Paranoid(80)

“Coffee for both of us for now,” Cade said.

“Chef’s got an awesome farmer’s breakfast this morning,” she said, showing a dimple. “Sausage and bacon.”

“Just coffee,” he said.

Kayleigh nodded. “Yeah, me too.”

“You sure? It’s the special and really, really yummers.”

Kayleigh said, “No thanks.”

“Okay.” Her smile had never faltered as she poured them each a steaming cup. “But you let me know if you change your mind.” Still smiling, she flitted away as an elderly couple entered.

“Effer-frickin’-vescent,” Kayleigh muttered, watching the gray-haired couple take a table near the counter where a slowly turning pie display was front and center and the waitress was ready with two plastic menus.

“Yeah, well, Livvie hasn’t just come from a grisly homicide scene.”

“Lucky for her.” Kayleigh tossed her baseball cap onto the seat beside her, her ponytail now messy, hairs springing around her face. “So tell me,” she said, pouring cream from a small pitcher into her coffee, “since you’re the lifer in town, how does the Cooper murder link to the Sperry? I know the basics: they went to school together, were more acquaintances than friends, didn’t seem to hang out, and that’s about it.”

“You’re right. They were both married, no kids and no other connection that I know about.”

“But killed within a week of each other, blindfolded with the same blue tape.”

“We think it’s the same tape.”

She shot him a look. “Oh, come on. What’re the chances that it’s different? Two murders in twenty years, both victims not gagged, but blindfolded with blue tape. Some psychologist would have a heyday with that one.” She slid the salt and pepper shakers together and stared at him with hard, green eyes. “Come on, Ryder, it’s the same guy, the same tape, and we both know it. We just have to prove it.”

He paused, caught on what she’d said. “A psychologist?”

“Let’s just hope the techs can find a latent print on the tape.”

“And then you’ve got to hope our killer has prints already in the system.”

“If not, needle in a haystack.”

He knew it was a long shot and watched as she stirred the coffee, then took an experimental sip. “Yeah, but maybe we’ll get lucky with the tape or something else. We’ll start with phone records.”

Frustrated, she leaned back in the booth. “So tell me why you think these murders have anything to do with what happened to Luke Hollander?”

“I’m not sure they do; it’s probably nothing. I just thought I’d review the case. A couple of things have happened that seem to indicate someone hasn’t gotten over it.”

“Maybe they’re just stirred up because of the article in that rag, the Edgewater Edition.”

“Could be,” he said, but sensed it was deeper than some nutcase getting riled from reading a piece in the newspaper. He told her about Frank Quinn, the message on Rachel’s door, and the text.

“‘I forgive you’?” she said and sat back against the red cushion. “Someone’s gaslighting her, y’know. Messing with her mind.”

He couldn’t argue the point; didn’t like it. “Why?”

“You tell me.”

“Don’t know, but I’ll work on it.” He took a sip from his cup as a couple of truckers walked in and bellied up to the counter. “Anything new with the Sperry homicide?”

She scowled. “Nothing that’s of any help. The bullet in the wall was the same caliber as the Sperry gun that’s still missing. None of the victim’s friends or relatives could say a bad word about her. You know, all of a sudden Violet Sperry became a saint. We’re still checking phone records and going through her computers. So far it looks like she was really into her dogs, spent a lot of time on blogs and websites for Cavalier King Charles spaniels. The husband was into online gambling and some porn.” She rolled her eyes. “As near as we can tell, the last person to see her was a pizza delivery guy; we found half of a cheese and pepperoni pizza in her fridge. The delivery guy arrived at six thirty-seven, the same time she paid for it with her debit card, according to bank records, which, so far, have shown nothing out of the ordinary. Before that, she went to a yoga class at two, but the instructor says she always kept to herself, just came in and did her routine, then left. No yoga buddies that we could see. Just an ordinary day.”

“That ended with her being tossed over the stairs with blue tape across her eyes.”

“Painter’s tape, by the way. The kind you can get at any paint store or a place like Home Depot. Another needle in a haystack. There were partially used paint cans in the Sperrys’ garage, but no rolls of blue tape.”

“The killer could have picked one up as he entered.”

“Possibly, but it seems random; doesn’t make a lot of sense to come to the scene intending to blindfold someone, then think, ‘Darn, I forgot, but, oh, hey, here’s a roll of tape in the garage.’ ”

“Point taken. No latents on the tape?”

“Nope. Didn’t get that lucky.” She was as frustrated as he and now they had a second murder. “So tell me. Quinn. What did you find out about him?”