It was there; Sam knew it was. They just hadn't found it yet. He suspected he already knew what it was, because of that nagging gut feeling he had missed something. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it was there, and sooner or later the bell would chime. He just hoped it was sooner, like in the next minute.
This guy hated women. He wouldn't get along with them, wouldn't like working with them. There might be a note in his file about a complaint lodged by someone, maybe even a harassment charge. Something like that should have jumped out at them on the first once-over, but maybe the complaint had been worded in such a way that the charge wasn't actually spelled out.
Neither Jaine nor T.J. was working today. They were still together, though they had moved from T.J.'s house to Shelley's, along with that yappy little cocker spaniel that sounded the alarm at any kind of intrusion, whether it was a bird on the patio or someone coming up the walk. He had been afraid Jaine would want to spend the day at home, since her new alarm system had been installed – under the eagle eye of Mrs. Kulavich, who was taking her guardian duties seriously – on Saturday while they were attending Marci's funeral. An alarm system was fine, but it wouldn't stop a determined killer.
But Jaine hadn't wanted to be alone. She and T.J. were clinging together, shocked and dazed at what had happened to their tight little circle of friends. There was no doubt in anyone's mind now that the List was what had triggered the violence, and the area police departments were putting together a task force to coordinate and work the cases, since no two of the friends lived in the same jurisdiction.
The national news organizations had been all over the story. "Who is killing the Ladies of the List?" one newscaster had intoned. "The Detroit area has been shocked by the violent murders of two of the women who authored the humorous and controversial Mr. Perfect List that took the nation by storm a couple of weeks ago." Reporters were camped outside Hammerstead again, wanting to interview anyone who was acquainted with the two victims. The task force had arranged to get copies of any interview tapes the reporters might make, in case their guy gave in to his ego and wanted to see himself on national television, mourning his two "friends". Reporters had also been at Jaine's house, but left when they discovered no one was at home. He imagined they had checked out T.J.'s, too, which was why he had called Shelley and told her to ask Jaine and T.J. to spend the day with her. Shelley had been more than glad to comply. He figured that the snoops would talk to people who knew people and eventually find Shelley, but for today at least Jaine and T.J. weren't being bothered.
Sam rubbed his eyes. He had gotten maybe two hours sleep. The page last night had been to the scene of another homicide, a teenage boy. That had quickly wrapped up with the arrest of the kid's new girlfriend's ex, who had taken it personally that the kid had told him to eat shit and die. The paperwork, however, was always a bitch. Where was the report on the shoe tread they had found in Jaine's house? Getting an answer usually didn't take this long. He searched his desk, but no one had laid it there in his absence. Maybe it had gone to Bernsen, since they had cross-referenced each other on all the paperwork. Before Luna's death, not everyone had been convinced the break-in at Jaine's house had anything to do with Marci's murder, but he and Bernsen had been. Now, of course, there was no doubt in anyone's mind. He called Roger. "Did the report on that shoe tread come to you?"
"Haven't seen it. You mean you don't have it yet?"
"Not yet. The lab must have lost it. I'll shoot them another request." Damn it, he thought as he hung up. The one thing they didn't need was a delay. Maybe the shoe print wasn't important, but maybe the shoe was a rare one, so unusual that someone at Hammerstead would say, "Oh, yeah, so-and-so has a pair. Paid a fortune for them." He went back to the files, frustrated almost to the point of breaking something. It was right here under his nose; he knew it. All he had to do was figure it out. Galan left work early. Yesterday's events had left him so shaken he couldn't concentrate. All he wanted was to pick up T.J. at Jaine's sister's house and take her home where he could watch over her.
He didn't know how they had lost touch with each other. No – he knew, all right. The innocent flirting at work with Xandrea Conaway had started to seem important, and maybe it had never been so innocent. When had he started comparing everything T.J. and everything she said and did, to Xandrea, who was always dressed up and never nagged?
Of course T.J. wasn't dressed up at home, he realized. Neither was he. That was what homes were for, relaxing and being comfortable. So what if she complained when he didn't take out the garbage? He complained if she left her makeup scattered all over the vanity. People who lived together inevitably got on each other's nerves sometimes. That was part of being married.
He had loved T.J. since he was fourteen years old. How had he lost sight of that, and of what they had together? Why had it taken the terror of realizing a killer actually was stalking T.J. and her friends for him to realize it would kill him to lose her?
He didn't know how he could make it up to her. He didn't know if she would even let him. For the past week or so, since she had guessed he was infatuated with Xandrea, she had pulled away from him. Maybe she believed he'd actually been unfaithful to her, though he had never let the situation between him and Xandrea get so far out of hand. They had kissed, yes, but nothing more.
He tried to imagine how he would feel if another man kissed T.J. and felt sick to his stomach. Maybe kisses weren't so forgivable.
He would crawl on his belly to her if she would smile at him again like he mattered to her.