Excerpt of Primary Suspect by Susan Peterson

Fog rolled in off the Hudson River, cloaking the darkened streets with a thick, choking mist of white. The limo turned onto Barrow Street and the tires hissed on the slick pavement.

Michael Emerson stared out the window, noting that the quaint buildings lining his street seemed to waver, appearing and disappearing within the grayish mist. It was an eerie effect, almost haunting.

He glanced away from the tinted windows and rested his head back against the soft leather seat. He tried to ignore the dull ache that pounded directly behind his eyes.

Heat poured through the vents, but the warmth seemed incapable of killing the chilling dampness that flooded the interior of the car.

Michael massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers, a futile attempt to relieve the pressure. But the pain and pressure remained, the intensity increasing with each passing minute.

The headache had started during cocktails and continued on through dinner. The crush of the crowd and the overly loud music at the benefit dinner hadn't helped matters. At one point, he had excused himself from the head table and gone to the men's room. He hadn't wanted to take anything, willing himself to withstand the pressure. A punishment of sorts, a condemnation of his carelessness. There was no getting around the feeling that the fall while rock climbing had been a stupid mistake.

Disgusted, he shook his head. World-class climber and he'd fallen on a simple rock face he'd climbed a million times before without incident. A disastrous climb that had resulted in the death of one of his good friends. Served him right that he suffered from headaches.

But recriminations were useless and he had realized that during dinner. In the end, he had relented, downing two painkillers his physician had given him after the accident, acutely aware that he had a speech to deliver.

Unfortunately the medication had produced no noticeable change, and he had ended up losing time while in the men's room.

Blank time. A yawning space of emptiness. For how long, he wasn't sure. Twenty minutes? A half hour? An hour? All he remembered was standing over the sink in the cold stark bathroom, fighting a sucking, clawing pit of pain that had seemed determined to pull him under.

When he finally returned to the table, he was relieved that no one commented on his absence. Mainly due to the fact that they were all feeling pretty good, well into their third or fourth bottle of wine.

So, he had sat down and picked up where he'd left off, thinking to himself that it was as if time had stood still for a brief second.

"Looks like trouble up ahead, sir," his driver's voice broke over the intercom, interrupting Michael's thoughts.

He sat up and hit the switch lowering the tinted window between himself and Alex. Shifting forward, he peered out the windshield. Trouble indeed.

Halfway down the block, directly in front of his newly renovated town house, the harsh glow of police lights flashed in the thick fog. Several patrol cars, an ambulance and a black van were double-parked, and men in uniform flitted in and out of the thick shroud of fog blanketing the narrow street and sidewalk. Something was definitely up.

"Wonderful," Michael muttered under his breath.

"Want me to just cruise by, sir? Take you on out to the house in the Hamptons?"

For a brief moment, Michael actually considered telling Alex to do exactly that — cruise by, take the bridge and head out to his place on the island. Ignore the whole damn thing. But as soon as the thought flashed into his brain, Michael knew that wasn't the answer.

As weary as he was at the thought of suffering another go round with the NYPD, running was not the answer. He needed to deal with whatever waited for him a few feet away. Time to find out what had brought the police to his doorstep for a fourth time in less than six months.

The thought made the pain in his head shoot up another few notches.

"They know my license plate, Alex, and as enticing as your offer is, I'm going to have to talk to them sooner or later." He slid across the seat to the door. "Just pull up."

He reached for the door handle, prepared to climb out. Of late, he'd gotten pretty good at dealing with the police. They might not believe a word he said, but up to this point, he hadn't been arrested for anything.

A part of him wondered why no arrest. With all that had occurred over the past six months, even he was starting to have doubts about his innocence.

Alex slid the limo up next to one of the double-parked patrol cars and stopped. He started to get out to come around and open the door for him, but Michael laid a hand on his shoulder. "Take the car and go on home. I'll handle this."

Alex turned and leaned an arm on the shelf between the front and the back of the limo. "You sure you don't want me to come with you, sir?"

Michael shook his head. "No, I'll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early."

He grabbed the door handle and climbed out, cringing as his foot hit a partially frozen puddle. The thin ice broke and frigid water sloshed over the sides of his shoes and dampened the hem of his pants. Great. One more thing to cap off a lousy evening.

The fog parted, allowing Michael to see the front of his house. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the area and a tight circle of uniformed cops milled around. When they spotted him, they parted, allowing him access to the front of his home. There was no missing the veil of ill- concealed anger in their eyes.

As he stepped up onto the curb, Michael stopped short. The ringing in his ears and the ache between his eyes increased to the point of almost blinding him

A woman hung nailed to his front door, a ski pole jammed through the upper left side of her chest, a bright red stain spreading across the front of her skintight, white lace dress. Adrenaline hit Michael's bloodstream with a thundering rush.

