Page 62 of The Survivor
“Anything else?”
“A couple things actually. I just looked at a picture of Anne Grant. She bears an eerie resemblance to all our vics, Sam in particular. Oh, and the manager of Grant’s flower shop mentioned that his boss owns a greenhouse.”
Blake lifted a brow. “A greenhouse? Where?”
“Not sure yet. We haven’t been able to find any more property under Grant’s name. We’re still looking, though. But apparently he uses the greenhouse to grow roses.”
Blake’s throat tightened with frustration. He liked everything he was hearing, liked how the pieces of this sick puzzle were slowly fitting together, but Rick was leaving out one very important thing.
“Where the hellishe then?” Blake snapped into the receiver.
“We still can’t locate him. Apparently he dropped by the flower store yesterday and told the manager to mind the shop for a few days. Said he was going deer hunting.”
“It’s not open season,” Blake muttered, an ill feeling creeping through him.
“I know.” Rick’s voice rang with a dark note of urgency. “Sounds like he’s hunting for another victim.”
“Or…” He suddenly felt physically ill. “He could be getting ready to come after Sam.”
“That, too.”
“So what the hell are we doing about all this?”
“The CPD is staking out Grant’s brownstone and shop in case he shows up. I’ve been talking with some of the profilers, feeding them the new details and seeing if they have any ideas what this guy’s next move might be. And the boys at the station are still trying to dig up the address of this greenhouse. There’s a good chance he might be hiding out there.”
Blake nodded. “Keep me posted. I’m on my way home to Sam.”
“Don’t leave her side, man.”
“I won’t.”
He hung up the phone and stepped on the gas, his pulse accelerating as fast as the vehicle.
He’d been hunting this bastard for so many months that he’d almost given up hope. That the Rose Killer might have a name, a face, hands you could slap cuffs on, was enough to bring a triumphant grin to Blake’s face.
He turned onto his street and steered toward the house. The second he pulled into the driveway, his entire body froze.
Something was wrong.
He hopped out of the SUV and examined his surroundings. He glanced at the unmarked cop car parked at the curb, but even the brief nod he received from Officer Daniels didn’t ease his paranoia. He stared at the house. It looked like it always did. The front door was shut, the drapes over the window were closed, and yet his senses prickled with cold, shaky dread.
His gaze lowered to his feet and that’s when he saw the footsteps in the snow. Two sets, both leading to the driveway. One was smaller, looked like a women’s shoe, size seven maybe. Sam was a size seven. With urgent strides he hurried to the police car at the curb and tapped on the window.
“Who was here?” he demanded after Daniels rolled down the window.
The enormous bald man looked bewildered. “What? Nobody was here except the cop you sent over to pick up Miss Dawson.”
An involuntary tremor crawled up his spine. “What are you talking about?”
“Detective Hodges called me and Perkins, said Miss Dawson was being taken to a safe house. Your orders.”
His heart nearly jabbed through his rib cage and tore out of his chest. “Hodges was with me for the last hour. He didn’t make that call.”
“Are you sure?” Daniels’s thick brows drew together in a frown. “We both got the call, and sure enough, an officer came to get Miss Dawson.”
He felt sick. “When did they leave?”
“About an hour ago. Why? Did something happ—”
