The Watcher. BEVERLY BARTON

who his next victim might be.

      “I’m at home,” he told her. “I’ll be leaving in the morning, on my way to stalk my prey before I capture her and … But you don’t want to hear about all that, do you? You want your other clue.”

      Nic held her breath.

      “Rubies and lemon drops.”

      He hung up.

      Nic frowned, totally puzzled by his statement.

      “Well?” Griff asked.

      “He’s crazy.”

      “We already knew that.”

      “Blonde,” Nic said. “He told me that his next victim is blonde.”

      “And he’s going to capture her Wednesday.”

      “What was your other clue?”

      “It didn’t make any sense.”

      “Neither did mine,” Nic said. “But what was it?”

      “A woman’s name—Debbie Glover.”

      “Does the name mean anything to you? Do you know a Debbie Glover?”

      “The name is meaningless. I have no idea who she is,” Griff said.

      “Maybe there’s a connection between her and rubies and lemon drops.”

      “What?”

      “His second clue for me was rubies and lemon drops.”

      “Contact Trotter,” Griff said. “And I’ll get in touch with Sanders. We’ll run a trace on the name and put a few more heads together to work on figuring out the clues. Agreed?”

      “Agreed.” She lifted the notepad from her lap and handed it to Griff. “In the meantime, I need to get to Atlanta tonight.”

      “Your wish is my command.”

      Their gazes met and held for a split second, a silent understanding passing between them. They were still unwilling partners, at least for the time being.

      Griff had dropped Nic off at police headquarters over two hours ago, where she was meeting with the local police and an agent from the Atlanta FBI field office. Griff had driven to the downtown Sheraton and checked in. Before they’d left Lufkin, he had contacted Sanders, who had made arrangements for a one-bedroom suite and a separate single room at the four-star hotel.

      “When you finish up with what you need to do, catch a cab and come on over to the Sheraton, downtown, on Court-land Street,” Griff had told her. “If you’ll call me on the way, I’ll order supper and when you get there we can see if we can make sense of our four clues.”

      Kicking back, with his jacket and tie off, Griff relaxed in the suite’s lounge. He’d ordered coffee when he first arrived and was now on his third cup. He wasn’t concerned about caffeine consumption. He figured he wouldn’t sleep much tonight anyway.

      As he was studying the notepad filled with Nic’s scrawling handwriting, going over the information once again, his cell phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he answered on the second ring.

      “You have something for me?” Griff asked.

      “Yes and no,” Sanders replied. Damar Sanders was more than Griff’s right-hand man. He was his best friend, his confidante, his father confessor, and sometimes his conscience. Their relationship went back eighteen years and nothing short of death would ever sever their unique bond.

      “Give me the yes first,” Griff said.

      “Very well. I compiled a list of all the Debbie Glovers I could find in the U.S. and then I narrowed them down to those in the South, including Texas, Oklahoma, Kentucky, and Maryland.”

      “And?”

      “And there were far too many to be able to find out even the most basic facts on all of them before Wednesday morning.”

      “Narrow the search to only those between twenty and thirty.”

      “I did.”

      “And?”

      “And I am now running a search on those women, but it will take time to discover their professions.”

      “Anyone whose profession implies she would be in really good physical condition is to go on the list,” Griff said. “As soon as we’ve narrowed it down to a reasonable number, we’ll start narrowing them down to the ones who are blondes.”

      “Do you think he has actually given you the next victim’s name?” Sanders asked.

      “I have no idea,” Griff admitted, “but unless we can figure out what else the name Debbie Glover could mean, how it could connect to his next victim, then I’m stumped. At least for now.”

      “I have called in several agents who are not presently on assignments to assist me,” Sanders said. “We are working on the clues, seeing if anyone can come up with any ideas as to what they might mean.”

      “At least everything made some sort of sense—day after tomorrow, Debbie Glover, and blonde—until the last clue. What the hell kind of clue is rubies and lemon drops?”

      “A cryptic one, wouldn’t you say?”

      “I hate like hell that he’s having so much fun doing this. He’s stringing us along, keeping us guessing, knowing damn well that we won’t refuse to play his game on the off chance we might be able to outsmart him.”

      “He needs the challenge.”

      “We know what kind of game he’s playing with Nic and me,” Griffin said. “What I need to know is what kind of murder game he’s playing with his victims. We found out that, at least with Gala Ramirez and Kendall Moore, he kept them alive for approximately three weeks before he killed them.”

      “Can Special Agent Baxter find out more detailed information about each victim?”

      “I’m sure she can, but whether she’ll share that info with me is iffy.”

      “I’ll make some phone calls,” Sanders said. “If I find out anything, I’ll contact you immediately.”

      No sooner had Griff ended his conversation with Sanders than someone knocked on the outer door. He got up, but before he reached the door, a feminine voice called, “It’s me, Nic.”

      Although he’d told her he would book her a room for tonight, he hadn’t been sure she’d actually show up.

      When he opened the door, he found her standing there, shoulders drooped, makeup faded, eyes bleary, and an expression of pure disgust on her face.

      “I’d better have my own room,” she told him as she shoved past him and walked into the suite.

      “Naturally. I am a gentleman.”

      “That’s debatable.” She eyed the coffeepot on the table. “Tell me that’s not decaf.”

      “Good God, no.”

      She tossed her shoulder bag onto the nearest chair and headed straight for the coffee. After pouring herself a cup, she kicked off her shoes and sat down on the sofa.

      “You look beat,” Griff said. “Are you hungry?”

      “Starving.”

      “Since you didn’t call, I haven’t ordered dinner. What would you like?”

      “Red meat.”

      Griff chuckled. “I’ll make it two steaks. How do you take yours?”

      “Medium-well,” she replied. “And I want a loaded potato.”

      While Nic sipped on the coffee, Griff placed their dinner order, then came over and sat down beside her. She gave him a sidelong glance.

      “I