No Escape. Meredith Fletcher

them were crime scene photographs. Some of them were bloody. Sometimes, and the profilers attached to the murders didn’t know why, the killer liked to cut his victims. Other times, like with Megan Taylor, he just killed them.

      Muriel Evans, the weather girl in Newark, New Jersey, had been shot through the head.

      Tina Farrell, the masseuse in Los Angeles, had had her neck broken in a manner that suggested Special Forces training.

      The Taylor woman had been the first to get strangled.

      The White Rabbit Killer didn’t seem like a disorganized killer. He was too methodical, too good at what he did. But an organized killer often used the same weapon. Like the knife.

      Janet had been tied up and thrown into a hotel room shower, then had a naked electrical cord dropped in after her. Her death hadn’t been easy. Heath still smelled her burned flesh in his nightmares.

      So far, the White Rabbit Killer hadn’t killed the same kind of victim or in the same city. Not even in the same state. The serial killer was a traveler, but he took some kind of pride or satisfaction in his kills because he always left a calling card behind: a black card embossed with a white rabbit.

      At first, no one in the media or in the homicide squads that were investigating the murders knew what the white rabbit meant. Janet had been the first detective to match the white rabbit to the magician Gibson. She’d been the one who’d discovered Gibson had been in all of the cities of the victims during the time they were killed.

      But there was no evidence linking Gibson to the murders. And now, even with Janet among the victims, there was still no evidence.

      The killer’s pace was picking up, though. Only two weeks had passed since he’d killed Janet. His timetable was picking up speed. Either he was growing more confident, or whatever he got from murdering women wasn’t lasting as long as it had.

      Heath took the pistol out and placed it on the desk. He reached into the small refrigerator near the desk and took out a beer. The air-conditioning in the room was weak and he was already sweating.

      In the center of the canvas, Gibson stared out with those malevolent eyes and that mocking smile.

      Heath sipped his beer and considered his next move. Gibson was on the island. He stayed locked away somewhere up in the hills. No one Heath had met knew for certain where, and the local police force wasn’t being overly helpful in finding the man. They had no reason to interfere with the man’s privacy. Or maybe they didn’t know.

      Gibson wasn’t wanted in Jamaica, and he wasn’t wanted by anyone in the United States, either. At least, not yet.

      Heath’s cell phone buzzed for attention. He took it from his pocket and glared at it. The unit was a throwaway he’d gotten in Atlanta before leaving the city and didn’t have caller ID, but he knew who it was. Only one person had the number.

      Cursing, Heath took the call. “Yeah.”

      “How’s it going down there?” Jackson Portman sounded totally relaxed, but then he always did. An ex-football player and African-American, Jackson’s build and don’t-cross-me demeanor made him look more like a movie heavy than a homicide detective.

      “It’s too hot.”

      “Can’t be no hotter than ‘Lanta.”

      “Did you call for a reason? Or are we just gonna talk about the weather?”

      “You busting any heads yet?”

      “No. Why?”

      “Got a call about you.”

      “From the locals?”

      “Nope. I already talked to them. Inspector Myton don’t look like he’s gonna be a fan of your work anytime soon. Said you had no business bein’ up in their business.”

      “I’ve heard Myton talk. He doesn’t sound like that.”

      “That’s ‘cause I’m paraphrasing.”

      Heath took another sip of his beer. “If it wasn’t Myton that called, who was it?”

      “A woman. When I first heard her voice a little while ago, I was hopin’ maybe you met somebody.”

      “Overnight?”

      “I ever tell you how I met my first missus?”

      “Too many times.” Heath sat up straighter and looked at Lauren Cooper’s picture. “Let me guess who the woman was.”

      “Sure.”

      “Lauren Cooper.”

      “Shocks me how you know that, bro. I mean, you should be a detective.”

      “I’m working on it. Myton must have told her about me.” Heath took another sip of beer. Or the coroner told her. He hadn’t cared for Heath, either.

      “I don’t think so.”

      “Why?”

      “She knows too much about you. Stuff Myton wouldn’t know.”

      Heath stared at the pretty woman in the picture. He’d missed something about her. “Like what?”

      “Where you lived. About your sister and her kids. About your gym membership. About me. A lot more than I know about you, actually. That’s why I thought maybe you’d hooked up with someone down there and just didn’t tell me. Then I realized it was you I was talking about, and I thought maybe I’d call you, check that out. Now you sound like you ain’t any too happy to hear from her.”

      For a second, Heath felt a faint tickle of fear. His sister and his two nephews lived not far from him in Atlanta. He’d been helping out with them when he could since her husband had left her. “I’m not.”

      Jackson waited a beat. “You want to tell me how Lauren Cooper knows so much about you? Especially if you ain’t all chummy and everything?”

      There was a knock at the door.

      “I’ll call you back.” Heath picked up the .357 and got up. He walked to the door and avoided the peephole. Quietly, he slid the cell phone into his shirt pocket, then dropped a hand onto the door handle and popped it open just enough to see out into the hallway.

      Lauren Cooper stood there with her arms folded. “We need to talk, Detective Sawyer. Now.”

       Chapter 3

      “Are you alone?”

      That wasn’t the response Lauren expected from the man. She’d expected him to be contrite or defensive, or at least surprised, maybe even outraged that she’d found him, but he didn’t seem to be anything more than irritated.

      “What?”

      “Alone? Are you alone? It’s not a hard question to answer.” Heath stepped through the door and glanced out at the courtyard in front of the motel room. He held a gleaming black revolver in his right hand, tucking it close behind his thigh so it couldn’t easily be seen.

      “Yes. I’m alone.” Even as she said that, Lauren wondered if coming here alone was intelligent. Now she was wishing she’d gone to the local police. But she also realized that course of action probably wouldn’t have gotten anything done. Heath Sawyer might have been there on police business, and even if he wasn’t, he hadn’t broken any major laws.

      Heath grabbed her by the elbow and tugged her through the doorway. Lauren set her heels and started pulling back. He glared at her. “You came to see me, lady. I didn’t come knocking on your door. So either leave or come in. This door isn’t staying open.”

      For a moment, Lauren seriously considered turning around and leaving. That seemed to be the path of least resistance. Except that she’d just seen her murdered sister and she wanted some answers that she felt certain the man in front of her had. Inspector