Seeing Red Read online

  “What? Do I want to grab some pizza? Seriously, pizza? How the hell do you do that?”

  “What? You prefer Chinese?”

  “How can you even think about food at a time like this?”

  “Well. You know that I can always think about food.”

  “Yeah, but that’s disgusting. My stomach is churning right now.”

  “The answer is no, boss. That’s all you have to say.”

  Harper holds back the laughter as they open the door to the brownstone, spilling onto a street full of eager eyes; dozens of journalists swarm them, every one looking for a headline.

  “Was she raped?” a voice breaks through from the back of the crowd.

  “Do you have an arrest?”

  “We have no comment,” Harper says as he moves confidently and gracefully through the crowd.

  He slept at the office that night, woke up early, and went to the gym. He needed to run, burn off some of the toxic energy he’d been carrying around.

  That and a shower would help to balance his mind’s unrest.

  Feeling better after a shower, he grabs his usual scrambled eggs and toast, while watching the local news.

  A beautiful anchor with a sobering tone delivers the details of Brooke’s murder.

  Harper sees his face flash across the screen. His cell phone rings.

  “Belle?”

  “You’re not going to like this.”

  “I’m listening,” Harper says.

  “The team tried to crack the encryption on the hard drive but triggered some sort of self-destruct mechanism.”

  “Did they get anything off it before it crashed?”

  “In the last month, she’s been active on Websleuths.com and Reddit and just about every other dedicated forum for Internet sleuths. Or ‘bottom feeders,’ as you always call them.”

  Harper hated amateur detectives. He figured they did more harm than good, poring over crime scenes and evidence. It was Facebook for the dead.

  “Harp, you remember the Deer Island murders?”

  “The Boston Harbor murders? That case has been cold for over five years.”

  “Cell phone records show Brooke contacted the Massachusetts State Police the day she was murdered and said she had found him, the Renaissance Killer. Even had evidence to prove it. I went through all of the records from Boston.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “The last victim, Helena Achlys, cause of death was cardiac arrest. The toxicology report showed that she was poisoned by Ouabain.”

  “What is Ouabain?”

  “It’s a poison that is extracted from Acokanthera plants found in eastern Africa. The arrows are dipped into the concentrated liquid and used for hunting and warfare.”

  Belle pauses, his nerves raw.

  “Harp, the body was found in the woods. She was shot with a crossbow, using the arrow poison. She was hunted, like something out of medieval times.”

  “Jesus,” Harper says as he takes a deep breath in, haunted by the image of it.

  “She had been given Atropa belladonna eye drops, an herb that is toxic and causes delirium and hallucinations. The name Atropa comes from Atropos, one of the three Fates in Greek mythology, meaning ‘pretty woman’ because the herb was used in eye drops to dilate the pupils of women’s eyes to make them appear seductive. The Renaissance Killer took credit and sent photos from the night of the murder and a sketch of a crossbow, an old illustration by Leonardo da Vinci, to the media. Jessa Dante only wants to speak to you.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s scared.”

  “Fine. Text me the address. What else?”

  “We spoke to Brooke’s neighbor, Greg Callum. He said we should talk to her boyfriend. I can’t find anyone who has laid eyes on this guy. Nothing on any of the tapes. It’s like he’s a ghost. The vigil is set for tonight.”

  Harper realizes they are dealing with a sophisticated killer, one who has established a complex system to destroy the evidence.

  “So where do these dime-store Internet detectives come from? It’s like a bad episode of CSI.”

  “Everywhere. They’re just regular people off the street. Your trainer at the gym or the girl that cuts your hair.”

  “I guess. It’s just pretty fucking creepy.”

  “One more thing, Harp.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, you know the profile of these hobbyists, too much time on their hands. These web sleuths are obsessed with cases that suck up media attention. You know, like Caylee Anthony, JonBenét Ramsey, the big ones.”

  Harper nods. “Sure.”

  “A whole bunch of these people, including Brooke, are obsessed with you and Seraphina—well, your family, and the night she was attacked. And lately, there has been a lot of chatter online and in the crowdsourced forums.”

  “Really? The DIY detectives think they’re on to something? Like what?” Harper says, feeling his defenses go up. He will always protect Seraphina. She has lived through a nightmare, and he won’t allow anyone near her with intentions of having her relive the horror of the night she was attacked; not now, not ever.

  “They have a witness. Someone who worked at the bar in Boston. They said they saw you leave the bar right after Seraphina on the night she was attacked,” Belle says.

  “So, what, they think I raped my wife?”

  “No, Harp. They think you killed the man who did. They think by the time you caught up to Seraphina, the damage was done, and she couldn’t have possibly inflicted that kind of damage on another man. She’s not strong enough.”

  Harper laughs but then realizes Belle is serious.

  “It wasn’t me. I didn’t follow her home. That’s creepy. This is insane, Belle. Shut these people down, or I will. Get me everything from forensics as soon as it comes in. I’m on my way to see Jessa Dante.”

  Harper is furious. These days, anyone with a computer can consider themselves an amateur detective. He had checked out the chat rooms and all of the websites and considered them nothing more than ambulance-chasing ghouls.

