Someone who kills in a fit of passion is usually easy to catch. In the heat of the moment, they make mistakes. They’re often careless, and they don’t think things through. But a serial killer? That’s a different story. They plan ahead, think it through.
Right now I’m not aware of any link among the three dead men, other than the fact they were all gay and they all frequented gay nightclubs in the local area. I’m still working on making the connections. But the fact that Ian Alexander’s boat is moored right next to Eric Townsend’s boat doesn’t sit well with me, especially if Ian was a friend of Eric’s. The killer might already know this, and that only puts Ian more directly in harm’s way.
Ian Alexander. What are the odds that I would run into the guy I encountered at Tank’s last night through the course of my job? I’ve read the reports written by the responding officers over and over, gleaning every detail. Ian Alexander, twenty-eight years old. He splits his time between his small luxury yacht at the St. James Yacht Club and an expensive, two-story townhouse in the heart of the Gold Coast. He’s apparently unemployed, so I have to wonder where the money comes from.
I look up from my keyboard just as our precinct captain, Jud Walker, steps into my office. The 65-year-old African American man is probably the closest thing I have to a father figure. When my dad died, in the line of duty as one of Chicago’s finest, he and Jud Walker were partners. At my father’s grave site, Jud stood beside me and held me up when I would have collapsed. I was eighteen years old at the time, and I’d just lost my hero. Saying that I was devastated is an understatement. Besides my mom and sister, Jud is the only connection I have left to my dad.
“I just assigned a 24/7 protection detail to Ian Alexander’s townhouse,” Jud says.
“That was fast.”
Walker shrugs. “Not when you realize who his father is.”
“No clue.”
“Martin Alexander.”
My eyes widen. “The federal judge? Well, that explains a lot.” It certainly explains the money. The Alexanders are loaded, thanks to old family money on the father’s side. Ian Alexander was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
Walker nods. “The protection is warranted, though. As a possible witness to a murder—”
“He says he didn’t actually see anything or anyone. He said he only found the body.”
The captain shrugs. “I don’t think it matters. If there’s any chance the killer thinks Ian knows something, he’s in danger.”
I nod. “I’m going to talk to him again later this morning. If he was friends with the victim, he may know more than he realizes.”
Walker nods. “If he does, it could put him at serious risk. I talked to Judge Alexander this morning. He’s worried about his son’s safety.”
This is my case and, as much as I’d like to avoid seeing Ian Alexander again, I can’t pass it off to another investigator. I’m going to have to deal with Ian myself, no matter how much he unsettles me.
* * *
I arrive at Ian’s Gold Coast townhouse at eleven that morning. There’s a police cruiser parked in the driveway, and I hope the visible police presence is enough to dissuade anyone with bad intentions from trying to get to Ian.
I park behind the cruiser and, as I pass by, I wave at the uniformed officer sitting behind the wheel. After climbing the steps to the front door, I ring the bell. When there’s no answer, I ring again. Ian’s expecting me. I called ahead to let him know I was on my way over. I try again.
The door opens with a flourish, and there stands Ian Alexander, obviously just out of the shower. He’s wearing nothing but a gray towel that hangs low on his lean, cut waist.
For fuck’s sake. He knew I was coming. He could have at least put some clothes on before answering the door.
I look away, but not before I get a good look at the man’s smooth, bare chest. He’s lean, muscled, and sports a few scattered tattoos. But what really catches my eye are his pierced nipples. Jesus. My belly clenches hotly at the sight of two silver barbells threaded through his nipples.
I tear my gaze away from the piercings only to notice the thin line of hair that disappears beneath the towel, drawing my eyes to a very healthy erection straining against the towel.
“Detective!” He sounds winded, as if he raced down the stairs to answer the door. “Come in, please.”
Ignoring my heated face, I do my best to maintain a neutral expression. Who the hell answers the door in nothing but a towel? “This isn’t a social call, Mr. Alexander.”
He steps back to invite me in. “Ian, please.”
I frown, not wanting to make this personal. If I call him by his first name, it becomes personal. When my gaze catches once more on the barbell running through his right nipple, my heart stutters. What does that feel like? Is the metal warm to the touch, or cold? I force myself to ignore the heat surging through me. “I have more questions.”
As I walk past him, I detect a faint whiff of soap and damp male skin. My body reacts, my chest tightening, my skin pulling taut. My pulse is hammering.
I stop just inside the foyer. “I’ll wait while you get dressed,” I say, not giving him any alternative. There’s no way I’m interviewing him while he’s half naked. I can’t even think straight.
“Fine.” He sounds disappointed. “Have a seat in the parlor, and I’ll rejoin you shortly.”
Parlor? He leaves me to wait for him in a small, fussy room that is as pretentious as it sounds. This townhouse dates back to the mid-nineteenth century, as does the furniture in this room. It surprises me that such a hip young guy would furnish his home with antiques. As I take it all in—the polished dark wood floors and dark paneling, the fine furniture and ornate light fixtures, the thick rugs on the floor—I find myself reluctant to admit he has good taste.
Seeing him again has set me on edge, and I’m too wired to sit. Instead I pace, staring out the front bay window at the quiet, residential street.
When he rejoins me, he’s dressed in worn jeans and a faded blue t-shirt advertising a local seafood restaurant. His long feet are bare, and his hair is damp from his shower, the honey-brown waves on top thick and unruly.
The guy could easily make a killing as a fashion model if he wanted to. He’s young, handsome, edgy. But then I remember who he is—the son of a prominent, wealthy Chicago family. He doesn’t need to work a day in his life. Ian grew up with a trust fund most small countries would envy.
He’s watching me intently.
I mentally shake myself. “Mr. Alexander—”
“Ian, please.”
I sigh, because calling him by his first name feels too intimate. “I don’t think—”
“Say it,” he says, breaking into my thoughts.
There’s a wicked gleam in his eyes, and I realize he’s toying with me. “Say what?”
“My name. Ian. Say it. It won’t kill you to say it.”
I blow out an exasperated breath. “Ian,” I say forcefully, as if I have something to prove.
He grins as if he’s just cornered me in a brilliant Chess move. “So, what can I do for you, Tyler?”
I fight to keep from grinning. Well, played. He’s enjoying this way too much. “Detective Jamison, please.”