He nodded, hoping she’d leave it at that. “It was a long time ago.”
“How did she die?” Erin asked, because cops never left a damn thing alone.
Darsh bit down on the anger the question brought. He didn’t want to talk about his mother, but if he wanted Erin to open up? He needed to play fair. “She was murdered.” He popped a fry in his mouth.
“They ever catch who did it?”
He shook his head.
“Did you ever look?”
Sure, he’d looked. “There was no evidence.”
“So you looked.”
He wanted her to drop it. He shrugged and said nothing.
“I hear that sort of trauma drives a lot of people into law enforcement. Either you’re born into it like I was, or you’re dragged into it by the compelling need to serve, or to fight for justice. I’m not sure what I’d do if I wasn’t a cop.” Her expression clouded, and he wanted her to stop talking. “I don’t remember a time when this wasn’t the only thing I wanted to do.”
Jesus. He couldn’t respond or meet her gaze, he just stuffed his face with lasagna so hot it burned the roof of his mouth and wished he’d ordered a beer. Alcohol would be great right about now, but last time he’d had a drink in this woman’s company things had gotten a hell of a lot hotter than his lasagna They ate silently for a few minutes, both hungry and needing to refuel. Both avoiding talking about personal things.
“You know,” she said, wiping her mouth with her napkin and pushing a nearly empty plate away. “I never said sorry for not telling you I was married when we first met. That was wrong of me and put you in a difficult position. At the time I never considered your feelings. I’m sorry.”
He stared at the table, and a thick wedge of emotion stuck in his throat. He’d acted like a dick and now he was stuck with that reality. If he said he knew she’d filed for divorce before they’d hooked up, she’d know he’d been digging into her background. It wouldn’t take long for her to figure out that he also knew her ex was an abusive fuck.
“I was an ass. I owe you an apology.” Some stupid part of his brain wanted her to trust him. To confide in him of her own free will.
A small group settled into the booth behind them. An older guy of about forty, another two guys in their mid-twenties and two younger women. Academics and students.
“Rachel Knight is a brave young woman,” he said thoughtfully. “I get the feeling more things might come back to her the way that other new detail did.”
Erin nodded. “I’m not sure how it will help us, though. Rachel was adamant it was Drew Hawke who raped her, and he’s locked up.”
“There’s a connection between the cases. You know it, too.”
She didn’t look happy, but truth was truth. The forensic countermeasures told him that while he wasn’t sure it was the same perp, he was singing from the same playbook. This was one smart UNSUB.
“Erin, is that you?” One of the guys who’d settled into the booth behind them stood and leaned over the divider toward them. He wore skinny jeans, a roll neck sweater, and a tweed jacket.
“Professor Huxley,” she exclaimed, twisting in her seat. Darsh didn’t miss the slight note of dismay in her voice.
“Roman,” the professor corrected. The guy’s eyes roved Erin’s cleavage from his vantage point, but she didn’t seem to notice.
Or maybe she did. She slid out of the booth to stand. Darsh folded his napkin and climbed to his feet, having inhaled his meal in record time.
“FBI Agent Singh. This is Professor Roman Huxley, a world-renowned expert in criminal psychology at Blackcombe. And this is Linus and Rick, his research assistants, and Rena and Kelsey, two of his other students.”
“We had a lab meeting, but I decided to treat everyone to lunch.” Huxley’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “We’re trying to escape the rather maudlin atmosphere on campus.”
“Murder will do that to a place,” Darsh said sardonically.
“You’re with the BAU?” Huxley asked him. The easy tone belied the intensity of the man’s gaze.
“That’s correct.”
“Perhaps you’d consider coming in and giving a guest lecture while you’re here?”
Darsh wasn’t about to be interrogated about his job by a bunch of students when he was busy investigating a crime on campus. He threw enough money on the table to cover his and Erin’s meal. “I doubt I’ll be here long enough, Professor, and my priority is the investigation. You could submit a request through the public relations liaison at the FBI, though.”
The professor’s expression tightened. “Well, maybe if you come to me for help on the case I can twist your arm?”
Darsh shrugged and smiled. Yeah, not even if the man held a gun to his head. “Maybe.”
The others watched them with rapt attention.
“Linus said you were all friends with Mandy Wochikowski?” Erin asked the group.
Darsh’s gaze sharpened on the students.
“She did an honors project with us over the summer so we knew her quite well,” one of the girls told them quietly. “It’s hard to believe she was murdered. We all liked her.”
“She was a bright student,” the professor stated.
“Was she seeing anyone romantically?” Darsh asked.
The two girls shook their heads.
The blond male grad student, Linus, spoke up. “Like I told Erin.” The young man’s eyes watched the detective with a hint of reverence. “I don’t think so. We’d go for coffee sometimes during the summer, and she never mentioned she was seeing anyone.”
“She fancied Linus,” the dark-haired young man, Rick, gave his pal an arched look.
“She had a bit of a crush on me, but I was dating another girl at the time,” Linus admitted quickly, because they all knew romance was the quickest route to becoming a suspect. “We were just friends.”
“Know any of her other buddies?” Erin asked them.
