Dear Maggie

“What would you say if I asked you out again?”

“Yes” hovered on the tip of Maggie’s tongue. It was what she wanted to say. But then she remembered the f.p. factor. Father potential. No matter what Nick Sorenson said, he wasn’t the marrying type. She could feel it. “No,” she said. “I’m sort of involved with someone else.”

“With whom?” he asked.

Maggie knew she was stretching here. But she needed some excuse. She couldn’t let herself fall for a guaranteed heartbreaker. “His name is John.”

“John?” He blinked at her as if she’d suddenly grown two heads. “John who?”

“You don’t know him,” she said. “I met him on the Internet.”

Great! Now he was competing against himself.

Nick sat at his desk, going over some paperwork, although in reality he was doing nothing more than wondering how he’d managed to strike out with Maggie again. The night had been going so well. He’d easily recognized the signals she was sending—they told him he wasn’t alone in his attraction. Yet when he’d gone for the close, she’d shot him down. Because of “John.”

And he couldn’t even ask what “John” had that he didn’t!

Dear Reader,

Set in Sacramento, California, where I live, this book was especially fun to write. I drive the streets Maggie and Nick drive, I frequent the same places, I use the bike trail. Against the backdrop of such familiar territory, I guess it was inevitable that this story would seem more real to me than any other. But as you read Dear Maggie, you’ll understand why there were times when “real” wasn’t such a good thing! I often spooked myself into looking over my shoulder as I jogged along the American River or double-checking my windows and doors at night.

Though there is definitely an element of suspense running through this novel, it’s still about relationships and trust and finding the one person in life who completes us. Nick, an undercover FBI agent, and Maggie, a newspaper reporter, are perfect for each other, but there are plenty of obstacles standing in their way—Maggie’s background and childhood experiences, Nick’s job and his fear of commitment…and a serial killer.

I’d love to hear from you. You can write me at P.O. Box 3781, Citrus Heights, CA 95611. Or simply log on to my Web site at www.brendanovak.com to send me an e-mail, enter my monthly draws, join my mailing list, check out my book signings or learn about upcoming releases.

Happy (and safe ) reading!

Brenda Novak

P.S. I hope Dear Maggie helps you “get caught reading” something you can’t put down!

Dear Maggie

Brenda Novak

To Pam,

For being more than a sister.

For being a lifelong friend.

And to Joy,

For exactly the same reason.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank Dixie Reid and Ted Bell, staff writers at the Sacramento Bee, for giving me a tour of the newsroom and helping to answer my questions about a cop reporter’s world.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

FOR THE FIRST TIME in her life, Maggie Russell wasn’t sure she wanted to be a police reporter. She’d always known she could, and probably would, be faced with situations like this, but somehow the reality was far worse than she’d ever imagined. Maybe it was because she was a single mother now. Maybe it was because her three-year-old son was sleeping soundly in his bed only a few blocks away.

Shivering despite the warm Sacramento night, she tried to block out the flashing police lights, and the stench—God, the stench was cloying, sickening—and concentrate on the snippets of conversation she overheard as the evidence recovery team worked carefully and cautiously to preserve the scene. This was her first big story. She couldn’t wimp out now.

“It’s a female, been here maybe three days,” the coroner announced, bending over a body so badly decomposed Maggie couldn’t bear to look. “She’s been stabbed, repeatedly.”

“Watch that piece of plastic, Rog,” someone else muttered. “The lab might be able to lift some prints from it.”

Two detectives stood off to the side frowning. Maggie recognized them as Detectives Mendez and Hurley from the Sacramento Police Department, because it was her business to know who was who on the force. But she’d never had any direct contact with them. Most of her tips came from the police dispatchers who handled the calls as they came in. And most of her stories centered on domestic violence, insurance fraud or embezzlement. She’d once reported on a convicted felon who’d escaped from Folsom Prison, and she’d paid close attention when Jorge, a fellow cop reporter for the Sacramento Tribune, followed a rash of armed robberies. But she’d never been involved with a murder—especially such a brutal murder.

