The Inquisitor. Gayle Wilson

were only taking calls that directly related to the murders. Whoever Paul had talked to obviously hadn’t believed that her call did, so she’d ended up telling her story to someone who didn’t seem to know any more about what was going on with the investigation than she did.

      She’d attempted to remedy her own lack of knowledge as soon as she’d gotten home. Paul had insisted she have Sheila clear her schedule for the entire afternoon, so when she’d left the police station, she hadn’t returned to the office. Instead she’d picked up both the morning and evening newspapers and read every word they contained about the case.

      Tonight’s had included a lot more information on the previous murders, as well as the FBI’s psychological profile of the killer. There was nothing in it she hadn’t already suspected. Maybe this wasn’t her field, but the fact that this guy had killed so often and still avoided detection gave plenty of clues as to the kind of person he was.

      Exactly the kind Murphy had described. Smart. And in no hurry.

      As for the victims…

      The photos in the paper were grainy and too dark to distinguish details. Still, it was clear that the facts he’d laid out before her yesterday afternoon concerning the type of women the killer was attracted to were essentially correct. And if he was right about that—

      It didn’t mean he was right about the murderer coming after her. To think that he would feel a compulsion to kill her because he’d seen her on television…

      Talking about him. Dissecting him.

      Jenna straightened, as if backing away from that double row of black-and-white pictures. When she did, she realized her back was stiff from the hours spent leaning over the coffee table where she’d spread out the newspapers.

      With one hand pressed against her spine she reached down with the other and picked up the plate with her half-eaten sandwich. As she did, she glanced toward the front windows and saw that in her haste to read the news, she’d forgotten to close the blinds.

      She must have reached over and turned on the lamp at the end of the couch at some point, but she hadn’t consciously realized it had gotten dark outside. She looked at her watch as she set the plate back on the coffee table and walked across to pull the cord. It was already after six.

      Without thinking, she looked down at the next section of the complex, which stretched out across the mountain perhaps a hundred feet below her own. Her gaze had already traced across the cars parked behind those units, most of them familiar, when she noticed the black SUV in the row almost directly across from her apartment.

      There were thousands of big, dark SUVs in this upscale neighborhood. She would swear that this one, however, had someone sitting in the driver’s seat. Someone—

      She quickly stepped away from the window, hardly able to believe what she was thinking. Could Sean Murphy be sitting out there watching her apartment? Hoping she’d come out?

      The policeman who had taken her story this afternoon had told her that if she had any more trouble with the man who’d come to her office she should call them. Paul had told her the same thing.

      But what if it wasn’t him out there? What if she was seeing dangers where they didn’t exist?

      She turned to look at the phone on the table at the end of the couch. And then her eyes flicked back to the newspapers still spread out over the coffee table.

      Although the reporters had been careful about what details they’d released, there had been enough of them to leave no doubt the murdered women had suffered horrifically. Had one of them been suspicious and not called the cops because she didn’t want to make a fool of herself?

      Jenna walked across the room and picked up the phone. She hesitated another second or two before she punched in 911.

      As she waited through the rings, she looked back toward the window, but from this angle she couldn’t see the line of cars.

      “Jefferson County 911,” a woman answered. “What’s your emergency?”

      “I talked to the Mountain Brook Police today about a man who’s been harassing me. I think he’s outside my apartment.”

      “He’s at your door, ma’am?”

      “I think he’s parked across the parking lot.”

      “You think? Can you see him?”

      “I can see someone sitting in a car that looks like his.”

      “And what’s he doing, ma’am?”

      “He’s just sitting there. I think he’s watching my apartment.”

      There was a long silence. Although the dispatcher’s voice had been expressionless, the questions themselves had become more telling.

      “The officer I spoke to this afternoon told me to call if he bothered me again.” Jenna fought the urge to slam down the phone in the face of the almost palpable disbelief.

      “Did you get a restraining order, ma’am?”

      “Nobody suggested that. Do I need one?”

      “Well, it would require him to stay so many feet away from you or your property. If you don’t have one, and if he isn’t bothering you…”

      The dispatcher let the sentence trail, but it was obvious what the woman was suggesting. The police weren’t going to do anything. Not until Murphy did.

      “You do know there’s a serial killer on the loose?” Jenna asked, no longer bothering to hide her own frustration.

      “Yes, ma’am. Most of the officers in this area are working on some aspect of those murders.”

      Again, although there had been only politeness in her voice, the dispatcher had made her point. Jenna could only commend whoever had trained her.

      “Ma’am, if you really feel you’re in danger…” Again the dispatcher’s words were allowed to trail.

      Did she? Did she believe Sean Murphy was the murderer the police were seeking? Did she believe he was out there in the parking lot because he intended to kill her?

      “Thanks,” she said, pushing the off button with her thumb.

      If she got the police out here, what were they going to do? Tell Murphy to move on? He wasn’t doing anything except sitting in his car. Even she was forced to acknowledge that.

      Carrying the phone with her, she walked to the window again. This time she made no attempt to hide the fact that she was looking out it.

      Nothing had changed during her conversation with the dispatcher. The SUV was parked in the same place, the security lights shining down on its top.

      Her eyes focused on the interior. That’s when she realized she’d been wrong. Something had changed. There was no one in the car now.

      She scanned the parking lot. Although the people who lived in this complex usually came and went throughout the evening, not a single soul was outside now. Even the curtains on the lighted units across the way were drawn, shielding their inhabitants from the night.

      Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe one of them had been sitting in his car. Listening to the ending of a song. Or to one of the popular sports discussion shows. Finishing a conversation on their cell phone.

      There were a dozen legitimate reasons for someone to be sitting in their car.

      Jenna almost dropped the phone when it shrilled, vibrating in her hand. She lifted it, holding it out in front of her as she waited for the number to appear on the caller ID display.

      It wasn’t one she recognized, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe someone from work who’d heard about what had happened was checking on her. Or maybe the dispatcher had decided to pass her call on to the police after all.

      When the phone rang a second time, she punched the talk button, bringing the receiver to