by Mary Stone
Bill, a quiet, thoughtful college professor, had been shot dead as he lay in bed next to his wife.
Jeanette, beautiful with her dark blue eyes and pale skin, a thick mass of silky black hair. She’d been brutalized next to her dead husband. The son of a bitch had then slit her throat and desecrated her lifeless body, then preceded to paint crosses and a Bible verse on the wall in her blood.
That was how the bastard had been dubbed The Preacher, and the behavioral unit thought he had been in the middle of writing something else on the walls just as he was interrupted by the arrival of the thirteen-year-old daughter. The daughter that now looked just like the mother.
The maniac had clubbed Winter over the head, hard enough to knock her into a coma that would last the next few months, leaving her for dead. Why she hadn’t been raped and brutalized was still a mystery to them all.
It wasn’t the only mystery of the case.
The bastard had taken Winter’s little brother, Justin, with him. They’d never been able to find the boy. Aside from leaving Winter alive, that had been the only other variance in the pattern. In fact, it had thrown them off. Everything else fit The Preacher’s M.O., but he’d never shown any interest in children. Or males, for that matter. Any females with spouses were either killed when the spouse wasn’t home, or the male was simply shot in the head. Dispatched without any obvious emotion. It was humane, really, considering what would come next for the woman.
The whole brutal incident with the Black family was an aberration in the serial killer’s profile. Aiden didn’t like aberrations, especially those that he couldn’t pick to pieces and puzzle out.
The Preacher had been tied to around forty murders, some of them tentative. It looked like he’d committed them over the span of thirty years, in scattered locations around the country. His M.O. was unpredictable, but somewhat consistent. He’d target a young woman between twenty and thirty-five years old, and they believed that he’d track her movements, sometimes for weeks or even months. There was no discernable preference in the woman’s appearance, except that they were all attractive.
There had been Susan Illis, a librarian in Spokane. She’d been a petite brunette. Amber Valente, a red-haired nurse in Maryland. Mikaela Smith, an African-American woman from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Each woman had been single, living alone, and vulnerable to a killer. Later on, there had been a few married women. Never with children, though. The first man to be killed by The Preacher had set the pattern for any future men: single gunshot to the head.
The killings began in 1974, that they officially knew of, and ended with the murder of Winter’s parents and her brother’s disappearance. In the early days after the tragedy, the murder hadn’t been connected to The Preacher. None of the previous victims had husbands or children. None of the women lived with anyone.
But what had been done to Jeanette Black had been unmistakable. The work was characteristic of The Preacher. Aiden thought he would have known it was the same man just from the brutality of the murder alone, but the crosses and Bible verses painted in the victim’s blood left little doubt.
The question they’d never been able to answer was why the killer had deviated from pattern…and what had happened to Justin, the Black’s six-year-old son. The Preacher had disappeared with the boy. None of the shaky leads on the case had panned out, and despite hundreds of hours of legwork, they’d made no progress.
The Preacher case was a sore spot for both Aiden, and now, Associate Deputy Director Ramirez. Never mind that the national murder clearance average was around sixty percent. In their unit, they’d prided themselves on beating that number. The failure to catch such a prolific murderer had been an embarrassment to them both. They’d failed to bring justice to the lone survivor of that bloody October night, along with dozens of others that had been killed over the years. And who knew how many more?
Aiden had kept in contact with Winter through her teenage years out of guilt. Back when he suffered from that emotion. Even now, he could still see her in the hospital bed. A thin and gawky teenager who had lain, almost lifeless, for three months before she finally came out of her coma, only to be told her family was gone.
Over the years, she’d gone from a devastated child to a determined woman, and now she wanted his help to dig it all up again.
Aiden levered himself out of his chair and started the slow, painful process of making his way through his own apartment. He never got out of his chair during Winter’s recent visits. Call it male pride, but he despised the thought of her—or anyone else—seeing him as weak.
She was right, though. He had plenty of thinking time on his hands. He sat down at his desk and booted up his laptop, ignoring the ache in his leg. He’d scanned and transferred all of the old paper files and evidence photos from The Preacher case years ago.
It was time to go over them all again. Maybe he’d find something he’d missed.
4
“Not bad for a practice run.” Heidi Presley eyed Ryan O’Connelly from across the scarred Formica table. “Two hundred and twenty thousand.”
Ryan held a stack of hundreds, still banded, running his thumb across the edge, his face thoughtful. Or, it could have been an act. If he spent much time thinking, he didn’t show evidence of it.
The bills made a soft whispering sound as they fanned over his fingertip. She watched him as he stared down at the money spilling out of the black canvas tote. Was it out of greed? Regret? She hadn’t missed the way he’d looked when she’d dispatched the bank manager.
He’d looked too damned handsome.
The thought came out of nowhere, surprising her. Gritting her teeth, she pushed it away.
Heidi wasn’t in the market for a man. After a disastrous attempt to rid herself of her virginity in college, she’d never had the inclination. Which was fine, because men never tended to look twice at her.
That suited her just fine. If men weren’t paying her any attention, they were probably busy underestimating her. And that was the kind of man she liked…the dumb ones. Handsome was a bonus as long as their brains were made of rocks.
