Serial Bride. Ann Voss PetersonЧитать онлайн книгу.
drawn to serial killers. Titillated by danger, infamy. Why not Diana Gale? Kane had certainly attracted more than his share of female fascination in the past. Hell, years ago he’d convinced a woman to marry him in prison.
Sylvie plucked the envelope from the pile of photocopies and clippings. “It’s addressed to Diana. But there’s no return address.” She slipped the letter out and unfolded it. Reaching to the lamp, she canted the shade to shed more light.
The lamplight slanted toward him, glared off the white paper, making it impossible to decipher the handwriting. But from the abrupt shape of the letters, it appeared to be written by a male hand. He waited for her to read it out loud.
“‘You have no idea of the horror I’ve been through. Weeks of not knowing. Months of asking why. Years of grief. My life is over. Ruined. And he will never pay. Not enough. But you will pay for him.’” Sylvie looked up from the page, eyes stricken. “Oh, my God, Dryden Kane threatened her.”
A din of questions swirled in Bryce’s head. “Is it signed?”
“No. But it has to be from Kane. Why would she keep it in this folder if it wasn’t?”
Maybe it did appear to be from Kane. But why would Kane threaten to make Diana pay? And who was she paying for?
He blew out a frustrated breath. This hurdle was larger than most. This hurdle threatened to destroy his entire theory of Diana Gale’s role in Ty’s death. “May I see it?”
Sylvie handed it to him.
It was just a single sheet of typing paper with the words she’d read scrawled across the white surface. He read it over again to himself. “He will never pay. Who is he?”
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Whoever he is, Kane hates him.”
“Kane hates a lot of people.” Including Bryce. He picked up the envelope and looked at the postmark again just to make sure. Almost exactly a month ago. After Ty’s death. After Kane had sent his message to Bryce by having his younger brother killed.
Pain hit him hard. Ty’s death was so fresh, so raw. He shook his head, trying to clear it, to concentrate.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” He handed the paper back to her. Was he wrong about Diana Gale? Was she merely another victim of Kane’s charm and brutality? Or had she merely outlived her usefulness? After Ty’s death, had she ceased being a conspirator and become a target? And if so, why? “Did your sister give any indication she was being threatened?”
Sylvie frowned, her eyebrow ring dipping low. “She’s been upset the last several months. Anxious. I asked her about it, but she blamed it on problems with wedding plans. Do you think she reported Kane’s threat?”
“Maybe.”
“Perreth didn’t say anything.”
“Maybe she didn’t report it to the police.”
“The university.”
He nodded.
Sylvie pushed her chair back and shot to her feet. “What was the name of that professor? The one who arranged for her to visit Kane?”
“Vincent Bertram.”
She circled the bed. Perching on the mattress edge, she pulled the telephone directory from the bedside table and started flipping pages.
“What are you looking for?”
“A residential listing for Bertram. I’m going to find out why Diana got involved with Dryden Kane in the first place. And whether or not she told him Kane was threatening her.”
Bryce tore his gaze from Sylvie and focused on the folder. If Diana Gale had conspired to kill Ty, understanding her motive might be useful. But if she hadn’t, he couldn’t afford to go off on another tangent.
Eager to see if the folder yielded any more information, he paged through the photocopies chronicling Kane’s sordid history. His murder of blond college coeds. His capture twenty years ago at the hands of the FBI. At that point, other than an article here and there, the news coverage skipped about four years to a flurry of stories about Kane’s prison marriage and subsequent escape. The stories highlighted the way Kane had focused on his new intended victim, Risa Madsen, a mentor of Vincent Bertram’s. The stories continued with the trail of death Kane had left until Professor Madsen and the FBI profiler who’d originally caught Kane had joined forces to subdue him again.
The next articles were more recent, clipped from their original newsprint. The headlines Bryce knew all too well. Headlines he’d thought he’d wanted. They blared from the clippings, stinging his eyes. He’d been so stupid, so wrong, so naive. And he’d payed with more than his life. He’d paid with his brother’s life.
He sucked in a breath, trying to control the rush of grief, of rage, as he paged through the articles. The stories outlined Kane’s lawsuit against the Supermax prison, how attorney Bryce Walker had taken the killer’s case, how he’d alleged mistreatment, how he’d won a transfer to another facility. He turned to the last article. A black-and-white picture stared from the newsprint, Ty in the black suit that made him look like an innocent milk-fed farm boy planning to hunt aliens with Tommy Lee Jones.
Bryce’s throat closed. He’d been willing to sell his soul to get good press for the law firm, for himself. He’d never guessed Ty’s life was part of the deal.
He glanced up at Sylvie. She sat with her back to him, the phone book spread open on her lap. Hunching forward, she copied something on a scrap of paper.
What if her sister didn’t have anything to do with Ty’s murder? What if she was merely a misguided woman? A woman who never would have been able to worm her way into visiting Kane if he was still housed in the ultrasecurity of the Supermax where he belonged? What if Bryce’s representation of Kane had not only led to Ty’s death, but indirectly to Diana Gale’s abduction, as well?
Weight bore down on his shoulders like a yoke of stone. If he really wanted justice, if he really wanted to set things right, maybe he shouldn’t be asking himself if he could afford to help Sylvie Hayes. Maybe he should be asking if he could afford not to.
WITH THE SLIP OF PAPER with Professor Bertram’s address stuffed in her jeans pocket, Sylvie crossed the hotel lobby with Bryce by her side and stepped through the revolving door and onto the sidewalk. Saturday night had fully fallen. The neon glow of nearby shops and restaurants and the jangle of people walking down State Street turned the city into a confusion of sights and sounds.
Stepping to the curb, Sylvie glanced at the rush of headlights flowing down the one-way street, searching for a cab. “Thanks for your help. When I find Diana, I’ll let her know you want to get in touch with her.”
Bryce looked at her as if she were speaking in tongues. “What are you talking about? I’m going with you.”
“Not necessary.” All she had to do was to flag down a cab and find the nearest car rental office. Once she had her own car, she’d be able to track down Professor Bertram and hopefully get some answers.
“You need someone to drive.”
“That’s okay. I need to rent a car anyway.”
“Rent a car? Why? I have a car right here.” He pointed to his car parked fifty feet away as if she’d forgotten what it looked like.
“Really, I’m used to doing things on my own.” It had been disconcerting enough to be forced to rely on Bryce to get out of Diana’s apartment with the folder, to drive her to a hotel. Having him in her hotel room, bouncing ideas off him, had only made her feel more jangled.
“How are you planning to find a car rental office? There aren’t too many of them around here.”
“I’ll take a cab.”
He arched his brows. “And how are you going to find a cab?”
What,