Gregory Walsh was predictable, like most men of his type. Thursday nights at the Oak Room, two martinis before his associates arrived, eyes constantly wandering to any attractive woman in the vicinity. Tonight was no exception.
I positioned myself strategically, angled so he would notice me but I wouldn't appear to be seeking attention. The black dress revealed just enough—professional yet enticing. The blonde wig gave me a completely different silhouette from Detective Blackwood's practical bob.
"Martini, extra dry," I told the bartender when Walsh glanced my way for the third time. "Two olives."
I felt his eyes on me as I pretended to check emails on my phone. Creating the right opening was crucial—Walsh needed to believe he was the pursuer, not the pursued.
I waited until his second martini arrived, then "accidentally" made eye contact, holding it a beat longer than casual before looking away. Three minutes later, he took the bait.
"This seat taken?" Walsh asked, sliding onto the barstool beside me. Up close, I could see the faint broken capillaries in his nose that his social media photos had carefully filtered out. The expensive cologne couldn't quite mask the underlying scent of alcohol that clung to him permanently.
"It appears to be now," I replied with a measured smile. Tonight, I was Katherine Pierce, recently divorced wealth management consultant. Successful enough to be in his orbit, vulnerable enough to appeal to his savior complex.
"Greg Walsh," he said, extending his hand. I noted the absence of his wedding ring. Unlike Coleman, who'd merely pocketed his, Walsh came prepared for the hunt.
"Katherine Pierce." I shook his hand, allowing the contact to linger just slightly.
"You're new here," he observed. "The Oak Room is generally filled with the same faces every week."
"First time," I confirmed. "I'm evaluating venues for a client dinner next week. This place was recommended."
His expression brightened at the suggestion of a wealthy client. "Financial sector?"
"Wealth management," I replied. "Private clients, high net worth individuals."
The conversation flowed predictably from there. Walsh dominated the exchange, explaining the market in condescending terms, clearly assuming my position must be more administrative than executive. I played along, asking just enough questions to feed his ego while dropping subtle hints of my supposed success.
"I should join my colleagues," he said after twenty minutes, gesturing to a table where three men in expensive suits had gathered. "But I'm here every Thursday. Perhaps next week we could continue this conversation?"
"Perhaps," I replied, deliberately noncommittal. "If my schedule allows."
His smile tightened imperceptibly. Men like Walsh weren't accustomed to uncertainty from women. Good. Let him work for it.
"I insist," he said, pulling out a business card. "Call my private line. I know all the best venues for your client dinner."
I took the card, brushing his fingers with mine. "I'll consider it."
As he walked away, I slipped the card into my purse alongside the small notebook where I recorded my observations. Phase one complete. Next Thursday, I would allow him to "convince" me to have dinner. The week after, drinks at his favorite hotel bar. By the third week, if my assessment was correct, he would suggest the room upstairs.
And then judgment would come.
I finished my drink and left, careful to exit through the side door where security cameras had a blind spot—a detail I'd noted during my preliminary research. In the car, I removed the wig and changed into a plain blouse kept in the backseat. By the time I arrived home, Katherine Pierce had vanished, and Detective Blackwood had returned.
My phone buzzed with a text from Alvarez: "ME found fibers on victim #2. Synthetic, blue. Possibly work uniform. Meeting tomorrow 9AM to review."
Another lead on the assault case. I would need to balance both investigations carefully. The irony wasn't lost on me—hunting one predator while pursuing another through official channels. Both serving justice in their own way.
I opened my laptop to document tonight's interaction with Walsh, noting his behaviors, weaknesses, patterns. Preparation was everything. In both my lives, meticulous planning made the difference between success and failure.
The faces of his ex-wives looked out at me from my research files. Women discarded, replaced with newer models when they aged or questioned his behaviors. His current wife, Sophia, only 28 to his 52, smiled vacantly from their recent anniversary photo—unaware she was already being betrayed, already being set up to join the ranks of the discarded.
"I'll make him confess it all," I whispered to their images. "Before the end, he'll acknowledge what he's done to each of you."
Justice wouldn't bring back my mother. Wouldn't heal the trauma of finding her that day, the pill bottle empty beside her, the note expressing her shame and worthlessness after my father's betrayal became public knowledge. But each man I removed from the world was one less family destroyed, one less woman driven to despair.
Detective Blackwood served the law. The other me served justice. Together, we maintained the balance in a world designed to protect men like my father, like Coleman, like Walsh.
I closed the laptop and prepared for bed, mentally transitioning from Katherine Pierce back to Detective Elise Blackwood. Tomorrow would bring progress on the assault case. And next Thursday, the next phase with Walsh.
The hunt continued on both fronts.