Although her head hung forward, her luxurious chestnut- brown hair limp and her chin resting on her narrow chest, Michael had no difficulty recognizing her — Corinna Hamish, a former girlfriend.

There was no question that she was dead. The killer had shoved the pole up under her rib cage. The blood was dark and rich on the white lace.

In a daze, Michael moved closer. Anger ripped through his body, settling deep in the pit of his belly. How could this have happened again? How could another person he cared for been murdered and then left like a piece of discarded refuse on his doorstep?

He stared in disbelief, rage replacing confusion. This was the fourth victim in less than six months, and all the deaths were connected in some way to him. All the victims had been women he had known or dated. All women he'd cared about in some deeply personal way.

No wonder the police wouldn't leave him alone. It was as if the killer was leaving behind these grisly messages just for him. Messages he didn't understand or grasp no matter how hard he tried.

He stared at the metal spear stabbing her chest. He instinctively knew that the police would link the pole to him. Probably part of his skiing and climbing gear stored in the basement. As with the previous murders, the killer had set him up, implicated him in the crime.

He braced himself, preparing for the ordeal that he knew lay ahead. The three previous interrogations following the earlier murders had been grueling. The sight of Corinna's body told Michael that he'd soon be dealing with the same thing all over again. "Getting to be quite a habit, isn't it, Emerson —" a deep edgy voice said from behind, " — you and I meeting over the murdered bodies of your ex- girlfriends."

Michael turned, not in the least surprised to find NYPD Detective John Denner standing behind him. His big hands were shoved into the pocket of his ill fitting pants, a scowl of suspicion and disgust crowding his craggy, disagreeable face. The man made no attempt to hide his hatred of Michael.

"Are you going to take her down or leave her hanging there?" Michael demanded, surprised at how easily the anger slipped into his voice.

He sucked damp air. This was not the time to lose his cool. Denner wanted that. Wanted him off balance and vulnerable.

"She deserves more than to be left hanging like that," he added in a softer voice.

Denner's gaze shifted to Corinna's body. "A few more pictures and they'll take her down." The detective smiled, but there was nothing warm or sympathetic in the stretch of his thin lips. "Mind telling me where you've been all evening?"

"I was at the Waldorf. A benefit dinner for St. Vincent's. Since I was their main speaker, I have plenty of witnesses to my whereabouts."

"I'll just bet you do."

Michael hated the fact that he had to account for his every move, but he also knew that Denner held firm to his belief that he was the prime suspect in all three — now four — murders.

"I can give you the names of several prominent people who can vouch for my whereabouts all evening," he said.

"You're welcome to talk to all of them."

"Oh, you can count on me doing just that. In fact, I plan on checking and rechecking each and every name. And when I'm finished, I'll dig into where you've been every second for the last twenty-four hours."

"The only time I was out of anyone's sight was when I excused myself to go to the men's room." Michael shrugged.

"For all I know someone might have seen me in there, too."

He didn't bother adding that he'd stayed in the men's room for more than a few minutes, trying unsuccessfully to deal with the headache.

His neurologist had told him that the troublesome headaches would last for a while. Mainly because a serious concussion can do that to a person.

But the pain from the headaches wasn't the only thing bothering Michael. Lately he'd become more concerned about the increasing blank periods, the blackouts.

But he didn't mention those to Denner. Something told him that admitting he'd lost time would put him in an even more tenuous position with the police detective. Better to try to deal with the blank periods on his own.

"Perhaps you were gone long enough to slip out the back door and finish off Ms. Hamish," Denner said.

"You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you? It would make your job easier."

"There's nothing easy about pinning you down, Emerson. But I'll find a way."

"I didn't kill Corinna."

Denner snorted. "You don't mind if we check that out for ourselves, right?"

Michael shrugged again, trying for a casualness he didn't feel. "Do whatever you need to do. Nothing I say has had much impact on your obsession that I'm the one who killed these women."

"Yeah, well, it's hard to believe a guy who is intimately connected to all the murder victims but keeps insisting he's as innocent as pure driven snow."

Off to the side, the crime scene photographer moved to a position directly across from Michael, snapping off pictures in rapid succession. The flash of the camera renewed the pounding in Michael's head. He glanced away, a part of him unable to comprehend the brutality of Corinna's death.

He reached up and rubbed his temple, trying desperately to clear his head. He needed his wits about him right now. This was not the time for headaches or the ugly sensation of fogginess that seemed to cloud his brain. The mist swirled around them, wet and clinging.

Although he'd been able to provide an iron-clad alibi for each of the murders, he knew it frustrated the hell out of Denner and the other members of the special task force assigned to the case. They wanted him to confess. Wanted the case closed with him behind bars for life or a needle in his arm.

"When was the last time you talked with Ms. Hamish?"

"Two weeks ago. We had lunch at Kristoff's."

"And that's when you gave her your typical kiss-off?"

"If you're asking if we discussed the direction our relationship was going, then yes."