered she hadn't called in her favour. She glanced at her watch and saw it was after five; she 'd have to wait until morning.
"Are you done with my fan mail?"
"We'll probably keep it a couple of days in case this isn't our guy. That okay?"
"Of course. Will you call me if anything further happens?"
"Yes." He didn't look happy about it, but she trusted him not to lie to her.
"All right." She once more glanced at the crime scene. "Death isn't pretty, is it?"
"No, it's not. Come on, Devereaux. I'll give you a ride home."
XXX
Later that night, Eliot sat on his brother's couch sipping a beer. He'd limited himself to two because he was on call for the Devereaux case and he had to be up early for work the next morning, but those two were going down easy and allowing him to release some of the stress of the day. Jake was on the couch beside him, and they were waiting for one of their favorite Bond movies to start.
"I like her," Jake said, breaking the quiet.
He glanced at him. "Who?"
"Sophie Devereaux."
Eliot smirked. "You were probably looking at her legs."
He let the image of her in that sexy black dress go through his mind. She'd been a titillating distraction, and she smelled faintly of cinnamon. In truth, for the most part, she hadn't been too bad. He was still annoyed that she'd wiggled her way into the case, that she was cheerful, and that she seemed incapable of following simple directions. Even so, Eliot was afraid he was starting to like her, too. One thing he wouldn't waver on, though, was that a murder investigation was no place for a wealthy woman who wrote stories for a living.
"She did have fine legs," Jake admitted, adding, "You weren't very nice to her."
"Nothing says I have to be nice."
"And, if you're mean to her, she might give up and get her nose out of your investigation."
"That, too," he admitted. His brother knew him too well.
"Maybe she'll be some real help."
"I doubt it."
XXX
Sophie was sitting in her office with her books spread out around her. Her newest ones, the ones starring Rebecca Storm, were on her left, and her earlier works were on her right. Death of a Prom Queen was in her lap, and she was thumbing through Flowers for your Grave.
"Sophie?"
She looked up to see Parker in the doorway. "Yes?"
"Dinner is going to be here in a few minutes."
"And what are we having tonight?" None of them really cooked, though they could make a few of the basics when pressed, so they usually ordered in.
"Marco's. I got you spaghetti."
"Sounds good. I'll be out in a minute."
"What are you doing?" Parker came in, eyeing the books curiously. "Are you counting your books?"
"Not exactly. There's something bugging me about this case."
Her eyes lit up. "Oh! What is it?"
"The woman that was murdered today had on a yellow dress."
"Yellow dress?" she asked, sitting in the nearest chair.
"They took the scene from Death of a Prom Queen."
"But Debbie was wearing a blue dress." Parker read all of her books.
"Exactly. Now, I'm looking up the flowers in Flowers for your Grave."
"Sunflowers and hybrid tea roses."
"Yes! That's what I thought."
"Does that mean something?"
"They're the wrong kind."
"The wrong kind?"
"The rose petals the killer used were grandiflora."
Parker frowned and slid from her chair onto the floor so she could pick up Hell Hath no Fury. "What about this one?"
"I haven't had time to check to see if he's made a mistake."
"I wouldn't have made a mistake."
Sophie eyed her sister, who was flipping through the book. "No, you wouldn't have."
She wondered if she were reading more into the killer's errors than there really was. She wanted to contribute something to the case and impress the resolutely unimpressible Detective Spencer, so maybe she was grasping at straws. Either way, the discrepancies bothered her.
"Do you think he'll kill anyone else?"
"I hope not."
"You're worried that he will."
"I don't want anyone else to die because of me."
"Sophie, he's crazy. It's not your fault. I've read your books, and I didn't kill anybody."
"There's still time." Sophie smiled at her tiredly.
Parker made a face at her, and Sophie's mood lifted.
"Was he mean to you today?" Parker asked suddenly.
"Detective Spencer?"
She nodded.
Sophie thought about her day. Spencer had been a little short with her but not actually mean. She knew having her with him annoyed him, but he'd still allowed her to follow him like a puppy. He could have pawned her off on Baird and Hardison instead. She liked the two of them, but there was something about Spencer that made her want to delve inside his brain.
"Not much."
"Good."
Sophie pushed herself up off of the floor and stretched. "I can look at these later. Let's go get something to eat."
"Will you write today?"
She thought guiltily about her blank Word document. "Maybe."
"You're not yourself when you're not writing."
Offering Parker her hand, she asked seriously, "Who am I?"
Parker let her pull her up. "Not really someone else."
Sophie winked at her in amusement. Parker often was very literal, and, occasionally, Sophie gave in to the impulse to tease her. Parker rolled her eyes and bumped Sophie's body gently with her own. Together, they left the room—and the mystery, at least for a few hours—behind.