It wouldn’t be the first time a killer had come back to get his rocks off by watching all the hoopla he’d created. In the short while since Rivers and Mendoza had arrived at the apartment, the bevy of the curious on the far side of the barricade had grown. Onlookers had stopped, some in their idling vehicles, others braving the cold night in ski jackets or wool coats, boots and caps, their breath fogging as they chatted with each other. The press, in the form of Seamus O’Day from the Clarion, was in attendance, but so far no news vans. That was bound to change quickly. Once the word got out not only about Willow Valente, but also that Charity Spritz had been murdered, more would arrive.

But as he climbed from the back of the cruiser and stretched his back, he eyed the throng of lookie-loos on the other side of the yellow tape, but no one caught his eye; no one seemed the least bit suspicious or out of place.

Yet he sensed that he was getting closer, that soon the killer would show his hand. Sending the pictures was a sign and a stupid one.

He was going to nail the bastard and soon; he could feel it as surely as the cold breath of the night that made him turn up his collar.

What had Andie Jeffries said?

If anything happens to me, it’s James. His fault.

Rivers was just tossing that around in his mind when—speak of the devil—James Cahill’s Jeep roared into the lot. He was at the wheel, but he wasn’t alone.

Rebecca Travers was right at his side.

How damned convenient.

* * *

“She lives here?” Rebecca asked as James parked his SUV in the lot of a two-storied building.

“I guess so.” James wasn’t certain, but he’d gotten the address from his employee records at the hotel when he’d dropped off the phone and left Ralph with the staff.

Judging by the activity in the parking area—an array of police cars, vans, and an ambulance—this had to be the right spot.

A small crowd of onlookers was being held at bay by a couple of deputies, and Bobby Knowlton stood outside his truck while smoking a cigarette, the blue-and-red flashing lights of a couple of police vehicles playing weirdly on the snowy pavement and reflecting in the large windows where baked goods had once been displayed.

As James climbed out of his Explorer, he noticed the cops, Rivers and Mendoza, walking away from a cruiser and heading in his direction. His jaw tensed, and his stomach clenched into a tight knot.

“James Cahill,” Rivers called out, as they approached. “We need to talk.”