Cassidy and the Princess

Cassidy turned to Manny. “I didn’t see anything about a knife in the report.”

“He had it…at my neck,” she added.

Which could be why the other women hadn’t appeared to have fought back. But they had been strangled. There had never been anything indicating a knife. He looked at Manny. “I think we had better ask for a second search. Just in case.”

Manny nodded.

Cassidy turned his attention back to Marise Merrick. “How did you…”

“I waited for my chance. He couldn’t untie the knot in my track pants. He lowered the knife to cut it.”

“That was very smart,” he said.

“Not really,” she said. “I knew the alternative.”

And she had. He saw the knowledge in her eyes.

“Thank you for cooperating,” he said, forcing a curtness into a voice that felt suddenly brittle.

She looked at her mother as if guessing exactly how little cooperation he and Manny had received from her. “I’ll be here when you return,” she said. “And if we have to stay a few days we—I will.”

Cassidy glanced at her mother and saw the set lips. The boyfriend—or partner—was frowning. Marise Merrick was going to have another fight on her hands.

Cassidy nodded and stepped toward the door.

Her voice stopped him. “Good afternoon, Detective… MacKay.”

He was oddly pleased that she had remembered his name. And angry at himself for feeling that way. He nodded to Mrs. Merrick, then abruptly turned around and headed out of the room.

Chapter 2

“You look like you’ve been struck by lightning,” Manny said.

Cassidy readjusted his face into his usual expressionless facade. “I was just surprised,” he said.

“Me too,” Manny said equably. “I don’t think princesses usually go around kicking people in their—”

“Don’t go crazy with this princess stuff,” Cassidy warned. “She’s a figure skater. Not a princess. She’s just another athlete.”

“Not exactly,” Manny said. “And I liked her. She’s got guts.”

Cassidy had liked her, too. That fierce determination, the way she’d stood up to her mother and fiancé. But how long would it last? Why had she allowed them to dominate her as they seemed to do?

He still didn’t know why she had gone outside the auditorium last evening. He instinctively knew that he would have to get her alone to draw the reason from her. Although he was ninety-percent sure the attacker was the one he’d been hunting, there was a ten-percent chance that someone just knew the serial killer’s M.O. Maybe it was a stalker. Or someone she knew. He had to eliminate that possibility.

Cassidy didn’t like loose ends.

“Let’s get an artist from the department,” he said.

“Do you really think she will stay?” Manny asked. “That mother of hers…”

“Anyone who can cold-cock a killer should be able to make her own decisions.”

“I wonder why…”

“It’s none of our business.” Cassidy said, cutting him short. Hoping to cut short his own thoughts.

The police artist was unavailable until the next morning. He and his computer program had been loaned out to another jurisdiction. Instead, Cassidy and Manny went to the crime scene and scoured the place for a knife. Nothing.

The rose and ribbon had produced no leads so far. At least, though, they had gotten help now that a “celebrity” was involved. Detectives had checked the hospital florist and all the other florists in the area, but no one had purchased red roses. Cassidy had expected as much. After the first killing, they’d conducted an extensive search of florists, only to be told haughtily that it was of a type sold to grocery stores.

The ribbon, too, was a brand found in every drug and grocery store.

So they hadn’t expected to find a knife. Their killer didn’t make mistakes.

“Either he took it with him or came back for it,” Manny said, as the last of the afternoon sun faded away, leaving dusk. It was eight. “I’ve got to go home,” he said, “or Janie will divorce me.”

“It’s been a long night and day,” Cassidy said. “You go. I’ll call Miss Merrick.”

After his partner left, he called Marise Merrick’s room. He’d feared the mother would pick up the phone. Instead, he heard the slightly slurred words of Miss Merrick. He silently cursed himself. He should have realized she would be asleep.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” he said.

“That’s all right.”

“Is your fiancé with you?”

“He will be. He and Mother went out to get something to eat.”

“I’ll be there with the artist at eight in the morning.

“That’s fine.”

A silence.

“Well, good night, then.” He hung up before he made any more of a fool of himself.

At least someone would be with her tonight.

Marise chased her mother and Paul out after they returned from supper, convincing them to return to their hotel. She feigned exhaustion; most of all, she needed breathing room.

The last time she’d wanted breathing room she’d nearly been killed. But she felt safe in this lighted hospital with attendants checking on her frequently, and she wanted to be by herself. She needed to think, particularly about Paul. She’d felt suffocated today when she’d heard her mother and Paul making decisions for her.

How long had she permitted that?

It had been insulting that she’d not even been consulted about their decision to slip her out of Atlanta, that they had turned away the police who’d wanted to help her and the other victims.

She was twenty-four years old and had been self-supporting since she was eighteen, when she’d turned professional. She made good money these past years since rules had loosened and the line between amateur and professional had disappeared. Between competitions, she and Paul were featured in ice spectaculars throughout the country. But she’d always felt she owed allegiance to her mother.