The homeless woman who’d discovered the body while rummaging through the Dumpster behind a small Midtown office building sat on the asphalt parking lot, rocking. Her hair was long, matted and dark, her thin frame buried beneath several layers of clothing. She carried her belongings in a plastic grocery bag and wore a sober, intense expression on her face. Maggie thought she recognized a glimmer of intelligence in her eyes, but when Detective Mendez had tried to talk to the woman, she wouldn’t respond. Afterward, Maggie had heard him mutter to Hurley, “Man, the lights might be on, but nobody’s home.”

“See anything that could’ve been used as the murder weapon?” someone asked.

“No, that kind of damage can only be inflicted by a pretty big knife. Nothin’ like that in this Dumpster. We’ll have to spread out, check the surrounding shrubbery and garbage cans.”

Maggie shot another glance at the homeless woman and moved closer. Maybe Mendez had approached her too soon. Maybe he hadn’t been patient enough…

“Hi, there,” she said.

The woman didn’t even look up.

“You must be feeling terribly frightened after stumbling onto something like that. I’m sorry you had to see it.”

No answer.

“Do you hang out here every night?”

Nothing.

“The police think the woman you found was murdered about three days ago, but the body could’ve been dumped as late as yesterday. Any chance you saw something that might help them?”

Again, nothing.

“Ma’am? I’m talking to you, and this is pretty important. Do you hear me?”

The lights might be on, but nobody’s home…. Maggie sighed. She’d started to walk away when the woman finally spoke. “What?” she asked, turning. “I couldn’t hear you.”

The bag lady’s gaze latched onto her face. “It could happen to you. It could happen to anyone,” she said.

CHAPTER ONE

“HE’S WATCHING ME AGAIN. I can feel it.” The hairs on the back of Maggie’s neck stood on end as she peered over the partition that separated the corridor where she stood from her friend Darla’s cubicle. She refused to turn around for fear she’d find herself nose to nose with Nick Sorenson.

Darla, a staff writer for the Entertainment section of the Tribune, frowned and stood up, too.

“Don’t!” Maggie said above the static of the cop radios on her desk a few feet down the corridor, the droning televisions, clacking keyboards and voices that surrounded them on all sides. “Sit back down, or he’ll know I’m talking about him.”

“Relax,” Darla muttered. “He can’t hear us.”

“He can see us!”

“He’s there, all right,” her friend reported. “At the end of the hall, about twelve feet away.” She shook her head. “Ooo la la, he’s gorgeous. But he’s leaving now. Looks like he’s on his way to the photo editor’s desk.”

Maggie seemed to know whenever Nick was around. She could feel his presence, sense his interest. Just after he’d started working for the paper almost three weeks ago, he’d asked her out, and she’d turned him down. A man like him would have no serious interest in a woman like her. She’d learned that lesson the hard way, clear back in high school when Rock Tillman and the other jocks used to throw spit wads at her in class and make fun of her braces, her acne, her red hair, even the heavy load of books she toted everywhere. Her appearance had changed considerably since then, but one failed marriage later, the girl inside remained the same, right down to her contempt for cocky hard-bodies who thought the world should bow at their feet for the price of a wink or a grin.

Fortunately, when she’d refused his offer, Nick hadn’t pressed the issue. Every once in a while, she’d look up to see him watching her, usually from a distance. Only he didn’t turn away or smile when she caught him. He wore his devil-may-care disposition like a leather jacket and studied her with thick-lashed tawny eyes as though…as though he desired her. Which was unsettling enough. Add to that the obvious strength of his tall, athletic body and her own small size in comparison, and he made her nervous as hell.

“What do you think he wants with me?” she asked.

Darla chewed her lip and squinted in the direction Nick had gone. “You know what he wants. He wants a date.”

Maggie braved a quick glance over her shoulder to find the hallway empty. “If I thought that was all he wanted, I’d probably go out with him. Lord knows he wouldn’t want a second date, so I’d be rid of him. But I’m afraid he wants to forego the date and get right down to business. He looks like the type who’s had a lot of experience, which definitely puts him out of my league.”

