But this felt good. This was a side of Gabe she'd seldom seen, and she wanted more. She raised her hand, and let her fingers clasp his wrist for just a moment.

  Then she took her hand away and he walked around to his bed.

  Of course, now that this interaction had happened, Cora couldn't stop her thoughts from racing. Sleep was temporarily banished, and when Gabe turned off the light, she knew it would take a while for her to be able to get some rest.

  Instead, as she lay in the darkness, her mind veered painfully to the topic of her sister. What had happened to Rose? Where was she now? How would she find this mob boyfriend, Mario? Nothing more than a first name, and not exactly an unusual one.

  Cora thought hard, letting her mind explore every possibility. Dammit, there had to be something. All the cases she’d handled, all the people she’d spoken to. She had connections, and all she had to do was find the link she needed.

  And as her mind worked furiously, she came up with an answer. Light, just a shaft of it, broke into the darkness.

  "Yes," she whispered soundlessly, feeling a sense of satisfaction that she'd finally remembered who could help. It was a connection that she'd had some years ago. She knew that he would be a route into the mob, even though at a low level. But it would be something.

  At least she had a name. A person to approach. Gianni Umberto.

  And if she followed that name, Cora promised herself, it would lead to the boyfriend.

  She was going to make sure it did, as soon as this case was over. And, tomorrow morning, finding the right truck stop might give her and Gabe that breakthrough they were hoping for.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "Are you ready to repent?" Spoken softly, the words felt like a tease.

  Nightshade was finding amusement and satisfaction in dialogue with the victim again. It was strange how she was refusing to say yes. Perhaps there was a trace of innocence, tangible even to a jaded eye, which hadn't been evident in the others; although deep down, of course, inherently she was the same.

  Like the rest, when it boiled down to the essential details, she was a whore, a piece of trash, something to be used and thrown away.

  But unlike the others, she wasn’t answering the question in the way he wanted.

  “Repent, and I’ll let you out,” he encouraged.

  “I don’t trust you,” she said, her voice breathy and scared. “What if you’re waiting for me to say this, and when I do, you kill me? I know other women disappeared. Did you ask them that question, too?”

  She was smart, he had to give her that. Quickly, he changed the subject.

  “What would you do if I did let you free?”

  "I'll run,” she answered. “As far and fast as I can. I promise, I'll never tell anyone about you. I don't know you! You can even take me somewhere else. Take me in a car. Dump me somewhere. Just let me go, please!"

  Her voice was weaker than it had been, Nightshade thought dispassionately.

  But still, she was fighting. That was what made it interesting for him.

  Nightshade leaned in closer, whispering the words. "Do you think I want to let you go? What happens if I keep you here forever? If you refuse to repent, I will."

  "You can't do that!" she gasped. Now, she sounded scared.

  He chuckled, a low sound that reverberated through the window and into the small, dingy room where she was trapped.

  "Why not you? You were there, you were available. And besides, you caught my eye."

  "I didn't mean to. All I wanted was to leave this life behind. I was trying to start again, honestly I was."

  "Starting again? That's funny. You're nothing but a prostitute. There is no starting again for you. You're damaged goods, and it's better for you to be kept here."

  Nightshade studied the girl's face through the peephole in the boards that allowed someone to see in, but not out. There was something about her desperation that was almost endearing. Almost. But it didn't change the fact that she was just another victim. Part of an important plan. A means to an end.

  "Please. Just give me one chance. I was going to change my ways, and I promise I will. I'll - I'll do whatever it takes. I'll move to another city, another state. Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it. But I can’t play your game!"

  "I can't let you go. It wouldn't be safe. You know too much now."

  Her despairing gasp filled him with glee. Perhaps it was wrong to toy with her like this, but it was fulfilling. It was adding a whole new dimension to an already blood racing pursuit.

  The girl whimpered, and Nightshade reveled in her terror. Perhaps it was unfair to take pleasure in the girl's misery, but it was hard not to feel a sense of power over her. After all, he was in control here.

  Now, though, it was time to head out. He strode away, leaving her pleading, hoarse, thready voice behind. It was time to go back to that truck stop because the sun was rising and a day full of promise awaited.

  Getting in the car, he drove a route that was now familiar and could even be driven without care. But he always took care. Taking care was the secret to not getting caught. The police could be anywhere. That was something to remember. Nightshade kept it in mind as the miles scrolled by, feeling a sense of anticipation as the truck stop's lights came into view.

  Pulling into the parking lot, he surveyed the area, searching for any signs of police presence. The coast was clear.

  That last victim had possessed an endearing innocence. Would it be wise to look for the same trait again? Begged as she had, there was only one fate for her, one place that the trapped woman was going. All the begging in the world, he resolved, couldn't change that.

  But now the focus was on the new victim. Would innocence be a good idea? Or might it now be wearying, something that became tiresome? In any case it was not an easy quality to find.

