“An important conference.” He made a harrumphing sound. “Well then, down we’ll get.” Johnson slapped a photograph of a young woman in front of her.
Faith immediately recognized Nancy Aberdeen. In this photograph, which had been plastered all over the news, Nancy posed with a cherry pie, a big blue ribbon, and a hometown-sweetheart smile. Nancy wore a gingham dress and had her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Her skin shimmered with a rich, inviting sheen, like a bowl of cream waiting for a cat. Her wide eyes sparkled with happiness, perhaps because of that big blue ribbon she’d won, or perhaps because happiness was simply in her nature. Nancy Aberdeen was both a breath of fresh air and a blast from the past. The perfect picture of more innocent times. An unexpected teenager. Why had the Saint chosen this particular girl?
“That picture was taken at the state fair.” Johnson’s face contorted, covering whatever emotion the photograph called up in him. Not good for his tough-cop image to show he cared.
“And this.” He slapped a second photo down beside the first. “This is Nancy Aberdeen after the Saint got done with her.”
All Faith had in her stomach was water, and she had to fight to keep that down. Tears welled behind her eyes, and she blinked those back, too. She forced herself to keep her gaze on the picture. The girl had been hog-tied, her skull blown apart by a shotgun blast. What was left of her face was shrouded in blood, unrecognizable. In her hand, she clasped a rosary. “You’re a real jerk, Howie, you know that, right?”
“I could give a rat’s asshole if I am.”
“What the hell do you want from me?” She refused to allow her voice to quiver.
“I wanna know every single goddamn thing you know about Dante Jericho, the bastard who killed this sweet sixteen-year-old girl.” She could practically hear his teeth grinding.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to narrow that down a bit. Tell me everything you know covers a lot of ground. What’s your question?”
“You call this cooperating?”
“You call this an interview?” She leapt to her feet.
Raising one hand, Johnson’s expression turned coaxing. “Sit down . . . please.”
He pulled out her chair, politely.
She sat back down—her legs were shaking anyway.
“I wanted you to see his evil with your own eyes. I apologize for not preparing you first. I may have been out of line.”
Swallowing hard, she met his eyes. “Apology accepted.”
His shoulders relaxed, and a bit of the fight seemed to go out of him, as if he’d finally realized she might not be the enemy after all—or maybe that was her remembering he was one of the good guys.
“Did Jericho ever mention the name Nancy Aberdeen or the names of any of the other victims to you before last Saturday?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“For the record, please.”
“No, he never mentioned the names of any of the Saint’s victims.” Turning toward the camera, she enunciated clearly. “Not that I recall. But I’ve only been treating him a couple of weeks.”
“Is there anything you might’ve omitted from your notes that could help us?”
“Anything that seemed important to me at the time, I put in the notes. Of course, I wasn’t looking for clues to catch a serial killer.”
“But looking back, is there anything at all that would’ve suggested Jericho might be the Saint.”
“He never said anything to me that would specifically connect him to these crimes.”
“Other than his confession.”
Ah. The condescending Johnson she knew and loved.
“Right.”
“If you think of something, you’ll let me know.” He handed her his card. Twisting his mouth like he was spitting out a bite of sour apple, he said, “Sorry if I shocked you with the photo.”
She nodded. A not-so-random thought came to her mind. “Detective, I’ve been wondering. Were any of the victims sexually assaulted?”
His brows shot up in surprise. “I can’t disclose that information.”
“They weren’t. I can see by the look on your face. Seems unusual. So many serial murders are sexually motivated. And based on what I’ve read in the papers, I don’t see a common thread among the victims. Finding that thread and pulling it would be the key to unraveling the mystery—wouldn’t it?”
He opened the door to the interrogation room, seeming suddenly anxious to see her out. “Make you a deal, Doc. You stick to head shrinking, and I’ll stick to crime solving.”