  Although many had the best intentions, most opened up a darker side—criminals who hid behind the safety of their own computer; predators, sex offenders, and serial killers. These websites are an incubator for evil, a scourge on society that should be undone.

  The key-locked elevator at 59 Greene Street in SoHo opens up into a sprawling loft. The Corinthian cast-iron columns and wraparound ten-foot-high windows are breathtaking, but nothing compares to the beauty of Jessa Dante.

  “Jessa?”

  “Hi, Harper. Come on in.”

  She is stunning, radiant, with red hair and a tight, sculpted body. Her eyes blue and luminous.

  “I’m Harper Swift. I’m sorry about Brooke.”

  “Thanks, and thanks for coming down here to see me.” The travertine-tiled floors sparkle. The white lacquer walls pop with colorful, modern art.

  In the corner are some storage boxes with books, waiting to be unpacked.

  “Nice place. Have you lived here long?”

  “A couple of months. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee, whiskey?”

  Harper laughs. “Some water would be great. I’m really sorry for your loss, Jessa. I understand the two of you were very close.”

  “I still can’t believe she’s gone. I keep waiting to wake up, like it’s a dream or something.”

  He follows her into the kitchen, walnut cabinets and countertops topped with Carrara marble, finished with custom-made satin nickel appliances.

  Jessa is all legs, no waist, and beautiful perky tits. Harper, usually impeccably dressed in black suits, perfectly tailored to his tall frame, is suddenly self- conscious that he’s wearing yesterday’s clothes.

  Something about this girl made him want to look his best.

/>   Jessa focuses on her task, and this gives Harper the opportunity to watch her. He smiles at the libidinous nature of his thoughts. She looks up and doesn’t freeze.

  Instead, she smiles warmly, confidently.

  He follows her to the living room. Her laptop is open, and a dog-eared book, Delta of Venus, lies on the floor, next to a pair of red-soled stilettos.

  Jessa didn’t look like a college kid as he watches her move with the grace and confidence of a woman.

  “So, can you tell me a little bit about your relationship with Brooke?”

  Harper isn’t getting a sense of loss from Jessa. He can read people; this is his gift. She is drumming her finger on her leg, unable to make eye contact, as if she is nervous and afraid.

  “What are you studying?”

  “Medieval and Renaissance studies.”

  Harper thinks of Brooke’s murder and the connection to the Renaissance Killer, the Deer Island murders. He remembers Belle saying that the last victim, Helena Achlys, was poisoned by Ouabain. His mind races, trying to make more of a connection. Maybe Brooke had found the killer and planned to report him on the night she was murdered.

  “Medieval and Renaissance studies. What do you do with that?”

  “I have no idea.” Jessa laughs nervously. Her eyes travel down his body. She blushes, beet red. “Sort of an obsession of mine.”

  “Do you have any idea if Brooke was involved in another religion?”

  “Brooke was Catholic. She went to church every Sunday,” Jessa says.

  She runs her hands over her black dress and curls her long legs underneath her body, sitting next to him on the fur-covered couch.

  He thinks about Seraphina. The last thing he needs is another complication. He realizes this is all Jessa will be to him. So nice to see a woman in something tight, not like the shapeless dresses he is used to seeing Seraphina in.

  With Jessa, he loses his train of thought. He isn’t used to this. He is trained to always keep his face neutral, never react, a skill that keeps him alive in aggressive situations and is often the key in uncovering the truth.

  She sighs as if tired from sorting out her emotions and says, “I met Brooke at a club. I was bartending at the time. She was new to the city. I got her a job waitressing with me. We lived together for a few months.”

  “Were you sleeping with her?”

  “Is that relevant?”

  “If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Yes. But that ended a few months ago.”

  “Why?”

  “She met someone. The guy was really bad news. Super- controlling and possessive. She wouldn’t listen to me. She was stubborn. Look what it cost her.”

  “Is that why you moved out?”

  “That and a good couple of months at work. It was either rent my own place or go to Vegas to see if I could double it.”

  Their eyes lock; hers are open and fearless. Harper is fascinated and determined to stay in control. He makes sure she is the first to look away.

  “Listen, I never met him. I always assumed he was married. She never said so, but that would explain all of the secrecy. The good ones always are. Like you, Harper. I’m guessing you’re married.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “What a waste,” she says with a devilish smile.

  “My wife doesn’t think so.”

  “Well, if you want information, it’s going to cost you.” Her lashes gleam over her bright-blue eyes.

  “How about I subpoena you and put your ass on the stand?”

  He glares at her, hoping to intimidate. His pulse races, and he weakens. He is distracted by her lips, her legs, her perfume.

  The effect she has on him is a total loss of equilibrium.

  “I just meant dinner. I’m starving. Do you mind if we talk over dinner?”

  Harper feels off his game tonight. He thinks about Seraphina at home with Sky. Dinner with Jessa seems like a bad idea.

  Then he hears himself say, “I know a great neighborhood place.”