  Who was here, this morning, at this stop? Already it was busy. Trucks were pulling in, brakes hissing, exhausts steaming into the cold morning air. Drivers, en route to somewhere remote perhaps, were hurrying into the store, or toward the restroom, looking resigned to the ten minute delay in their journey. It was busy and buzzing, and where there were men at work, men on their own, lonely men, or lustful men, the women would follow.

  Now, where were they, and was the right one here?

  There was a woman in the coffee kiosk, sitting alone in a booth, looking down at her coffee with a sadness that was almost palpable. Wondering what her story was, he passed by, sending a flicker of sympathy her way. She wasn't one of those sluts who needed to be scoured from society. No, she wasn't whoring herself out in the cold.

  But there were a group of three women who were doing just that, near the entrance to the restrooms, further down past the gas pumps. It was immediately obvious what type they were.

  They were loud, dressed provocatively, and flirting with any driver who glanced their way. Their make-up was caked on, and their hair was colored, mostly bleached a bright blonde. Blonde, the color of temptation, the shade that women loved to wear when leading men astray. He knew that. Experience had proved it true.

  Nightshade approached them slowly, studying each one in turn, making sure that their focus remained on the truckers, keeping on the sidelines.

  The first a curvaceous woman with dark skin and bright blonde, dyed hair, had a haughty, almost arrogant air about her. She knew she was attractive, and she was using it to her advantage. As he watched, a truck pulled up and the driver leaned out of the window. After some quick banter, the woman sashayed around, climbing in the passenger side.

  The truck drove off, but not far, and he couldn't suppress a pang of disappointment that this was happening and it hadn't been prevented. But there were still the other two.

  The second, a platinum blonde with pale skin, was older, with a sad, resigned look in her eyes, working the moves as if she was tired of the life but knew it was far too late to escape it. The lines in her face were visible. Her leather jacket was worn. He could sense the desperation emanating from her.

  But it was the third woman who caught his attention. She was a petite brunette with a youthful face that seemed out of place among the older, more world-weary women. She was the youngest of the three, wearing a tight pink dress that showed off her curves, but although she was displaying herself in a disgusting way, and there were unnatural bright highlights in her hair, she looked nervous and unsure.

  She had a natural beauty that triggered his fury. What right did she have to abuse her own beauty this way, to do what she was doing?

  Her youth would make her more vulnerable to trickery, and trickery was Night's area of expertise. Trickery was the best and easiest way to capture these victims, who were used to looking for one thing only, and who were blind to anything that might be lurking behind.

  This woman might be the perfect catch, to replace that conversation partner in the basement who had now outlived her usefulness, and would soon reach end of her life. Conversation was all well and good, but begging and pleading grew boring after a while. It was time to move on.

  This new one was arousing exactly the right mix of rage, desire, and murderous expectation.

  Grinning tightly, he moved closer.

  And then, disappointment flared. A trucker, in a big, crimson rig, pulled up, his truck blocking the line of sight as Nightshade hurried over.

  By the time the trucker moved on, the girl had disappeared, and he was sure she’d gotten into that rig with him.

  It was too late for her, too late for the repentance.

  Tomorrow, he vowed, he would try again.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Cora jerked wide awake five minutes before her alarm was due to sound. She sat bolt upright in the dark, switching on the light, checking her phone. When high pressure missions lay ahead, she seldom needed an alarm. As she switched it off, her mind focused on the truck stop, and the killer who might already be on the prowl.

  Beside her, roused by the light, Gabe was stirring. Glancing his way, she took a moment to gaze at his sleep-bleary face, taking in the way his hair had been pressed sideways by the pillow, the vulnerable expression in his eyes as he awoke.

  She met his eyes, feeling the emotions of last night surge up, remembering the touch of his hand on her hair. Quickly, she suppressed them. There was a killer to find.

  "We need to get to that truck stop," she said.

  Gabe sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Right. We can be out of here in fifteen minutes, if we hustle?"

  Scrambling out of bed, he headed for the bathroom, while Cora checked her phone. There were no further messages from Daytona, her friend, and now also her client. No updates, no reports of further working girls who were missing. Not yet. But there might be unreported incidents, because this was an underworld, linked by fragile connections that were intermittent and unreliable. If someone had vanished yesterday, it might only be known tomorrow, or in a week.

  Again, Cora found herself thinking of shadows, and how easy it was to hide in their cover. This was going to be a tough case to solve, by the sheer nature of the investigation.

  Gabe came out of the bathroom and she headed in, quickly brushing her teeth, dressing, brushing her hair. As always, as she tugged the brush through, she wondered if she should shave off both sides and go for something radical and new. Brushing hair took time. Imagine getting out of bed and being ready to go?

  Then, she left the bathroom, packed up her bag, and they were out of the motel room before seven a.m., and on the road.

  Cora drove, keeping her focus on the worsening traffic ahead, while Gabe sat in the passenger seat, his eyes scanning the surroundings. It was busy with early morning commuters. Rain had fallen during the night, and the cars swished along the still-wet roads.

  It was a gray, depressing day. The rain-washed blacktop, the heavy sky, the surroundings changing from the ranks of houses on the bleak outskirts of the town, to fields that seemed colorless on this sun-starved morning.

