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Deciding there was nothing she could do about her clothing choice, she took a long swallow of her drink and then gasped, trying not to choke. She’d ordered a virgin screwdriver—okay yes, basically orange juice—but she had wanted it to look like the actual cocktail. Apparently the bartender had missed the virgin part of her order. She wasn’t a teetotaler, but a glass of wine once or twice a month was her limit. Anything that obscured or deadened her senses was something she avoided at all costs.
She couldn’t order another drink…not yet. That would look odd, and the last thing she wanted was to look like an anomaly. She needed to seem like any other eager young woman hoping to make a connection but not quite sure how to go about the process. That was the killer’s preferred target.
This was her second bar tonight and her eleventh this week. She’d started her search earlier than usual, hoping to hit at least five before she called it quits for the night. A week of trolling bars and drinking virgin screwdrivers was about as boring as it sounded. She had turned down nice young men hoping for a connection and not-so-nice young men looking for a hookup and had consumed so much orange juice she had amusedly wondered if her blood might actually have a tinge of orange. Not a bad thing to have if you’re from Tennessee. Jules wasn’t. Her home base was in Flagstaff, Arizona, and as much as she longed to go back there, she couldn’t. Not until the job was finished.
Patrick Lyle Meeks had cut a deadly swath throughout the Southeast and apparently didn’t intend to quit anytime soon. Jules was going to do her best to make him change his mind. Meeks’s preferred victims were young blond women who were either alone, or he’d been able to cull them away from the crowd.
Meeks wasn’t shy about leaving his DNA. The authorities had identified him after his second kill. An arrest for assault years ago—resulting only in probation and community service—had given them the results quickly. His identity wasn’t the problem—finding him had been much harder.
The FBI believed Meeks had left his DNA through carelessness. Jules disagreed. Meeks had money, enough so that he was able to have multiple identities and vehicles, along with several hideouts. He was from New Jersey and for some reason had decided to make a name for himself by heading south and killing whoever caught his fancy. Though his bank accounts were frozen, Jules believed he had planned this carefully and had hidden funds. And it was her opinion that the low-life bastard was thoroughly enjoying himself.
Photographs of him had been splashed all over the news. You couldn’t turn on the television or read an online news service without seeing his face. Meeks likely loved the publicity, the notoriety. He was an egomaniac who got off on killing women and then flaunting that he wasn’t getting caught. Having his photo everywhere was icing on the cake.
Jules knew this type of killer all too well.
She took another sip of her drink and barely held back a grimace. Even though the ice had melted, weakening the taste of the alcohol, it was still awful. Waving down a server, she asked for another one, making sure this time that the woman understood she wanted orange juice only.
Admittedly, the reason for the screwdrivers seemed lame, as the FBI had pointed out, but in her estimation, it was worth pursuing. Four of the five women Meeks had killed had consumed screwdrivers the night they were targeted. The fact that he had killed them with screwdrivers couldn’t be a coincidence.
Zeke Sheridan, the FBI agent in charge of the investigation, thought she was on a wild-goose chase that could get her killed. They had sparred verbally over the phone and once in person. Each time, Sheridan had dismissed her screwdriver theory as conjecture and warned her repeatedly to stay out of the case. And just like all the other times, Jules had no intention of following his advice.
No, this wasn’t her job. No one was paying her to hunt down a killer. She did this for herself. And yes, she easily acknowledged that she could be killed, but she could not stop herself from going after the fiend. He was so arrogant, so damn sure he wouldn’t be caught. She would show him he was wrong.
Her eyes roamed the room, searching. The bar was getting almost too crowded, and Jules wondered if staying here any longer made sense. She was likely just one in a hundred young women. There was no proof that Meeks was still in Memphis. The last woman he’d abducted and killed was found four days ago. He could have gone on to greener, less risky pastures. Jules didn’t think so. He had an established pattern, and she didn’t think he’d break it. Meeks usually killed twice before he moved on to a new city. Two murders in Little Rock and two in Atlanta. As far as anyone knew, he had killed only one woman in Memphis. He had one more to go before he was finished here.
“Here you go, hon.”
Smiling her thanks to the server who delivered her fresh drink, Jules took a sip of her faux cocktail, and that’s when she spotted him. He was looking right at her, and when they made eye contact, he smiled.
He had altered his appearance. A wider nose, fuller lips, and round, dark-rimmed glasses. His hair was lighter than in his photos, and he was sporting a gold hoop in his right earlobe. He looked different, but not so much that she didn’t recognize him.
Now to get him to take the bait.
She lifted her drink in an awkward kind of toast, gave him a soft, shy smile, and took a sip. That was all it took.
In seconds, he was standing at her table. A quiver of apprehension shivered up her spine. She was a foot away from a cold-blooded, sadistic serial killer. It wasn’t the first time she’d been in the presence of true evil. And just like those other times, nausea rose up and tried to strangle her. Fight-or-flight instinct told her to get the hell out of here before it was too late. Jules stiffened her spine, the fear and revulsion shoved into the corner where they belonged. She knew how to handle monsters.
“Mind if I sit down?”
She offered him another shy smile and a quick nod. “Sure.”
Meeks sat down and immediately held out his hand. “I’m Charlie.”
She shook his hand, not surprised by the strength of his grasp. It took some muscle to skewer someone with a screwdriver.
“Hi, Charlie. Nice to meet you. I’m Sandy.”
“You’re drinking a screwdriver, right?”
“Yes.” She giggled nervously. “I figure with all the vitamin C, it’s got to be good for me.”
“That’s my favorite drink, too. Can I buy you another one?”
She held up her thankfully full glass. “I’m good for right now.” Breaking eye contact, she gazed around and then returned her eyes to his. “Do you come here often?”
“No. My first time. You?”
“My first time, too. I was supposed to meet a friend, but she bailed at the last minute.” She shrugged. “I decided I didn’t want to stay in tonight, so I thought I’d give it a go.”
