theater owners. Even after she married Isaac’s father, the affairs didn’t stop.”
“What happened to his real mother?”
“She died when he was a baby. The stepmom craved the spotlight. Having a child around took some of the attention away from her, and she resented him. Isaac did enough hanging around the theater to learn about costuming and how to use makeup as a disguise.”
“So, little Eddie grows up into Edwin the killer who knows how to camouflage himself. To hide in plain sight.”
“Exactly. It took us nearly a year to get him because each time he trolled for hookers his appearance changed. But we knew it was the same guy because of witnesses who overheard his unique voice. And the real Isaac is polite. Almost genteel. Even in interrogation when he threatened he’d someday get out and we would meet again on his terms, he was polite about it.”
“What kind of guy was the father?”
“He was a genius computer geek who spent his life walking three steps behind his wife, saying, ‘Yes, dear.’ If he even noticed her affairs he didn’t do anything to stop them.”
“Two less-than-stellar role models for a kid.”
“That about sums it up.”
McCall pulled a pen out of his coat pocket, used its tip to flip the mug shot over. “Not bad-looking for a perverted serial killer.”
Paige stared into the face of the man who, with one squeeze of a trigger, spun her life onto a path she never would have imagined for herself. Isaac was in his early forties, his thick blond hair carefully styled and feathered back. His forehead was broad and unlined, his eyes deep-set and startlingly blue. His nose was narrow, his chin square, his complexion pale but healthy. His mind was anything but.
“Did you touch the mug shot?” McCall asked.
“Just the envelope it came in.”
“Yours are probably the only prints that will show up, but I’ll have the lab check.” He dipped a hand into another pocket and pulled out a small plastic evidence bag.
She’d done that, too, when she worked Homicide, Paige thought. Constantly carried around evidence bags in her purse and car. There’d been no way to predict from one minute to the next when she’d wind up working a crime scene.
“Let’s go with the assumption it was Isaac who slipped this mug shot under your door,” McCall said. “How would he know you’re in Oklahoma City?”
“My employer, the Lassiter Group, maintains a Web site. The dates and locations for my workshops are listed so students can enroll online.”
“To do that, Isaac would have to know you’re working for Lassiter. He’s been in prison, so how would he find out?”
“My partner and I suspected Isaac had an accomplice working with him during his killing spree. We could never find enough evidence to prove it. But if we’re right, that person could have been feeding him information the past three years. I suspect that’s how Isaac got my cell phone number.”
“He called you?”
“Yes, hours after he escaped. I was on another call so he left a message on my voice mail.”
“What did he say?”
“That we’ll be together soon.”
McCall looked at the mug shot. “Same message he sent tonight. Anybody check to see who visited Isaac in prison?”
“I checked. During the entire time he was locked up, his attorney was his only visitor. The accomplice could have sent information through him.”
“You told me on the phone your instincts tell you Isaac isn’t who mugged you. Maybe he hooked back up with the unknown accomplice after he escaped? That could be the guy who snatched your briefcase.”
“That theory feels more right.”
McCall’s gaze settled on her cheek. “I take it you got that in the mugging?”
“Yes.” She fingered the edges of the bruise. With all that had happened since then, she’d forgotten about it. She glanced up, noting he continued to inspect her intensely. “What?”
“I’m thinking what the mugger gained was minimal compared to the effort he put out, especially since he didn’t try for your purse. If he had, he would have at least gotten some cash, credit cards. Is there anyone other than Isaac who’d have reason to come after you like that? Rough you up a little? Then drop off Isaac’s mug shot, just to mess with your head?”
“I’ve been asking myself those same questions. There’s no one.” She shifted her gaze back to the bed. “When you knocked on my door I was just about to call dispatch and leave you a message.”
“About the mug shot?”
“That’s one thing.” She watched him use the pen to nudge the photo and envelope into the plastic bag. “I need a favor.”
He slid the bag into his coat pocket. “What?”
She gave him a rundown on her allergy to peanuts, the E.R. doctor’s theory that she could suddenly be allergic to bananas, the information she’d found out about the fruit bowl from the hotel desk clerk and the contents of her briefcase. Then she added that the meds pumped into her at the E.R. prevented her from being tested for two weeks. While she talked, she watched McCall work the information, taking it in.
“You can’t be tested, but the fruit can,” he said. “You want me to submit it to the cop lab.”
“Yes.” Paige eased out a breath. “After this morning, I’m not in the best position to ask you for a favor.”
“Submitting evidence of a possible crime isn’t a favor. It’s my job.” Moving around the bed, he grabbed a pillow, pulled off its case, then walked to the sitting area where the fruit bowl sat. “I’ll write a supplement to the mugging report that Vawter wrote. That’ll help push the testing on the fruit.”
Paige watched as he eased the bowl and fruit into the pillowcase. It hit her then, how close she’d come to dying only hours before. Her legs went unsteady as the enormity of that sank in.
She lowered onto the edge of the bed, fisted her hands that had suddenly begun to shake. “I had one more reason for leaving you a message.”
He flicked her a look as he knotted the ends of the pillowcase. “Was it to admit your theory about lights and sex is a load of crap?”
Paige’s mouth twitched. The humor was unexpected, and welcome. “The theory’s solid, McCall.” She shoved a hand through her hair. “I wanted to thank you for getting help here when I had the reaction. And for staying on the phone.” Though her voice had taken on a barely perceptible quake, she continued. “One second my throat was fine, the next it had nearly swelled shut. I thought…” I might die. She took a deep breath. “Just your telling me the ambulance was on the way, that I was going to be fine, helped me focus. So, thanks.”
Leaving the pillowcase on the table, he strode across the suite to stand in front of her. “I was scared, too,” he said quietly.
She saw sympathy, concern and something more in his expression. She saw a cop’s perception of how hard it was for her to think of herself as a victim. “The doctor said you came by the E.R.”
“To find out for sure what had happened to you. And check your condition.”
“I hate being scared. It pisses me off. I felt the same way when I read the label on the back of Isaac’s mug shot. Spooked as hell.”
“He’s a scary guy.”
“At least I can do something about getting myself off his radar screen.” She rose, moved to the closet, grabbed her suitcase and plopped it on the bed. “I’m getting out of here tonight.”
“And