Darla raised her brows. “That can’t be all he wants. Practically every available woman in this office has made a play for him, but he treats them all the same, with a hands-off, don’t-approach-me attitude. And I’ve seen him treat Susie with something closer to contempt.”

Maggie shrugged. “Oh well, we can’t hold that against him. Who doesn’t treat Susie with contempt? She’s slept with every guy in the office. Even the publisher.”

Leaning an elbow on the partition, Darla propped her chin on her hand. “Maybe you should tell Frank that Nick makes you nervous.”

“No, I don’t want to bring his boss in on this. I don’t really have anything to accuse him of. What do I say, ‘Nick’s looking at me.’? He’ll think I’m a sexual-harassment case just waiting to happen. Half the time I think I’m imagining it myself.”

“Maybe your job’s getting to you. Listening to all those cop radios and working at night is creepy.”

“A cop reporter is supposed to report on crime,” Maggie retorted. “How would I know what was happening without my radios?”

“Don’t you like this better? You should thank Jorge for taking the day off and trading shifts with you. Look at the sun shining outside. During the day you don’t have to worry about simple things like walking to your car.”

“Jorge didn’t take the day off for my benefit. He’s having knee surgery. Besides, you know how hard it is to get a start in this industry. I’m lucky to be where I am.”

Darla stooped for her handbag, her fake nails clicking against its contents as she rummaged through it. A minute later, she pulled out some red lipstick, liberally applied it, then tossed the tube back where she’d found it. Her purse followed with a soft thud. “So what about that murder last week? You still think that’s your big story?”

“Yeah. But there’s definitely something strange going on with that.”

“Do the police know who did it yet?”

“No, and they’re being very tight-lipped. They’ve given me a press release with a few pat quotes, but they’re holding back. I can tell. There’s something about this case they don’t want me to know.” She smiled. “So, of course I’m going to dig until I find out what it is.”

Darla grimaced and ran her nails through her long blond hair. “Well, don’t feel obligated to share the details with me once you discover them. I, for one, have heard enough about the poor woman in that Dumpster. Everything about that crime is sickening and proves my point that nothing good happens after midnight.”

Nick Sorenson walked by, and Darla’s gaze followed him.

“That is, nothing good happens after midnight unless you’re spending the night with him,” she mouthed after he’d passed.

Maggie noted Nick’s long, confident strides, and fought her own appreciation. “Looks do not make a man,” she said to remind herself as much as Darla. “Jeez, you really have a thing for him, don’t you? Too bad he doesn’t ask you out.”

Her friend gave her a wicked smile. “Too bad is right. There’s that dangerous glitter in his eyes, you know? And there’s the scar on his temple and the way his hair falls across his forehead, like he doesn’t care how he looks. And yet he still manages to look better than chocolate.” The audible breath she took did even more to express her admiration. “What a package. And he’s intense. I can tell.”

Maggie raised a doubtful brow. “‘Heartbreaker’ is written all over him, along with ‘catch me if you can.’ I’m not up to the challenge.” She’d spent too much time and energy carefully building her self-esteem to risk losing it on a man like Nick.

“You only think that because you’re a single mom. Single moms can’t be too careful.”

“True.”

“Should I ask him why he’s been staring at you?”

Maggie raised a hand. “No, don’t embarrass me.”

“All right. He probably just thinks you’re attractive, anyway. What man doesn’t?”

“Sometimes it’s very apparent that you haven’t known me long,” Maggie said. “But just for starters, what about Tim?”

“He married you, didn’t he? And let’s face it, in the end, you left him.”

A call blared across one of Maggie’s radios. Instinctively she tensed, listening to the dispatcher’s gravelly voice, then relaxed when she realized it was only a 5150—the call for a crazy person doing something stupid but certainly not news-worthy.

