Chances Are(32)

Where this surge of courage came from she didn’t know. How could she feel confident when she was tied so tightly and help wasn’t coming? The answer came like a whisper. All of her LCR life, she had envisioned a time when it would just be her and evil and she would prevail. The breakdown in London with Jake had been an anomaly. She was Angela Delvecchio, LCR operative and one very kick-ass woman. This bastard would rue the day he selected the Dark Angel as his prey.

She heard a scratching sound and then the air was filled with the scent of lit matches.

He stood at the end of the table, holding a candle in his hand. “This is your first audition. Let’s see how you fare.”

Hot flames licked at her foot. Arching her entire body, she struggled against her bonds, the flesh at her wrist tearing as she tried to escape the searing pain. Then more heat, more flames… Agony shot through her. Every confident thought disintegrated. Closing her eyes, Angela screamed behind the tape: Jake, where are you?





Chapter Eighteen

Jake had lost his mind long ago. The second Angela’s GPS signal disappeared, he’d been in a free fall. Where the hell was she? And most important, was she still alive?

Since then, he’d been existing on adrenaline and not much more. The longer it took to find her, the more hopeless he felt.

Everyone in Europe was on the lookout. Border patrols for England, Germany, Italy and Spain swore no one matching the description of the van or its driver had come into their country. But who the hell knew if that was correct? The little information Jake had been able to provide was piss-poor and almost useless—a white van and a Caucasian male of indeterminate age who could disguise himself. Not exactly solid clues to identify and find a killer.

He and McCall were holed up in a hotel in Reims, France—the city they’d been headed when the GPS signal stopped. A sorry-assed location if the bastard had changed directions or managed to cross into another country. But it was all they could do until something came up.

And when they did find her, he was never letting her go. How damn arrogant and stupid he’d been. As if denying his feelings could make them any less real. He wanted to be with Angela, in every way possible. Period.

The hotel door swung open. Jake whirled around to face McCall. The man looked as haggard and worn as Jake felt.

“From the look on your face, the news isn’t good,” Jake said.

McCall had met with the special branch of detectives assigned to this case. His sigh of disgust was loud enough to be heard in the next room. “They have jack-shit, just like we do.”

Jake returned his gaze to the computer screen. He felt as if he’d looked at the registration of every white van ever purchased or rented in Europe. Deidre had done the bulk of the research but all names that needed further investigation she’d forwarded to Jake.

Angela had described the vehicle as an older Volkswagen van, possibly five years old. Had the killer purchased the van when he arrived in Paris? Had he ferried over in it from England? Had he stolen the damn thing? Jake clicked profile after profile. Five LCR operatives were dedicated to checking any leads but so far there’d been too damn few.

Useless. This was all so f*cking useless. There wasn’t a person with that vehicle description that remotely matched the—

Another profile popped up on the screen. A middle-aged actor named Derrick Delacourte had rented a Volkswagen van in Paris five days ago. Delacourte had enjoyed a brief spurt of minor stardom years ago but hadn’t had steady theater work since his wife, Rose, also an actor, died.

Delacourte had inherited wealth and had no job.

Cautious hope blossomed. If Delacourte had enough money not to have to work, that would give him the freedom to stalk his victims and the ability to spend a protracted amount of time with them. And an actor could disguise himself to look like anyone or no one. The man’s wife’s name had been Rose…

Why the hell had they never considered an actor before?

Jake’s eyes quickly skimmed the rest of the profile. His gaze stopped abruptly and ice ran through his veins. The last play Delacourte had starred in was at a small dinner club in Durham, England. His role—Jack the Ripper.

Surging to his feet, Jake growled, “Got him.”

McCall was beside him in a second and quickly scanned the screen. “Damn, that fits.” Punching a number on his cellphone, he held it to his ear and said, “Deidre, find out as much as you can about an actor named Derrick Delacourte. Houses, properties…anything.”

Not ready to assume anything, Jake forced himself to sit down again and continue his search. If Delacourte wasn’t their guy, then the bastard had to be here somewhere.

Time slogged in slow motion. Jake continued to click on profile after profile, nothing else seemed to fit. Where the hell was Deidre? Why hadn’t she called? Even as a small voice told him that it took time to do research, another voice snarled that Angela didn’t have time. They needed information. Now.

A cellphone blared.

McCall answered, “What’d you find out?”

Jake watched his face. Dammit, never had he resented not being able to read the man’s expression more than he did as this moment. Why didn’t—

“Deidre,” McCall said, “I’m putting you on speaker phone. Repeat what you just told me.”

In a no-nonsense tone, completely different from her usual cheerful voice, Deidre said, “Delacourte owns a house outside London. As soon as I found the address, I called our Scotland Yard contact. Just received a call back. The police stormed the house and found what they’re calling a torture chamber in the basement.”

“Anything else?”

“They also found clothing and identification for two of the victims.”

“No sign of Delacourte?”

“No. They said the mail and newspapers are all stacked up.”

“What about other properties? Does he own any other houses?” Jake asked.

“Not that we can find. This was his family’s home that he inherited.”

“What about relatives?” McCall said. “There’s got to be somebody who knows the guy.”

“No relatives either. Even the neighbors don’t know anything about him. Said he keeps to himself.”

Jake turned away. Dammit, they’d identified the bastard only to have no idea where he was or what he had done with Angela.

“What about Clarissa Eaton?” McCall asked.

“So far, her body hasn’t been found.”

“Okay. Good work, Deidre. If you find anything else, let us—”

“Wait,” Jake twisted back around. “Deidre, can you get a list of all the roles Delacourte’s played?”

“Yes, I should be able to do that.”

Jake looked at McCall. “The way he displays his victims…. What if he’s playing a role and looking for a leading lady?”

“Could be. The roses…his wife’s name was Rose. Maybe he’s subliminally trying to bring back his dead wife.”

Jake had a stomach churning thought. “And what’s going to happen when he realizes Angela isn’t his wife?”

McCall didn’t speak but Jake saw the answer in his eyes. He was going to do to Angela the same thing he had done to the other women he had abducted.

“Okay, got them,” a female voice interrupted their dark discussion.

While they’d been talking, Deidre had been working.

“Looks like he’s played a lot of different roles. Almost a hundred. He—”

“What was his most successful role?” Jake said. “The one that gave him the most acclaim?”

“Looks like he got the best reviews from a play called The Last Man.”

“And his character’s name?”

“Richard Middlebrook.” A pause. “Hold on a minute. Let me check…” Several more seconds of silence followed.

Jake couldn’t breathe, could barely keep himself from dashing out the door. To where, he didn’t know. Hell, hell, hell, come on, come on—

Deidre’s excited voice broke into his cursing prayer. “A man named Richard Middlebrook rented a house in Reims a few days ago.”

As Deidre rattled off the address, Jake pulled his Glock from his side holster and double-checked the magazine. They would go in with a battering ram if they could but if the rescue required subtlety, he’d be prepared.

McCall pocketed his cellphone, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “That’s a seven-minute drive from here.”

Jake was opening the door before McCall finished. “Let’s go.”



The cement slab was hard and cold beneath her. Pain flowed through her body in an unending wave. How long had she been here? Hours, days? Weeks? Every time she regained some semblance of reasoning, he returned to her again. To torture, taunt, and shout odd, obscure directions she had no hope of understanding. Then he would shove papers in front of her and demand she read them aloud. She’d barely been able to make out the words, much less speak them. Would this agony never end?