O’Connelly was good-looking in an old-fashioned way, like Cary Grant or Sean Connery. An old-time film star who would have played a cat burglar. Long and lean build, lightly muscled. Dark hair with just a little bit of a wave. A face that looked like it was carved from marble. Crystalline blue eyes that could be ice-cold or lit with humor, and changed as fast as lightning. And an Irish accent.
It pissed her off, that involuntary little flutter she got when he called her “love” in the mocking way he had.
Heidi steeled herself. She wasn’t interested in Ryan O’Connelly for his looks, and sex wasn’t anywhere in the plan.
He looked up at her, pinning her with his gaze. “Bank robberies?” he asked, the question blunt. “Heists? There’s no money in it. Two-twenty is peanuts compared to what you could do with those computer skills of yours, and you’d never need to dirty your lovely white hands.”
“I don’t need to tell you why. I just need to know if you’re in.” Heidi folded her arms and stared back at him. “You can keep this take as a sign of my good faith.”
His eyes didn’t even flicker at her generous offer. He just continued to graze his thumbnail over the bundle of money. “I need to know what it is you have in mind for me. Details, love.” His tone was hard, but his smile broke with a sudden brilliance that startled her. “I’ve had an illustrious career so far and have cultivated a bit of a reputation. I don’t much care for the idea of putting my arse in the hands of an amateur.” His grin widened with the innuendo. “So to speak.”
Cocky bastard. Heidi didn’t blink.
“You mentioned my computer skills,” she responded. “Has it occurred to you that I found you with no trouble at all, when the authorities had no luck in tracking you?”
His eyes narrowed, but his smile didn’t slip. “Tossing a bit of blackmail into the pot, are we? I hate to sound like I’m bragging, but I’m not
sure you know who you’re dealing with.”
“And neither do you,” Heidi shot back, keeping her tone level. “No one can disappear without a trace anymore. Trust me. Your digital footprints are a piece of cake to follow for someone who knows what she’s doing. You do these three jobs for me and I’ll erase your footprints so well that no one will ever find you again.”
They were at a standoff, and she’d left him with no out, plus a fat, juicy carrot on a stick. She knew it. He knew it.
As if they’d been discussing nothing more unpleasant than the weather, Ryan winked at her. The move was unexpected. She didn’t like unexpected.
“I guess I’m in, then,” he said. “Three jobs.”
“Three jobs,” she affirmed, pretending for his sake that he’d ever had a choice. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Now, love,” Ryan said, shaking his head. “There will have to be some give and take here. I need to know what it is we’ll be doing.”
“Something epic. That’s all you need to know.”
He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter.
But she knew he was chafing at the control she was exercising over him. That was fine. As long as he knew who was in charge. She slid a burner phone across the table to him. “I’ll text you with instructions.”
He picked up the phone and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I hesitate to ask, but I assume you’ve covered our bases with this little…‘practice run?’ I won’t be walking into a police ambush when I leave here?”
Heidi nodded. “I’ve made sure no one will be able to pin us to the burglary.”
“And the violence? Was that absolutely necessary?”
“Squeamish, O’Connelly?”
“Not at all. It just seemed excessive for our purposes.” His tone turned just a hair toward condescending. “‘No dye packs or I’ll hunt down your fucking family?’ Sounded like a line from a bad movie. And the killing after? We already had the money. There didn’t seem to be a reason to shoot the bank lady. She was cooperative. Seemed…unsporting.”
Heidi wanted to reach across the table and punch the smugness from his face. Every step of her plans had a purpose, and she hadn’t brought him into this to question her at every turn of the road.
Her tone was cold enough to flash freeze him when she replied, “Those executions were a demonstration for you. You now know that I’m serious and fully committed to our little project.”
He pushed back his chair and stood, scooping the money back into the bag. “A pinkie promise would have worked just as well. I’m a trusting sort, after all. No need to blow any more heads off to prove your point, love. I’d just as soon avoid messy bloodshed.”
Ryan glanced around the shabby beachside bungalow she’d rented in cash, under an assumed name—chosen special for the occasion—and through several layers of security. “Will we be operating out of here, then?”
“No. I’ll text you instructions on where to go next.” She pulled a small bundle out of her bag, where it had been nestled in with her Ruger, and slid it across the table. “Credit cards and a temporary ID.”
“I’m used to handling my own travel arrangements.”
“You’ll use these.” Best get used to it, boyo, she thought. I pull the strings here.
“As you like.”
“Do you have a way to get rid of the money?”
Ryan chuckled. “I’m no newbie at this. I won’t be hauling it around with us, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Heidi gave him a curt nod and then dismissed him without another word, pulling out her laptop. She heard him leave, and then the faint sound of whistling as he headed out to the car he’d rented. She knew he wasn’t a newbie and wouldn’t make any stupid mistakes.
She knew all about Ryan O’Connelly.
Besides, he wouldn’t be allowed to make mistakes. She’d made sure of that.
The woman gave him the heebie-jeebies.