“I had to leave Tim,” she responded to Darla. “If it weren’t for Zach, I probably would’ve hung on, forever grateful that he’d deigned to marry me in the first place. But my son deserves a father who wants him.” She sighed heavily. “Provided I can ever find him one.”

“So that’s what’s happening.” Darla’s expression softened. “The singles scene has finally gotten you down. Is that it?”

Unexpected emotion clogged Maggie’s throat and stung her eyes. What a baby, she thought. Millions of people were lonely, and they didn’t cry about it. But here she was with her nose starting to run, at work, of all places. “There’s just no time to meet anyone. I’m here almost every night and taking care of Zach all day, and let’s face it, spending my afternoons hanging out at McDonald’s Playland isn’t exactly the best way to meet a single guy, you know?”

“You’re working today, so you’re going to have Friday night off, aren’t you? Why don’t you let me watch Zach so you can go dancing?”

Dancing? Dancing was Darla’s idea of fun. Maggie didn’t have much experience with nightclubs.

“I’m not sure a nightclub is the right place to go,” she said, knowing Darla would never understand her phobia about such places. Typical reporters were like Darla, confident and bold and, professionally, Maggie fit the image. For the most part she’d buried the awkward, self-conscious person she’d been as a young girl. But all too often, when it came to her personal life, the old Maggie reasserted herself. “I don’t have a single tattoo or body piercing,” she joked. “I’d probably be a wallflower.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Darla argued.

An unruly, copper-colored curl tickled Maggie’s cheek, and she tucked it behind her ear. “Anyway, you can’t baby-sit for me. You need to get out, too. You told me you wanted to get married this year.”

“I did until I decided to swear off men for good.”

“You swear off men every Monday. This is only Wednesday. By Friday you’ll be ready to dress up and go out again.”

Ray, from sports, grinned as he strutted past them on the way to Frank Buckley’s office. “Ladies.”

They murmured a quick hello, then rolled their eyes because Ray considered himself such a lady’s man.

“This time I mean it,” Darla went on. “That last loser I hooked up with stuck me with over five hundred dollars in long-distance bills.”

“Ouch.” Maggie grimaced. “You’re as unlucky in love as I am. Maybe we’d be smarter not to hang out together.”

Darla waved her teasing away. “Enough already. We’ll each find someone eventually.” Sitting down, she swiveled to face her computer.

“Wait a second before you go back to that,” Maggie said. “I received something in the mail I want to show you.” Crossing to her desk, she opened the top drawer, retrieved the white envelope with the red heart on the front and returned to Darla’s cubicle. “What do you think of this?”

“What is it?”

“An advertisement for a dating service.”

Darla cocked an eyebrow at her, looking far from impressed. “What do I think? I think you’re nuts. Anyone as attractive as you shouldn’t have to pay to get a date.”

If only Darla understood how painful that whole process was for her—getting out and meeting someone, all the little rituals and deceptions…“I kind of like the idea of the questionnaire. You get to skip the first part of dating, where everyone’s kind of checking other people out.” She flattened the paper against the partition. “Look, it’s right here. You answer these questions so the service can match you up with someone who’s compatible.”

“And they use a crystal ball to decide this? Or do they simply include a ‘no weirdos allowed’ clause in their contract?”

“Come on, Darla. They obviously can’t protect their clients from every possibility, but if Tim and I had filled out one of these we would have known right from the start that we weren’t meant for each other. He didn’t tell me until after we were married that he didn’t want any kids.”

Maggie didn’t add that she’d been so happy to find a man to love her that she hadn’t pressed him on anything, and he simply assumed she’d accommodate his plan for their lives. In the end, her inability to go along with his refusal to have children had come as a big surprise to both of them. “It took me several years to change his mind, and the result was disastrous. He resented Zach from day one,” she said.

“But you could meet someone pretty scary through an outfit like this,” Darla complained. “You could wind up dating a rapist or a murderer.”

“We’d have a greater chance of meeting someone like that at a club. This route takes patience, something rapists and murderers typically don’t possess.”