  But perhaps on a day like this, a trucker would seek some warmth and comfort at a stop, looking out for that splash of excitement and fun in a somber world.

  And if the prostitutes were at work, then Cora knew the killer would be out, ready to target them.

  There was the truck stop ahead, its neon signage bright and vivid against the dark sky. It was already busy. Trucks were lined up in the rest area, the convenience store looked to be doing a brisk trade, and there were cars lined up at the pumps.

  "Cameras. Where are they?" Cora said aloud, glancing at Gabe. Cameras would be the first, and most important, element for them to find.

  First stop on the way in, was the store.

  "We should try that first," she suggested.

  Gabe shrugged. "There's a diner opposite. I'll go look in there, while you do the store."

  "Okay," she said.

  She parked the car and climbed out, shivering, tugging her jacket around her as she walked away from Gabe, and in the direction of the store. The automatic door swished open, and a blast of stale heat greeted her as she entered, looking around at the colorful shelves with junk food packed in rows.

  And there was a camera, up above the till.

  Cora headed in that direction. Approaching the till, she waited in line until the attendant had finished serving his customers.

  He was a young guy, his arms dark with tattoos, an earring in his left ear, and a bored expression in his hazel eyes, as if he'd hoped that he would be doing more satisfying things with his life than standing behind the counter of a truck stop shop.

  When she got there, there was nobody behind her. For a moment, anyway.

  "Your cameras," Cora said quietly. "I’m an investigator, and we’re following up on crimes that have been committed, most likely starting here. I need to see the footage. Is it possible?"

  She was ready for an argument, and to have to justify why she should see it, seeing she wasn't law enforcement anymore. But the conversation didn't get that far. The attendant shrugged morosely.

  "They haven't worked for months," he said. "They're just there for show, to try and discourage crime. I keep telling the owner we need to fix them, but he’s not listening to me and keeps saying it’s too expensive."

  "Tell him! He needs to fix the damned cameras and stop being such a cheapskate," Cora shot back, swallowing down her disappointment. “Word gets around. How much does he think a robbery will set him back?”

  She bought a couple of bottles of water, and some candy for the road, and walked out to see Gabe approaching her. He shook his head.

  "No cameras in the diner," he said.

  "No working cameras in the store.” Was this going to stall before it had started? They couldn’t exactly stake out the place full-time.

  That only left the gas pumps, and they headed there together.

  As they walked outside, Cora saw a woman in a white mini skirt and fluffy high boots and a big puffer jacket climb out of a mid-range Ford, shivering, looking as if there were places she'd rather be. But she was here, and that meant Cora was at the right place. This was a local truck stop where the working girls waited.

  The woman hurried into the diner. Stocking up on coffee before going out to look for customers? That was Cora's guess.

  "Be safe," she muttered. She wanted to warn everyone, protect everyone. But who knows how many women had already been out here this morning? The killer could have taken someone by now. This woman could be on her way elsewhere, and just stopping off for coffee. Even so, Cora resolved to keep an eye on her.

  She and Gabe headed over to the gas pumps. And there, finally, she saw cameras. A couple of them, one at the exit point and one by the office.

  Surely some cameras in this truck stop had to be operational?

  Cora headed swiftly inside.

  "Your cameras," she said to the attendant. "Can I take a look at the footage? We're tracking a suspected killer."

  She handed over her card to authenticate her request.

  The attendant looked up from scrolling on his phone. Just like the man in the convenience store, this guy - in his thirties, with a receding hairline and a scar across his forehead - looked bored and tired and as if he was going through the motions, and had disconnected himself from this job.

  But she wasn’t going to get lucky. "I don't have permission to access the footage," he said. "Only my boss does that."

  "And where's your boss?" she asked.

  "He's at the other gas station this morning, the one down south. He manages three different ones. The other's thirty miles south of here, and then there's a third to the north." He glanced at his phone again, tracking what was clearly a compelling thread of chat.

  "Can I call him and ask?" Determined to try every angle here, Cora persisted.

  He lifted his hand and rubbed his forehead, massaging his fingers over the scar as if it was something he did automatically, without thinking.

  "No. He won't allow it unless he's here."

  This was ridiculous. There were actual keys waiting in the back office door, but they couldn't get past Mr. Bored to open it up.

  Cora felt her frustration mounting. They were running out of options, and time was ticking. She glanced at Gabe, standing behind her, who looked equally put out. They needed to find a way to access the footage, and fast.

  That, unfortunately, wouldn’t include any further negotiation with this unwilling man. They needed to take a step back, regroup, and rethink.

  "No problem," she said. She swung around and left, with Gabe behind her.

  As soon as she was out of sight of the office window, standing against the forecourt’s side wall, she turned to him.

  "We need to find a way in there," she said. "That attendant is following orders. He's not going to use his initiative, he's not going to call his boss and plead our case, and he's the worst kind of person to have in our way. That office was open. All we need to do is get in there."

  Gabe nodded. "What are you thinking?"

 

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