Before leaving the police station, Faith ducked into a bathroom to splash cold water on her face, then hightailed it out of the building, racing down the front steps two at a time, occasionally reaching for the handrail to keep from falling. Her car was parked in a lot to the left. She turned right. She needed fresh air. Needed to walk it off. Being forced to look at a picture of Nancy Aberdeen’s mangled corpse had scalded her skin like acid injected beneath the epidermis. Only someone who’d lost all connection to his fellow man could’ve committed such a crime.
Outside, the sun shone as brightly as before, going about its business oblivious to the evil in the world. She halted and closed her eyes, wishing she could be that strong. The street was quiet at this hour. With most people manning their desks on a weekday morning, there was very little foot traffic, giving her room both to open up her stride and to stop and breathe whenever she liked. As the clean air filled her lungs, she felt the toxins washing out of her system.
She scoured the area, searching for a good thing—any good thing. A waft of sweetness drifted by when a flower vendor carrying armfuls of Castilian roses passed. Faith spotted a street performer and crossed the street to listen to him wail on a tenor saxophone. Three tunes later, she tossed a twenty into his instrument case.
“God bless you, ma’am.”
“God bless you, sir.” She smiled, then turned around, headed back to her car. With every step, her shoulders felt lighter. A pang of hunger reminded her that she hadn’t had breakfast, and she quickened her pace, imagining a nice plate of waffles at Denny’s.
Pulling up short to avoid a toddler barreling down the street in front of his mother, her hand came up to shade her eyes against the sun’s blinding light. When the child’s laughter faded away, she took off again, but this time, she heard footfalls padding close behind her.
She slowed.
The padding slowed.
She sped up.
The footfalls sped up.
As the fine hairs on the back of her neck made their presence known, her mind began to race. What had she learned in class?
Do not wait to be attacked.
That’s what her Krav Maga instructor always said.
Trust your gut. Don’t be the gazelle. Be the lion.
She stopped, crouched, readied herself to spin and face her stalker with raised fists.
Get back! she’d yell. She’d be the lion, not the gazelle.
Her hands came up as she pivoted and found herself facing a wall of well-dressed, muscled chest. Brute strength and a starched collar. Wild possibilities flashed across her mind, but none made sense. A mob enforcer? Secret Service? In the nanosecond that passed before she could jerk her chin up and look him in the face, the man deflected her fists and spun her around. When he grabbed her by the waist, her breath rushed out. She dug her nails into his arms and stomped on his instep, but he lifted her off the pavement, leaving her feet kicking helplessly in the air.
Help!
She screamed. But as in a dream, no sound came out of her mouth. Her heart roared in her chest like the lion she wanted to be, but her vocal cords had frozen. The man took several giant strides forward. With blood rushing to her head and storefronts passing by, her stomach lilted in protest. The sun, reflecting off a long, black car, hit h
er in the eyes, all but blinding her. The man opened the car door. Dumped her inside.
“Help!” At last her voice returned.
Snap.
She heard the sound of doors locking.
EIGHT
Tuesday, July 23, 11:00 A.M.
It’d been a crime of opportunity . . . and a monumentally bad idea. Luke had never anticipated bumping into Dr. Faith Clancy on his way to meet Detective Johnson at the police station. If he had, maybe he would’ve run through the scenario in his head a few times and thought of a different way to handle matters—a way that didn’t have the potential to land him behind bars. But he hadn’t anticipated, he hadn’t planned, and when he saw the woman who’d turned his brother in to the police, sauntering down the street, smiling at the flower girl, and chatting up the sax guy, enjoying life without a care in the world, his core temperature had started to rise.
Injustice was a repeating theme in Dante’s life, and Luke had had enough of standing by and doing nothing while his brother suffered. So he’d followed her, and when she turned, fists up, ready to pummel him, he’d lost it. No other way to describe how reason had fled and animal instinct had taken over. His skin had grown clammy. His pulse had bounded in his neck, and his body had charged off on its own ill-considered mission without a care as to consequence.