Darla scowled. “Tell the woman in the Dumpster that. I’ll bet some murderers show incredible patience. Isn’t that what ‘premeditated’ is all about?”

“Come on. We could be going out with guys who have the same level of education, the same goals, the same marital status—”

“Pathetic bordering on desperate? Why would I want to meet someone like that?”

Maggie considered the questionnaire again. “We could always tick the ‘I make over $100,000’ box under annual income and insist on being matched up with someone who makes that, too.”

“Now you’re talking,” Darla said.

NICK STRETCHED OUT in his chair, crossed his legs at the ankle and closed his eyes. He wanted to photograph Maggie Russell. He wanted to dress her in a white sundress that fell off the shoulder on one side and see her through his lens, laughing and barefoot, her thick auburn hair blowing in the wind, her eyes slanting up at him.

It would have to be evening, he decided. That was when the light would be perfect and he’d be able to capture her nearly flawless skin in a warm, gentle glow. The dusting of freckles across her nose, and her mouth, slightly larger than most women’s ideal, added to the earthy beauty of her face. The sun behind her would provide just enough of a shadow to hint at the shape of her body, naked beneath the cotton dress. And he’d shoot her on a beach, where surf the color of her eyes crested in the background and shimmers of heat rose from the sand beneath her feet.

Somehow Maggie Russell managed to combine innocence and vulnerability with an incredibly high dose of sex appeal. The effect was very intriguing. And he could capture the essence of it on film; he knew he could. Someday he’d put her photograph on the cover of the coffee-table book he hoped to publish—when he had the time to pursue his love of photography more seriously.

Right now he had to get back to work. The FBI’s Ogden field office hadn’t sent him to Sacramento to pose as one of the Tribune’s staff photographers so he could waste his time lusting over the beautiful female reporter he was here to protect. The owner of the paper—someone Nick had met just once—was the only one the bureau had clued in to his true identity and purpose. Besides heading the small task force assembled by the Sacramento P.D., Nick had the added burden of performing at the Trib in a manner convincing enough to fool the photo editor who was his boss, his co-workers and everyone else, which meant he had to make the most of every minute.

Sitting up, he reached inside his desk for the file that contained the coroner’s report on the victim found in the Dumpster almost a week ago. He’d studied it exhaustively, but every time he read it, he hoped he’d find something he’d missed before. Something that would illuminate the series of brutal murders that had started along the eastern seaboard almost four months ago, then traveled to Missouri and Colorado and finally the west coast.

The victim’s name was Sarah Ritter. Her death brought the body count to seven. A Caucasian woman in her mid-thirties, she was attractive in a professional, polished way and held a master’s degree in English from the University of California, Davis. She’d taught second grade at an elementary school in the suburbs, had a three-bedroom, two-bath tract house, two children, a dog, and an insurance salesman as a husband.

Unfortunately, she’d also been brutally attacked, raped and stabbed, her body tossed in a Dumpster. How she’d gotten from her house, nearly twenty miles away, to Midtown, was a mystery.

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. Why her? The other six victims were younger, including the Seattle reporter. Three were single, one had a live-in lover, the last was separated from her husband. All were in their mid-twenties. What had specifically attracted the murderer to these women? What put them at risk?

It certainly wasn’t accessibility. These were difficult murders to commit. The victims hadn’t been living on the street. They weren’t drug addicts or prostitutes. They had homes and jobs, and some had families. Beyond that, they had no obvious connection to each other—they didn’t belong to the same book club, graduate from the same school, attend college together or correspond for private or professional reasons. As far as Nick could determine, they didn’t know each other at all. The only thing they had in common was the fact that they’d become victims of the same murderer.

Random targets, except Lola Fillmore, the reporter in Seattle. That had been personal.

Nick shuffled through another file and came up with the letter that had brought him to Sacramento in the first place. Received at FBI headquarters almost a month ago, it had been printed on regular copy paper by a standard Hewlett-Packard DeskJet. Nothing of particular note there, at least nothing that was going to help him. But the letter itself shed some light on the psychology of the killer.