While the coffee brewed, Cole went upstairs to shower and change. Back in the kitchen, he flexed his hand that was a bit sore from catching her Babe Ruth swing. “Bet she’s good in a batting cage.” He poured their coffee, forwent the leftover Thai in the fridge and settled for two of her gnome-stashed cookies, before he headed downstairs.
It had been far from a perfect start to the morning, but time spent with Eden was anything but boring. The steep staircase reminded him of every horror movie he’d ever seen. Chipped, worn paint, rugged walls and the promise of stone-cold cement waiting at the bottom of the surprisingly well-lit basement. Leave it to Eden to make what could be considered a seriously creepy space into her office. He stopped short on the second-to-last step and sloshed coffee over the backs of his hands.
He gaped.
After three years she still had half her belongings in boxes upstairs, but down here? The NSA could take lessons in organization from her. Two large metal filing cabinets lined the far wall. A sturdy antique desk sat in the middle of the space with neat stacks of files on one side, photos on the other, laptop and assorted office supplies arranged to perfection in between. She’d set up a desktop CPU connected to not one but two large flat screens beneath a collection of maps, one of which was dotted and outlined with various colored strings. The ancient-looking printer seemed as if it were about to sputter and die as it spit out page after page. And there, in front of a trio of industrial-sized whiteboards displaying dozens of notes and photographs of familiar faces, stood Eden, hair knotted on top of her head, glasses perched on the tip of her nose and bare toes curling into the freezing cement.
“I’m going to have to start over.”
“This is...” He took the final step down and held out her coffee, which she accepted without giving him a second look.
“Thanks.” She drank and set the mug down, then tapped a finger against her teeth. “This is what?” she echoed.
Disturbing. Scary. Enlightening. “Efficient.” He wandered toward Logan’s old oversize leather sofa wedged under the stairs with wadded-up blankets and pillows strewn over it. A stack of paperback crime novels sat on the floor next to it. A small table at the end displayed a solitary battery-operated tea candle and a framed photograph.
A picture he hadn’t seen in almost twenty years.
He glanced over his shoulder before he picked the photo up. Taken in Simone’s parents’ elegantly manicured backyard—Eden, Simone, Allie and...Chloe, all grinning at the camera, innocence and promise shining on their eight-year-old faces. His heart twisted, his mind flashing to those dark days after Chloe had gone missing. She’d been such a cute kid: round face, freckles and razor-straight red hair. Green eyes that would have made the Irish hills jealous. She’d loved wearing overalls and bright T-shirts, along with the mismatched sneakers that had become her trademark look.
He frowned.
They’d found her purple shoe first.
“Has Allie been down here?” He set the frame on the side table and took in the rest of the space. At least she’d added some color with a pair of bright lamps and a throw rug, but he’d bet that was more for practicality than decor.
“What? In my office? No. She’d probably have me committed.”
Cole’s mind eased. Seemed she realized the picture she painted. An unfamiliar sadness washed over him.
This was where Eden lived.
This was where she breathed. Upstairs was cursory, where she could chase her demons and write her blog, but this was Eden’s world.
“I’m printing off every article I’ve published on the blog regarding the Iceman, along with all the comments.” She gestured to the printer as it continued to chug away. “I thought maybe you could read through those. I’m too close.”
“I’ll take another look, but nothing stood out to me.”
She jerked, eyes widening in surprise. “You’ve read them?”
“The articles? Yeah. I’ve read everything you’ve ever published.” He pulled the pile of papers free and headed for an empty table. “You’re a good writer, Eden. A great one.”
“Why do I always hear a but in your voice?” She wrenched open one of the desk drawers and pulled out a pair of dark fuzzy socks.
“I just wish you’d put your writing skills to better use.”
“Better being...?” She sat down and tugged on the socks, the strap of her tank top dropping off one shoulder.
“Less confrontational. Maybe you could write a novel.” He glanced up at the beams in the ceiling. “Something tells me coming up with crimes wouldn’t be too big a stretch.”
“Hmm. Maybe. Someday.”
“If you’re not careful, someday is never going to come.” Okay, now he sounded preachy. He scanned the responses by date, counting forty-three before he had to return to the printer.
She returned to the whiteboards and snatched off pictures to place on her desk. “I’m going to try rearranging these this time. How close are we to identifying the victims from the freezer?”