  Four

  HARPER AND JESSA

  They step outside into the wind and rain. Harper’s cheap umbrella flips upside down, and they both laugh as he battles the wind. Finally, he gives up and tosses it in the garbage as they run. He tries to shield Jessa from the rain with his newspaper.

  Both wet, they find shelter inside Boccaccio restaurant; it’s warm and comfortable. The maroon-tuxedoed waiters and Motown music blaring through the monotone speakers are a relaxing vibe.

  “So this is all it takes. A little penne a la vodka and you’ll sing like a canary?” Harper says, trying to dry off with a napkin.

  “That’s right,” she says, giggling.

  “You want wine?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “We’ll have the Merlot, please.”

  “Are you always this domineering?”

  “What, these are my people! I’ve got a lot of pull here,” he says with delight, waving over another waiter, who promptly ignores him.

  They both laugh. The waiter returns with the menu. “Make that a bottle of Merlot. We may be here a while,” he says, looking outside at the pouring rain, an embarrassed grin spreading over his face.

  There’s something about Jessa. She is getting under his skin and inside his head. He has never felt a sexual attraction like this; not since Seraphina. He knows it isn’t the right thing, but he wants Jessa. Every part of him wants her. Harper can tell she is nervous but trying to hide it.

  The waiter cuts through the tension, setting a wine glass down in front of Harper. He swishes the wine around in his glass and then takes a sip.

  “It’s good, thanks.”

  “Harp, it’s all pretty weird. The stuff with Brooke. That’s why I wanted to see you and talk to you about it. I need to make sure I’m kept out of any sort of trial.”

  Jessa takes a sip and sets her glass down with a heavy sigh, squaring her shoulders like she did at home. The protective wall she’s built goes up around her.

  “What, you need to wait for your pasta? Go on,” he says mockingly.

  She really is the whole package: sweet, sexy, and confident. He can’t take his eyes off her skyscraper heels and legs crossed elegantly. Her leg lightly touches his.

  Why couldn’t he have a little fun? No harm in that, is there?

  “Those are beautiful shoes,” he says, hoping she will relax a little.

  “Louboutin. Only the best,” she says, smiling and finally relaxing enough to find the words. “So one night a few months ago, Brooke came home from class really excited. She said she met someone, and—this is cheesy, but she was heavily into numerology, and he was her perfect match. Their love was written in the stars, crazy shit. He would tell her fortune and give her readings. One day, he gave her a Powerball number. She played it, and it actually hit.”

  “What was the number?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “The twenty-three enigma.”

  “What is that?”

  “It’s an occult theory that ties into the Law of Fives, based on the belief that most events are connected to the number twenty-three.”

  “I don’t know anything about that, but she bought a flat-screen TV and new laptops.”

  “Go on,” Harper says.

  “He also gave her some sort of note written in code. She spent hours at her computer and on all those crazy Internet sleuthing websites trying to figure out the code. She skipped classes and everything. She finally figured out it was an invite to some underground party. Some secret society called the Skull Club. They meet online in chat rooms and at places all over the city to try to solve murders.”

  “Sort of like the Skeleton Crew,” Harper says.

  “Who?”

  “The Skeleton Crew. They started out as amateur online detectives,
hobbyists that spend countless unpaid hours trying to find missing persons and convict killers,” Harper says. “I think most of them do more harm than good.”

  Harper remembers the case that kicked it all off back in 1998, when the Web was just getting started: “Tent Girl.”

  Wilbur Riddle, who had been scavenging for glass insulators alongside Route 25 in Kentucky, discovered a decomposing body of a young woman wrapped in a heavy green canvas tarpaulin.

  The case went cold for thirty years until a factory worker, Todd Matthews, matched her to a listing posted by a woman in search of her long-lost sister.

  Matthews’s track record of solving cases eventually led to a position as communications director for the Missing and Unidentified Persons System, or NamUs, a clearinghouse established by the Department of Justice.

  “This is much darker than that. This crew isn’t satisfied with just reenacting and solving the murders; they’re much more interested in the finding and punishing part.”

  “You mean, like vigilantes?” He looks at her through slanted eyes. Harper thinks about the information from the Boston Police about the murder of Helena Achlys.

  Belle’s words replay in his mind: It’s a poison used for hunting and warfare. She was hunted, Harp.

  “Yes. Brooke told me the night of the murder that she tried to break up with him. It was too much. She started crying. She seemed really scared. I didn’t know what to do. But when I left the party that night, she was still alive. That’s really all I know.”

  To Harper, omission is as much a crime as lying. He hates liars. It always makes him feel like maybe he just isn’t worth the truth.

  The waiter sets down the food.

  When Harper looks out the window, dusk has fallen and the rain has stopped. The thought of another night alone is miserable. The thought of going home is even more miserable. He leans back and runs his hands through his hair.

  “So do you have any kids?” Jessa says.

  “A daughter. Her name is Sky. How about you? How come you’re not out with your boyfriend tonight?”

  “No boyfriend. Still waiting for my Henry Miller, I guess.”

  Harper can’t get enough of Jessa. He knows she is hiding something and that he will uncover the truth eventually.