“I knew she hung out with some of the sorority girls, but they weren’t really my scene,” Kelsey said.
“There was a guy in computing she mentioned a couple of times in the summer,” Rick said, his eyes lingering on Erin in a way Darsh recognized. The woman herself was oblivious. “She was pretty serious about her studies, not really a party animal.”
“If you remember anything you think might be useful, please get in touch. You know how to reach me,” Erin told them. She turned to the professor and nodded. “We’ll be in touch, Professor.”
“Look forward to it, Erin, Agent Singh.” The guy grinned like he’d won a minor victory, but Darsh didn’t know what the hell that might be.
He walked out of the restaurant feeling full for the first time in days. But the contentment didn’t extend beyond his stomach. “Quite the fan club you have back there.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I’ve discovered the easiest way to make yourself more appealing to the opposite sex is to say you’re not interested. The world is apparently full of masochists.”
Darsh didn’t quite know how to respond. She had a lot more going for her than that, but her ex had done a real number on her psyche. “He helped out on the last case?”
“Huxley?” Erin nodded. “He’s assisted numerous police departments and has done some really great studies.”
“I don’t like him.”
“Because…”
“Because he wears skinny jeans and hair gel.” And looked at Erin like he wanted to undo her shirt buttons.
“That’s how the FBI forms opinions? Very scientific.” She climbed into her truck cab.
He walked around the front and got in the passenger side. “Never ignore your lizard brain. They teach you that in the Marines.”
“I’ll try and remember that next time my lizard brain decides to chat.” She started the engine and pulled out of the parking space. “I owe you for lunch.”
He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the padded headrest. “You can get it next time.”<
br />
Considering where his thoughts strayed whenever he spent more than five minutes in her company, he owed her more than lunch. If he were a Catholic he’d be on his knees begging forgiveness and that picture conjured a whole new array of sins, so he tried to distract himself by pretending to sleep while she drove back to the station. The sound of something smacking against the glass jerked him back into awareness.
“What the fuck was that?” Something gooey slid down the front of her windshield. He turned and saw a crowd of demonstrators on the front steps of the courthouse.
“That would be the sound of someone egging my truck.” She squirted wiper fluid over the glass and eventually the screen cleared. The resigned tremor of anger in her voice told him she was pissed.
Fury curdled in his stomach. “Don’t you ever get tired of it, Erin? The bullshit, the hatred?”
The corners of her mouth tightened as her chin came up. “I guess I’m used to it.”
“Why would you ever want to be used to it? Is it some form of penance? Because of you and me and your dead husband?”
She pulled up outside the station, her expression studiously blank. “Well, like you, I have a lifetime of regrets to choose from.” Her eyes held his for a moment—long enough for him to know he was one of those regrets.
He gritted his teeth together to stop from telling her that he had no regrets about that night, none at all. It had been one of the best nights of his life. But Erin did what she always did when he said something she didn’t like. She got out and walked away, and he sat there like a damn fool.
Chapter Twelve
The team meeting started at three PM sharp, but Darsh was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Ully. Erin stood at the front of the large table in the conference room and tried not to speculate on what that meant. She had enough things to worry about.
“So where are we on the door-to-door canvassing?” she began, despite Chief Strassen frowning at her.
“We spoke to someone in every house in a two block radius,” said Bill Youder, another senior patrol officer. “No one recalls seeing a strange car parked or a stranger lurking in the area on the night of January 5. But it was the first day back after the winter break, and students had been arriving on and off all day.”
“You spoke to the neighbors on either side and opposite?”
“Yep. No one heard any screams from that address on the night in question. Apparently there was often loud music playing in the house, but the guy in number seventy-three said the girls were never noisy after about nine so it didn’t bother him.”
“You think that was why the attacker turned the music off after he’d recorded the message from Cassie?” Cathy Bickham asked. “He didn’t want to disturb the neighbors?”
“Possibly, or to make sure no one caught him by surprise when he was raping Cassie.” Erin nodded. Was this someone close to one of the girls? Did he know their routine? “What’s the neighbor’s name?”
“Raymond Butcher.”
“Any priors?”
“A parking ticket about three years ago.”
She stretched the tense muscles in her shoulders. “This morning I dug into the rope used. It is good quality climbing rope, but not uncommon. The FBI is looking to see if anyone local ordered it online.”
“Where is the fed?” Harry asked with a disdainful expression on his face.
“Not sure.” Erin gave him a wry look. No matter how much she was attracted to Darsh, these were the people she had to work with on a daily basis.
“Any word on the evidence we sent to Quantico?” the chief asked.
She shook her head. “They’ve only had it twenty-four hours.” Not even.
Strassen rubbed the back of his neck as if that were her fault, too. “So we’re still no further forward?”
His disapproval sank into the pit of her stomach like an anchor. “Not really, sir. I did time a run this morning between Cassie Bressinger’s house and the frat house where Jason Brady lives.”
The chief’s eyes bugged. “You think Brady did it this time?”
Crap. “I only know that I saw him on the street as I drove to the call. I timed the run this morning, and it took me seven minutes. Theoretically he could still have committed the murders, therefore I am not ready to rule him out as a suspect.”
