The Watcher. BEVERLY BARTON

      “And?”

      When she didn’t immediately reply, he wondered if she had no intention of sharing what she’d learned with him.

      “So far, not much,” Nic said. “But putting together the info on what I found out about the murder here in Atlanta with the info on the four other murders, there is one more thing that definitely links all five, other than their all being shot in the head and scalped.” She heaved a deep sigh. “From the time each woman was discovered missing until her body was found hanging from a tree was between twenty-two and twenty-three days.”

      When Nic’s hand trembled just enough to shake the cup she held, Griff reached out to take the cup from her, but stopped short of touching her. Realizing his intention, she handed him the almost-empty cup.

      “All five, huh? So, why keep them for three weeks?” Griff set the cup aside, then leaned back into the sofa and faced Nic. “We need to know. Is he torturing them? Keeping them drugged? What? We know he didn’t rape Kendall and Gala, so he probably didn’t rape the others.”

      “Why does he scalp them?” Nic asked. “What does that convey about him, about the game? He shoots them in the head, apparently execution style, then he scalps them after they’re dead.”

      “The scalp is a trophy, as well as a memento.”

      “That means he’s keeping the scalps so he can look at them and relive each kill. Looking at the scalp triggers the memories and he can get high on recalling whatever led up to the final moments before he put a bullet in the woman’s head.”

      “Why would he need only women in superb physical condition?” Griff turned partially around, lifted one leg over the other, positioning his right ankle over his left knee.

      Nic rested her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. “Does he need them in great shape or does he want them in great shape?”

      “Take your pick. Either or.”

      “They’re all young, physically fit, and some are athletes. Their hair color varies, as does their physical description. Gala Ramirez was of Mexican descent, so she was different in that aspect.” Nic yawned. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

      “It’s been a long day. Why don’t you just relax until dinner arrives, then take a shower and go to bed. We can start fresh in the morning.”

      Nic shook her head and looked right at Griff. “I’m heading back to D.C. in the morning.”

      He had figured as much. “You’ll be in charge of the bureau’s investigation, right?”

      “Probably. Doug knows it’s what I want.”

      “And if he thinks you’re in cahoots with me, he won’t give you the assignment.”

      She lifted her head from the sofa and leaned toward him ever so slightly. “If the killer continues giving each of us clues, we’ll have no choice but to cooperate with each other, but for that reason only. You understand?”

      “Oh, yeah, I understand.”

      “So, while we’re together this evening, let’s not waste our time. Let’s discuss the clues. I assume your team has been searching for women named Debbie Glover, right? And maybe combining brain power to figure out what on earth rubies and lemon drops could mean.”

      “There are countless Debbie Glovers, but Sanders is narrowing the search. Whether or not we can narrow it down enough to do any good before Wednesday morning is doubtful.”

      “I’ve been going over various thoughts about rubies and lemon drops,” Nic said. “One is a precious gem and the other a candy. One is expensive, the other is cheap. You wear one and eat the other.”

      “Our guy knows we’ll drive ourselves crazy trying to figure out the clues and in the meantime, he’s making plans to abduct his sixth victim.”

      Griff’s cell phone rang.

      Both of them froze instantly.

      Griff retrieved his phone and checked the caller ID. “It’s not him.” He answered the call. “Yeah, what is it?”

      “We’ve just come across some rather interesting information,” Sanders said. “Actually Maleah came up with the idea of cross-referencing all the Debbie Glovers on the original list with a list of female athletes from all sports, professional and college, in the past thirty years.”

      “And?”

      “And there was a Debbie Glover who played basketball for Boston College fifteen years ago. And another Debbie Glover who was a golf pro back in the eighties.”

      “Are they the only two who are athletes?”

      “As far as we know.”

      “Both would be too old to be our victim, if our guy stays true to form,” Griff said. “But Debbie Glover’s sport—whichever Debbie Glover it is—could be the clue. The next victim might be a basketball player or a pro golfer.”

       Chapter 7

      Nic and Greg had bought a home in Woodbridge, Virginia, shortly after they married. It had made sense for them to live within easy driving distance of their jobs. She had worked in D.C. and he’d worked in Alexandria. When Greg died, she had taken a month off, then went to her boss and asked for a transfer to another field office. Anywhere in the U.S., just as long as it was away from D.C., away from all the memories, both good and bad. She’d worked in two states during that time and wound up heading a task force on the Beauty Queen Killer case when the Special Agent in Charge, Curtis Jackson, had retired. But when that case, for all intents and purposes, had been solved, she’d decided it was time to go home. Back to the D.C. field office, with a territory that covered not only D.C. but also cities surrounding the capital. Arlington. Alexandria. Quantico.

      Although she’d thought about selling the house in Woodbridge, she had, after letting it remain empty for over a year, put her furniture in storage and turned it over to a realtor to lease.

      If she’d thought time and distance would erase the memories, would heal her broken heart, and appease her guilty conscience, she’d been wrong. Moving back into the home she and Greg had purchased, decorated together, and lived in for the three years of their marriage hadn’t been easy. But she liked her house, liked the neighborhood, and felt comfortable here. So what if from time to time, she felt Greg’s presence? If his spirit lingered here, perhaps simply in her memories, then it was a kind, gentle spirit.

      Gregory Baxter had been a kind, gentle man.

      Nic turned over in bed—a king-size bed that she had bought new when she moved back into the Woodbridge house last summer—and glanced at the alarm clock. Five ten. The alarm was set for five thirty. She tossed back the light covers, slid to the edge of the bed, and sat up. After shutting off the alarm, she stood, stretched, and headed for the closet. When she was at home, she walked every morning in her neighborhood and the one adjoining it. Two miles. And she worked out at the gym three days a week.

      Once dressed and fully awake, she headed out the back door. It was barely daylight and already humid. She could feel the heavy moisture in the air. Early morning was the best time to walk, run, or jog in the summertime. In her twenties, she had jogged, but a knee injury had forced her to take her doctor’s advice and change to brisk walking. Better on the knee joints.

      As she set her pace and headed up the street, her body went on automatic pilot. Her route never varied. Although she might speak to a fellow walker or jogger, she never lingered to talk to anyone and really didn’t know her neighbors beyond her own block.

      For the past thirty-six hours, her thoughts had centered on one thing: somewhere out there a woman was going to be abducted this morning and there was nothing she could do to stop it from happening. It didn’t help