The Murder Game by Beverly Barton

killer continues giving each of us clues, we’ll have no choice but to cooperate with each other, but for that reason only. You understand?”
    “Oh, yeah, I understand.”
    “So, while we’re together this evening, let’s not waste our time. Let’s discuss the clues. I assume your team has been searching for women named Debbie Glover, right? And maybe combining brain power to figure out what on earth rubies and lemon drops could mean.”
    “There are countless Debbie Glovers, but Sanders is narrowing the search. Whether or not we can narrow it down enough to do any good before Wednesday morning is doubtful.”
    “I’ve been going over various thoughts about rubies and lemon drops,” Nic said. “One is a precious gem and the other a candy. One is expensive, the other is cheap. You wear one and eat the other.”
    “Our guy knows we’ll drive ourselves crazy trying to figure out the clues and in the meantime, he’s making plans to abduct his sixth victim.”
    Griff’s cell phone rang.
    Both of them froze instantly.
    Griff retrieved his phone and checked the caller ID. “It’s not him.” He answered the call. “Yeah, what is it?”
    “We’ve just come across some rather interesting information,” Sanders said. “Actually Maleah came up with the idea of cross-referencing all the Debbie Glovers on the original list with a list of female athletes from all sports, professional and college, in the past thirty years.”
    “And?”
    “And there was a Debbie Glover who played basketball for Boston College fifteen years ago. And another Debbie Glover who was a golf pro back in the eighties.”
    “Are they the only two who are athletes?”
    “As far as we know.”
    “Both would be too old to be our victim, if our guy stays true to form,” Griff said. “But Debbie Glover’s sport—whichever Debbie Glover it is—could be the clue. The next victim might be a basketball player or a pro golfer.”

Chapter 7
     
    Nic and Greg had bought a home in Woodbridge, Virginia, shortly after they married. It had made sense for them to live within easy driving distance of their jobs. She had worked in D.C. and he’d worked in Alexandria. When Greg died, she had taken a month off, then went to her boss and asked for a transfer to another field office. Anywhere in the U.S., just as long as it was away from D.C., away from all the memories, both good and bad. She’d worked in two states during that time and wound up heading a task force on the Beauty Queen Killer case when the Special Agent in Charge, Curtis Jackson, had retired. But when that case, for all intents and purposes, had been solved, she’d decided it was time to go home. Back to the D.C. field office, with a territory that covered not only D.C. but also cities surrounding the capital. Arlington. Alexandria. Quantico.
    Although she’d thought about selling the house in Woodbridge, she had, after letting it remain empty for over a year, put her furniture in storage and turned it over to a realtor to lease.
    If she’d thought time and distance would erase the memories, would heal her broken heart, and appease her guilty conscience, she’d been wrong. Moving back into the home she and Greg had purchased, decorated together, and lived in for the three years of their marriage hadn’t been easy. But she liked her house, liked the neighborhood, and felt comfortable here. So what if from time to time, she felt Greg’s presence? If his spirit lingered here, perhaps simply in her memories, then it was a kind, gentle spirit.
    Gregory Baxter had been a kind, gentle man.
    Nic turned over in bed—a king-size bed that she had bought new when she moved back into the Woodbridge house last summer—and glanced at the alarm clock. Five ten. The alarm was set for five thirty. She tossed back the light covers, slid to the edge of the bed, and sat up. After shutting off the alarm, she stood, stretched, and headed for the closet. When she was at home, she walked every morning