Page 109 of Paranoid

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?”

“Doesn’t exist.” He finished his coffee. “At least not that I can find. But we’re searching for him and his car and his dog.”

“Good luck with that.”

Livvie returned to top off their cups, then bustled off as the diner began to fill up. Along with the morning crowd came another waitress, who, in contrast to Livvie, looked dead on her feet. She couldn’t keep from yawning as she started moving through the tables.

As Cade shifted in his seat the scents of frying bacon, brewing coffee, and warm maple syrup wafted through the restaurant. He was hungrier than he’d realized. When he saw a platter of pancakes and eggs pass, his stomach grumbled. “You sure you don’t want breakfast?” he asked.

Kayleigh drained her cup. “Can’t. Gotta run.” She’d just checked her phone and was reaching for her Mariners cap. “But you? Knock yourself out.” Scooting out of the booth, she said, “Keep me in the loop.”

“You, too. Wait. Don’t you need a ride?” He started to get up.

“No. I’ll walk.” She paused at the side of the table, fingers resting on its edge.

“I can give you a lift.”

She placed a hand on his arm. “Really,” she said. “It’s not that far and I could use the exercise. Besides, I need to think. I think best when I walk.”