Ryan tossed the bag into the back seat of his silver Land Rover and climbed in the front, having already decided to donate every dollar of the blood money to a charity. He didn’t want it. Didn’t want to be cursed by it. He rubbed the spot where his Saint Dismas medallion should have been.
He was already cursed quite enough.
When he’d received a cryptic email a month ago, the sender’s address a mess of letters and numbers, he’d written it off as spam. He had been flush with cash from his last job, an art gig, and spending some time with a sweetheart he’d met down in Jamaica.
The email had been terse, to the point.
I know where you are, Ryan.
It had struck him as weird. Kind of creepy, like that movie where the bad guy reminded everyone that he knew something bad they’d done. I Know What You Did Last Summer. But he had the luscious distraction of Ionie. A gorgeous Jamaican woman with a sweet personality, a wicked sense of humor, and an inventive imagination, she worked at the hotel he was staying at. It had taken some doing, but once he’d coaxed her into his room and out of her panties, neither of them had been able to get enough of each other.
Two days had gone by while he’d worked on tanning his pasty arse on the beach, drinking rum and smoking the native ganja, before he’d received the second email from the same encrypted address. This one just had a phone number.
They didn’t call him The Cat for nothing. Not only was he undetectable when he wanted to be, silent on his feet, unpredictable…he was curious as hell. He’d debated for a bit, finally deciding to call the number and appease his curiosity. Now, he wished he’d never done so.
Curiosity killed cats. The reminder made him uncomfortable.
The woman on the other end of the line had introduced herself as Heidi. At first, she’d been flattering. He’d been just drunk enough to believe her when she told him how she’d been an admirer of his for the last several years, since he’d pulled his first high-profile theft. It had been an artifact from a collector in Brussels, for a minor Saudi prince who wanted the piece for himself.
The execution of that theft had been flawless—managed without bloodshed, thank you very much—and had put him in high demand with those who followed such things soon after. He’d been commissioned to do everything from liberating paintings and jewelry to the occasional job where he’d lift goods from safety deposit boxes tucked away in banks, hotels, or private residences. He’d risen fast from the ranks of petty thieves to a sought-after professional who operated all over the world—wherever his clients took him.
He had a healthy sense of self-worth, but in this, he didn’t need to exaggerate. He was good.
He hadn’t lied to Heidi. Ryan had an excellent reputation and was at the top of his field. He’d never even come close to being caught, and he was well set-up enough to never have to work again in his life. He could afford to be picky, choosing only jobs that appealed to him or carried some sense of justice or irony.
He was ashamed to admit it now, but he’d flirted with her on the phone that day. Talked too much. Hell, her name was Heidi. With her low, sultry voice and that name, he’d pictured a stunner. Probably tall and blonde. Blue eyes were almost guaranteed. By the time their conversation was over, he’d imagined her as a cross between a Nordic princess and part-time lingerie model. And with her admirable computer skills, maybe she even owned a sexy little pair of black-framed, librarian-type glasses.
He’d been feeling a little too cozy with Ionie and had talked himself into falling for the imaginary goddess over the phone. Blame it on his romantic streak. And the rum.
After a few more conversations over the next couple of days, he’d agreed to meet her. He flew to the States, even though he’d sobered up enough by then to seriously question the wisdom of leaving Ionie, his gorgeous Jamaican playmate.
When he’d met Heidi at the airport in Bismarck, North Dakota, she hadn’t been what he expected.
She was tall, but that was where the resemblance to his dream goddess ended.
Truth be told, she was a bit mannish. About
his height, shoulders broad for a woman. About his age. Mid-thirties. Her hair was long, but a plain, dirt-colored brown that looked a little lank under the green and white trucker’s cap she wore. She’d dressed in baggy jeans and a flannel shirt that hid any hint of the curves that might lie beneath them, and a pair of dusty brown boots. She looked like a cowboy.
Her face was all right. Strong cheekbones. Clear, tanned skin. Her eyes were a muddy brown. Lips wide and full on a downturned mouth that looked like it never smiled.
Ryan wanted to turn around and get back on the airplane. Even though he’d really had no idea what she looked like, he still felt catfished.
But he’d given her his patented, charming smile. Had even taken her hand and kissed her knuckles. Women loved his courtly manners. Except this one. This one had just stared at him with a cold, closed expression, like he was cow shite crusted at the bottom of her boot.
The burner phone buzzed, interrupting his reverie. Stopped at a red light, he picked it up, glancing at the screen.
It was a reservation confirmation. Instead of staying the night at the charming hotel he’d booked in Long Beach, it now looked like he’d be heading out on a red-eye flight from LAX. He tossed the phone back down on the passenger’s seat and huffed out an irritated breath.
She couldn’t have bloody told him that while he was there?
He didn’t like any of this. Not at all.
After only a few minutes in Heidi’s company, he recognized a trap when he saw one. She’d manipulated him with an ease that was disconcerting. She knew everything about him. As they’d sat in a dingy, anonymous little diner in Bismarck, she’d made it clear without saying straight-out that she’d turn all of that information over to the authorities if he didn’t humor her in this mysterious little plot she’d cooked up.