He never decided to scoop her up and carry her to his limo; he’d simply acted on impulse. He’d grabbed her in broad daylight on a public thoroughfare, and now here she was bucking in his arms in the backseat of his limo, screaming at the top of her lungs like . . . like a woman who’d been abducted off the street.
Nice going, Luke.
He should find a way to calm her down—fast. His arms released her. Maybe an apology to start. “I—”
She drew back. A hard slap across his jaw shut that idea down, and he didn’t have a Plan B, but at least she’d stopped screaming. Apparently, she couldn’t slap and scream for help at the same time. Or maybe she’d finally gotten a good look at him and realized he wasn’t the bogeyman. He thought he’d seen a flash of recognition in her eyes just before she’d slapped him, and her terror seemed to have been replaced by fury.
Her hand came up for another whack. His blood still simmering, he clasped her by the wrists, yanked her against his chest. The tremor in her arms sent vibrations through his own, and her heart beat wildly against his. He took a gulping breath. Her skin smelled like flowers. Her breasts rubbed against him as she struggled. Arousal, as unreasoned as the act of swooping her up in the first place, shot through him. He looked down at her, and her breath caught. Her eyes widened. He knew she could feel his erection growing against her belly.
“Oh, man.” He dropped her hands like he’d been zapped with a cattle prod. Maybe he should start by calming himself down before calming her.
Breathe. Try not to throttle her, and whatever the hell else you do, do not kiss her.
“Let me out of this car immediately.”
“It’s not a car, it’s a limo. And no one’s stopping you.” Could he be charged with kidnapping if the vehicle never moved? After all, they were parked on a public street, a mere stone’s throw from the police station.
She reared back, as if preparing to head-butt him, then seemed to change her mind. Holding up her wrists to display the red marks his grip had left, she said, “The doors are locked.”
“My bad. That’s an automatic safety feature. Autolocks when a passenger gets in the back. Cuts down on carjacking, kidnapping . . .” His voice trailed off lamely. His hand went to his heart of its own accord. “I’m honest-to-God sorry if I scared you.”
Her eyes flashed. “You’re always honest-to-God sorry for scaring me, and I honest-to-God don’t give a damn about your apologies.”
Seemed she remembered the first time they’d met all too well.
So did he.
“Fair enough. But I just want to talk you. I have no intention of holding you against your will.” He turned his palms up. Maybe a silent sorry would get around her defenses. He pressed a button and the privacy glass whirred down. “Unlock, please.”
The privacy window whirred back up, and the locks snapped open.
Faith grabbed her door handle, and he shook his head. “Just hold on one second. You don’t need to go jumping out into traffic. I’ll get out first, then you can slide out this side. The sidewalk’s safer.”
“The sidewalk used to be safer.” Her voice seethed, but she let go of her door handle, the tremor in her hands dissipating with each passing moment.
“Or, if you like, I’ll have my driver take you wherever you’re headed. I won’t be going along for the ride, so you don’t have to worry. I’ve got an appointment with a police detective.”
There was a moment of cold silence. She continued to eye him warily. “I’m free to go?”
“You always were.”
“Except when I wasn’t.”
“I explained about the locks.” But she had a valid point. “I never should have grabbed you like that. But I’ve seen my brother hurt so many times, and you’re his psychiatrist. You’re supposed to help him, not call the cops on him. Surely you can see how I could get wound up enough to forget my manners.”
“Forget your manners?” she intoned through gritted teeth. “Technically speaking, you assaulted me, maybe even kidnapped me. I could press charges against you if I wanted.”
“Technically speaking, I scooped you up off the sidewalk about a half second before you put that fancy toe of yours in doggie doo. Then I placed you in a luxury vehicle and offered to have my chauffeur drive you home. And don’t forget, you had your fists up in a very threatening manner. I feared for my safety. I honest-to-God did.” If he laughed at himself, maybe she’d laugh with him.