Cole wondered if she heard the catch in her own voice. He grabbed a lightweight sweatshirt off the back of one of her chairs and tossed it to her. “Put that on, will you? Your goose bumps have goose bumps. I’ll check with Mona in a few hours. She was hoping the fingers might thaw enough by today to try to run their prints.”
“I don’t suppose I could get a look at evidence files from the case?”
“I’ll talk to Jack about getting them together for us.”
“There has to be a connection between them.” She flipped on the portable space heater. “How does he find them?” Using her cell, she snapped pictures of the notes she’d scribbled on the boards before she wiped them clean. “And why them? What do they have in common?”
“Working with three victims didn’t give us much data.” He grabbed the chair she wasn’t using and sat down. “Now we have eight more.”
“Not my favorite way to increase the data flow.” She drew two thick lines and divided the board into three sections, assigning a victim to each one. Filling out their names, occupations, addresses, relatives... The soft squeak of dry-erase markers against the board became background noise as he sat at the desk and started with her initial post, uploaded just over eighteen months ago.
She hadn’t started focusing on the Iceman until well after the third victim had been identified. She’d treated each posting as if it were one of her articles for the Tribune, citing her sources. He assumed “officials close to the investigation” referred to himself, but she’d saved those mentions for important details, like the fact that a witness had come forward saying she’d seen Denise Pageant, the third victim, leave a local farmers’ market a few blocks from the parking lot where her car had been found on the day they suspected she’d been abducted.
Eden’s earliest posts tugged at his heart. She was so good at talking about the victims, bringing them back to life in a way that anyone who read couldn’t help but understand the loss the families felt. If there was one thing Eden excelled at it was tapping into the empathy that most human beings possessed.
Those that didn’t possess it were the ones they had to worry about.
“How closely do you read the comments?” Cole asked.
“Closely enough. Mostly, I skim.” He thought that was what she’d say. Hard to tell given she had two pens sticking out of her mouth and a fistful of documents. He stood up and went to the bank of computer screens, clicking on the archives.
“Do you get a lot of return readers?”
“Yes. I even set up a subscription service. Anytime I post a new blog they get an email.”
“We’ll want a list of those subscribers.”
“Sure.” She abandoned her task and joined him, leaning over to tap in her access information. Cole sat back and watched her face scrunch into that familiar expression of concentration. A thick strand of hair dropped loose from on top of her head and brushed down over her arm. He reached out, tucked it behind her ear and felt her freeze under his touch. His finger tingled where it had stroked her skin, but he didn’t say a word and returned his gaze to the screen in front of them.
“You can access both the comments and the mailing list from this portal.” She backed away, clearing her throat as she returned to her whiteboard. Nice to know he could distract her as handily as she did him.
“Makes cross-checking screen names and email addresses easier,” he said as he printed out the pages.
“Do you have credit-card information for the victims in the files?” Eden jotted down the rest of the first three victims’ employment information. “Records of their purchases and where they’d been?”
“Going back six months before their deaths, I think. We can request more if we need them.”
“Six is a good place to start. Especially once we can get ahold of the last eight’s records, as well. Should help us fill out the timelines for their last days.”
“We went over the backgrounds of the original victims with a fine-tooth comb,” Cole reminded her. The process had gone more smoothly than expected given the potential logistical nightmare of the bodies being found in various areas of the valley. Other departments had been willing to lend a hand on the grunt work, but more than happy to let Cole and his team take the lead.
“I don’t suppose you inventoried their homes after they were identified?” Eden asked.
“No.” He looked up. “But we did take pictures. I’ll add the photos to the list of things for Jack to track down. With this much evidence to go through, it’ll take more than the two of us to make any kind of dent in it.”
“We can organize what we have for now.”
And so went their day, Eden staring at her newly tidied whiteboard and Cole digging through the umpteen comments on her increasingly popular blog.
When Eden’s doorbell rang, they both jumped.
“Who would that be?” Eden reached for her coffee, which she frowned at. “Empty. What time is it?”
“It’s after one.” Cole stretched his arms over his head and stood up. “I’ll go and hunt up lunch while I’m at it.”
“Lunch. Awesome.” She ducked back into her work like a turtle pulling into her shell. “You know what? If they want to run my articles in the Tribune, I’m thinking I might let them.”
“Really?”
“Why not?” She nibbled on her thumbnail. “More readers might get us more information. Besides, maybe I can work out a deal so I can afford to quit. Go on, go on.” She waved him upstairs. “I have a call to make.”
