The Professor by Cathy Perkins Read Free Book Online Page A

he added at their blank reactions. “Don’t ask me to explain how they work.”
    “A professor would know how the mail works at their school, how the names are set up,” Jordan said.
    Andersen groaned. “Give it up, kid.”
    For a moment, none of the detectives spoke. They were all tired. “Are we getting anything off the hotline?” Mick finally asked.
    “Confessions and sightings.” Robbins massaged his temple. “So far, most aren’t worth the time it takes to process ’em. We’re having more luck with the folks out on Wilson Road.”
    That was the road in front of the park, Mick remembered. He also remembered the comment: our city, our people. “What have you got?”
    “Multiple reports of a dark-colored vehicle that morning around five. Big engine, maybe a V8 or a 356. The night clerk at the Holiday Inn said it was a coupe, not a sedan.”
    “A sports car.” Mick rubbed his hand over his cheek, considering the implications. “Any chance he got a plate? Or a make?”
    “She. And God wasn’t feeling that benevolent.”
    “Okay.” He smiled tiredly. “It’s the first decent lead we’ve had. Run with it. The lab should have something for us tomorrow on those tire casts. That’ll help.”
    The session had gone longer than anyone expected. “It’s late, people. Let’s wrap it up.” Mick glanced around the table. “Y’all have press contacts. We need to keep the message out there the victims were stalked. Young women, especially college-aged ones, need to be careful.”
    “See if you can get those Sexual Assault people involved.” Andersen rotated avague hand. “Get them to hand out stuff on campus. Date rape drugs, personal safety, that kind of shit.”
    “You guys always put the responsibility back on the women,” Ward groused.
    “We need to get the press off the sensationalism and focused on the women,” Frank said.
    “Good luck,” Robbins muttered.
    “The killer will be following the press coverage,” Frank said. “He needs his nose rubbed in them being people, not objects he can throw away.”
    “Everybody use what you can,” Mick said. “We just have to keep digging.”
    Three victims, and they were no closer to finding the killer than the day they started. The detectives packed their files and headed to the parking lot.
    “You staying here tonight?” Frank tossed his case onto the backseat.
    “Yeah,” Mick said. “I can stay at the Days Inn for what it costs me in gas to run up to Greenville and back. You got reasons to go. Say ‘hey’ to the wife and kids.”
    “I sleep better in my own bed.”
    Mick watched Frank lumber away and wished he had someone waiting for him, someone to make him forget about the case and death. To remember there was good in the world: life and laughter and innocence. Meg’s face immediately appeared. Of all the women in the sorority house, he’d noticed her the moment she walked in the door. Watching her, he’d felt like he already knew her, which made no sense. Obviously, the stress of this case had short-circuited his brain.
    Sleep, he decided. He definitely needed sleep.
    And to find this murderer.
    Two hours later, he rolled over and punched his pillow a few times. The guy upstairs had finally quit pacing around and gone to bed. The motel was silent except for the air conditioner, which cycled at about eight-minute intervals.
    Giving up on sleep, Mick rolled to his back, tucked his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. What happened to him in that sorority house? He was minding his own business, avoiding eye contact with a couple of women, when Meg walked through the door.
    Cold sweat had drenched him. His heart rate had doubled. He’d stared like a sixteen-year-old with his first crush. Then his eyes locked with hers and something hot, raw and primitive passed between them. From the expression on her face, the connection hit her with the same stunning force.
    Her refusal to look at him afterward surprised him. Usually he