The corners of her mouth curved ever so slightly. He caught the briefest flash of pretty white teeth. “You feared for your safety?”
“You looked positively ferocious.” If she hadn’t forgiven him yet, it was only a matter of time. He was on a roll. “It would’ve been a shame to ruin those great shoes.”
Her foot wagged, her heel slipping in and out of her stiletto. He could swear those were the same shoes she’d been wearing at the gallery, and he was up for saying anything to distract her from his bad behavior. This might be as good a topic as any. “Those your only pair of stilettos?”
“Yes, if you must know.” Her tone was granite, and her shoulders were steel.
Maybe he’d overestimated his charm, or maybe he’d inadvertently insulted her. He chose to believe the latter. Most of the women he knew had closets full of Jimmy Choos, Ferragamos, and Louboutins. He knew because he was usually the one who paid the bill. Women he dated never wore the same pair twice. “These are lovely.” He pointed at her foot.
It jittered faster. “You can’t possibly be interested in my shoes.” By now, the pink had returned to her cheeks, and she seemed to have successfully gathered her composure—or maybe that was just what she wanted him to think.
“What can I say? I noticed your shoes because I like your legs. I mean generally speaking, I’m a leg man.” How much worse could this conversation get? He wasn’t distracting her. He was pissing her off. He hadn’t been this off-balance with a woman since high school. “Look, I’m not asking for a medal here although I did save your one pair of fancy shoes, but maybe you could cut me enough slack to hear me out.”
“Mr. Jericho, I can assure you that these Rambo tactics . . .”
Rambo. Not a compliment. He retrieved white wine from the limo’s bar, poured a glass, and pressed it into her hands. So what if it was before noon?
Her jaw dropped, and she stared at the goblet. As she sat beside him in the limo, back ramrod straight, eyes gleaming with both a hard determination that made him believe in her will and an underlying vulnerability that softened his heart, it struck him: Faith Cl
ancy could be a powerful ally.
Besides, his brother trusted her, and that meant Luke needed her help. “I’ve got red if you’d rather.” He was back in Luke-mode. If anyone knew how to win a woman over, it was him.
She slid farther away from him. “Mr. Jericho, I can assure you that you needn’t resort to either force or seduction to have a conversation with me. If you want to talk to me about your brother, all you have to do is call my office. I’ve got Dante’s signed consent to speak with you on file.”
“And I can assure you I don’t need to resort to seduction. I don’t seduce women. Women seduce me.” He sat back, enjoying the way his words made the color deepen in her cheeks. “I only gave you wine to settle your nerves.”
“I’m not nervous.” She steadied the hand that held her wine and took a slug. “And I happen to agree with you.”
“Great,” he said before he’d fully processed her remark. Then, “You agree that women seduce me, not the other way around?”
She tossed back another sip of wine. “I agree with you that it’s my job to help your brother. First do no harm is the doctor’s credo after all.”
“And yet you turned him in to the police.”
“He confessed to horrible crimes.”
“He’s fragile. He can’t always distinguish what’s real from what’s not. You must know his confession can’t be taken at face value.”
“I get what you’re saying. I truly do. But I can’t afford to risk someone else’s life on my working diagnosis. I’ll do what I can—”
Suddenly, a loud pop sounded, followed by the crackling of breaking glass.
He saw Faith flinch as her window’s safety glass fractured but didn’t dump into the backseat. A lurch of the limo jolted them both, spilling Faith’s wine and knocking her head against the window.
Goddamnit.
Reaching across her, Luke locked Faith’s seat belt in place. His breath was coming in short angry bursts. He lowered the privacy window, and growled, “Drive like hell.”
Faith’s eyelids fluttered open and the room—scratch that—the interior of the limo came back into focus. Through the fog in her head, she heard the driver’s voice. “Sorry, Mr. Jericho, I had my eye on a pretty girl across the street when I saw a man dart into the road with a rock in his hand. I didn’t have time to pull away before—”
Confession Page 7