It took him a full count to twenty before he realized an unemployed Eden meant she’d throw herself completely into this case, not to mention any others that might come down the line. “One day at a time,” he muttered to himself as he headed upstairs. He left their mugs on the counter and answered the door. “Hey, Jack. You running a delivery service now?”
Jack grunted at him and hefted a file box into his arms. “Thanks, partner. Come on in.”
Jack picked up another box and followed him inside. “LT rallied the troops and got you everything you asked for on the first three vics. Speaking of asking for, Mona should be able to run prints this afternoon. Results will be in around five.”
“Great. Let me see if I can bring Eden up from the depths of—”
“Hey, Jack.” Eden stepped into the kitchen just as they set the boxes on the counter.
“Eden. Nice place. Cozy.” He glanced around the room.
“Jack thinks any place without high beamed ceilings is cozy,” Cole joked.
“Said the man who lives on a ship in a bottle.” Eden rolled her eyes.
“Ship in a bottle?” Jack sputtered and shot Cole a surprised look. “Hasn’t she seen the...?”
“You want lunch?” Cole cut him off. No, she hadn’t seen his boat since he’d finished restoring it. “We’ve got leftovers from last night.”
“Well, isn’t that nice.” Jack slapped a hand on his shoulder. “You almost sound domesticated. Uh-uh, Eden, not yet.” He pushed her hands away as she pried open one of the box corners. “Give your brain a rest. Cole said you’ve been at this since before dawn.”
“The curse of the gnome windmill,” Cole joked. “Hey, that can be the title for your first murder mystery, Eden. Now that you’ll have all that spare time.”
She glowered at him.
“You writing a book?” Jack asked.
“If I did it wouldn’t feature killer gnomes.” She pulled out a stack of paper plates from the cabinet. “I’ve got coffee, beer and water, Jack.”
“Water’s fine, thanks.” Jack set the boxes on the floor and took a seat at the counter. “You guys come up with anything new yet?”
“Big fat nothing,” Eden replied.
“I’ve got a couple of names I want to run checks on.” Cole’s statement earned a raised eyebrow from Eden. “You were right. I didn’t find anything in your posts. The comments were another story.”
“Nothing raised any bells for me.”
“The more you focused on the Iceman, the more frequently a few of your more enthusiastic subscribers commented.”
“That would be the purpose of a blog, Cole. They want a forum to be heard. I don’t engage them. Not directly, anyway,” Eden countered. “A few of them have had some good ideas, ideas I’ve looked into, but none of them produced anything. Other than proof our educational system is sorely lacking these days. Why? What did you find?”
“Aside from some pretty vehement opinions on why the Iceman is killing?”
“Oh, you’re talking about 221BB, aren’t you?” Eden waved away the comment as Cole set containers in front of Jack, before snagging one of the veggie spring rolls for himself. “I visited his website. He’s a conspiracy nut. Hangs out on a lot of crime message boards. He’s harmless, Cole.”
“Forgive me, but you’re not one to judge harmless. Remind me, again—who was it who tried to adopt a stray raccoon?”
“When was this?” Jack chuckled as he served himself.
“I was seven,” Eden reminded Cole in that “shut up before I shut you up” tone. “And the poor little guy had been attacked by Mr. Johansen and his shovel-wielding wife.”
“Probably because he was a raccoon. Angry little creature.”
“You survived,” Eden said.
“Barely. Logan almost lost an arm.”
“Oh, please. It was a scratch and I don’t care what you say. Ricky was adorable.”
“Ricky Raccoon?” Jack grabbed two spring rolls. “That’s...unique. What happened to him?”
“I was told they released him out by the American River,” Eden replied, and when Cole opened his mouth to tell her the truth—that her adorable little guy had gotten away from them and was run over by a car—she held up her hand. “And I’m going to continue to believe that until my dying day. If you want to follow up on any of my subscribers, feel free, but I’m telling you it won’t get us anywhere.”
“As a conspiracy nut is pretty far removed from a raccoon, I appreciate your permission.” Cole brushed his fingers over the back of her hand as they reached for the spoons at the same time. She jerked, her gaze flying to his. “Sorry.”
Jack pinned Cole with a silent, curious look before he plowed into his lunch.
“Okay, Jack.” Eden stood across from Cole’s partner and twirled her fork into the rice noodles. “You wanted my mind off this case for a while. How have you been? And how’s the dating game going?”
Jack choked. Cole grinned. Now, this was going to be entertaining.