Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(63)

You can’t have everything.

No, but still . . .

Maybe it would have been better not to track her down here at the office. It was so easy—too easy—to slip in through the basement door, propped open with a plastic bucket, cigarette butts littering the concrete around it.

Jamie rode the elevator up from there. Had it stopped on the lobby floor, there might have been trouble—though even if the security guard had noticed someone inside, he might have assumed it was just an employee who had gone out for a smoke.

But the elevator didn’t stop.

And here I am . . . and here she is.

Finding Allison alone was incredibly fortuitous. Jamie had expected it to be quiet here—quiet enough to do what has to be done and beat a hasty retreat.

This is perfect, though. She’s alone, just as the others were.

Does she sense that she’s about to die?

Kristina Haines knew it.

So did Marianne.

Jamie made sure of that.

Telling them they were about to die made it more satisfying, somehow. Their terror—Jamie’s power.

This is different. Allison is tense, watchful, but she doesn’t really know what’s about to happen. Tempting as it is to prolong the inevitable, it will have to be quick.

Does that really matter? The knife plunging into flesh will yield the same result, won’t it? There will be blood, hot and sticky. There will be death.

Trembling with anticipation, Jamie straightens and inches a cautious step forward.

Allison, looking in the opposite direction, is oblivious.

Jamie takes another step.

The glorious moment is so close, so tantalizingly close . . .

And then it happens.

Voices reach Jamie’s ears; Allison’s, too. She jerks her head in the direction of the reception area, again skimming her gaze right past Jamie’s hiding place.

“Hello?” she calls, and her face is etched in relief when the voices call back to her.

Moments later, a pair of coworkers appear in the bullpen.

Jamie watches Allison greet them, the scissors discreetly held at her side now that the threat has evaporated . . . or so she seems to think.

That’s all right, Allison.

I’ll see you later.

And next time, it’s going to be on your turf . . . on my terms.

Being able to fall asleep anywhere, at any time of day—it’s a good quality in a detective. Or so Rocky likes to remind Ange, when she scolds him for never staying awake through a movie when they sit down to watch one on cable.

Today, she’s the one who told him to go lie down for a while as soon as he finished eating the hot frittata she had waiting when he walked in the door.

“Breakfast, and then bed . . . yeah, why not?” He gave her a weary kiss on the cheek.

“Go forget about everything for a while,” Ange told him, briefly stroking his temple with her fingertips.

Rocky went off to the bedroom thinking that despite everything, he was a lucky man. His last thought before drifting off was that he probably should have gone back down to the crime scene to make sure Kristina’s killer hadn’t stolen Allison’s key from the scene.

But by the time she’d mentioned it, he’d already been on his way home. And in his heart, he honestly doesn’t believe that if the killer set his sights on Allison, he’d need that key to get in. Either he already has one, or he has another method of getting in and out.

Now, awakened by the ringing telephone, Rocky opens his eyes and gets his bearings.

The milky light filtering through the sheer drapes indicates that it’s still daytime—good. That’s good.

The phone that’s ringing is his cell—not so good.

Unless it’s Vic, calling back.

He snaps open the phone and says, “Yeah, Manzillo here.”

“Rock . . . we got another one.”

It’s not Vic. It’s Tommy, the station house desk sergeant.

“You got another what?” Rocky sits up fast, his thoughts racing. Another terrorist attack, another building down, another ground zero . . .

The answer catches him off guard.

“Another 10–55, Rock.”

10–55—police code for Coroner Case.

“Same MO,” Tommy continues. “Looks like someone crawled through her fire escape window at night. Same signature—sexy nightie, candles, music. Same sick bastard. I’d say we got some kind of serial killer on our hands.”





Chapter Ten

“Allison?”

She jumps, and looks up to see the executive editor, Erik, standing in the doorway of her office. A tall, sandy-haired man with elegant Nordic good looks, he captured her attention on her first day here. She thought he was flirting with her and developed a crush on him. Turns out, he’s just super-friendly—and gay. Just another of the ineligible bachelors in her life.

Reminded of her laundry room conversation with Kristina, she shudders.

“Sorry,” Erik says, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay, I’m just . . .”

She trails off, not wanting to tell him that she stumbled across a murder yesterday, and has spent the last three hours jumping at every little sound. Some people share every detail of their personal lives at the office. She’s never been one of them.