Youder leaned forward to look at the chief. “Me and Bickham interviewed the partygoers, including Tanya Whitehouse—Cassie and Mandy’s roomie. Turns out no one remembers seeing Brady between eight and ten. No one knows where he was, and he’s not talking.” He leaned back in his chair and held her gaze. “You think he might be trying to make his BFF look innocent?”
Erin nodded. “It’s an idea, but I’d rather have a suspect from the evidence or a witness.”
“The witnesses are all dead,” said Cathy Bickham.
Erin’s stomach knotted.
“Except the neighbor’s dog,” Harry said glibly.
“Pity the mutt doesn’t speak English. He might put us all out of a job,” Youder joked.
Erin got that black humor was a way of dealing with terrible situations cops often found themselves in, but for once she couldn’t join in. She was too emotionally invested.
“I finally got the subpoena for the cell records,” Harry said after the moment of levity. “I’m going through phone numbers and names looking for connections. I can’t get anything on the @Darkmatter handle who was flirting with Mandy. Account was set up anonymously and is only sporadically active and nothing posted recently. I did notice some pretty vocal complaints about the police investigation in general. There’re talking about asking the governor to bring in the National Guard to keep the women safe in their beds at night.”
Erin grimaced. The egg on her car had been an apt expression of what the people of this town thought of her ability to crack the case.
“So what’s the plan for solving this thing?” Strassen asked impatiently.
“Harry’s still working social media and cell phone angles. I’m going to go talk to campus security and see if they have surveillance footage from Monday night,” Erin told him. “Then I’m going to the offices and stores in the Fairfax Road area and see if they have any footage I can look at.”
The chief nodded. “Bickham, give Detective Donovan a hand.”
Erin pushed away her natural resentment at the implication she needed help.
“Yes, sir.” The rookie piped up.
The chief dismissed them, rubbing his stomach like he’d developed an ulcer overnight.
Erin packed up her notes and headed to her desk. Where the hell had Darsh disappeared to? Part of her wanted to go see if he’d fallen asleep in his office, but the desire felt like a weakness, and she wasn’t giving in to it.
She glanced over to the chief’s office and saw the Dean of Students staring at her through the glass. She gave him a smile, but the guy ignored it and turned away with a sour expression on his face as the chief arrived. They shut the door.
There was no doubt the dean wanted the killer found and her off the case, not necessarily in that order. She was pretty sure the chief felt the same way.
Damn.
As she was grabbing her coat to head off to find video surveillance, a furor erupted next to the booking desk.
A homeless guy they all knew as Stinky Pete stood there in handcuffs. Usually he was a law-abiding citizen who kept to himself. Today he was shouting and carrying on.
Ully stood nearby grinning like a fool.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
He was holding a large plastic bag, which he held open for her to look inside. It was full of material. Material that looked suspiciously like that of the bedding from Cassie Bressinger’s bed.
Her gaze shot to his. “Where’d you find it?”
“Under the bridge down by the river, wrapped around Stinky Pete.”
“Hey, that’s mine!” The guy, who was only in his forties but looked more like seventy, lunged toward it. The patrol officer held
him back.
She dragged Ully farther away so they could talk out of earshot. “You call the evidence team down there?” Erin’s heart was banging about a hundred beats per minute.
“Yup. They pulled up before we left.” He grinned and put his hand on her shoulder. “We got him, Donovan. Now get your ass in the interview room and nail the sonofabitch.”
* * *
The interview room had gray linoleum, beige walls, a faux-wood table screwed into the floor, and two uncomfortable looking plastic chairs either side of it. There was a window covered with a metal grill with a view of a small courtyard and a cement wall opposite. The sky was overcast, depressing and bleak.
Darsh figured looking at that view everyday would be a fine line between incarceration and torture, but prison wasn’t supposed to be a picnic.
He heard the clang of a door and then footsteps. He hadn’t told Erin he was coming here, and he wasn’t sure why. A guard appeared in the doorway. The man was huge—six-six and heavily built with the sort of face that made you remember your manners. The prisoner behind him was prettier, about Darsh’s height. Wider across the shoulders, lean through the torso and hips—classic quarterback physique clad in bright prison orange. Drew Hawke. He had his hands cuffed in front of him.
“Take a seat,” Darsh offered.
Hawke eyed him warily but slid his ass into the chair.
“Keeping in shape I see.”
Hawke’s lip curled. “I don’t have a lot else to do. May as well workout.”
“Just in case?”
“Just in case, what? I get out and get drafted?” Hawke snorted. “I gave up all hope of my old life a long time ago. I’m stuck in this shithole for good.”
He was a good-looking kid, but there was a hardness around his eyes now that went beyond being tough on the field. Doing time in the big house was a little different than living it up in a fraternity.
The kid held Darsh’s gaze. “What do you want?”
The young man didn’t know about Cassie yet, Darsh had made sure of it. The governor, at the request of the DOJ, had called the warden and asked to have Hawke placed in solitary yesterday. The prison officers had used a cell search to justify their actions and had found a homemade shiv. It could have belonged to either of the guys in the cell so they’d punished them both.
Cold Hearted (Cold Justice Book 6) Page 14
