He limped to her couch, looking just as adorably grumpy as he had when he’d jerked open the front door and complained about her taking so long to get there. Well, complained that Helga had taken so long.
“Spill it,” he said. “Mason sent you, didn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“How would you put it?”
“I’d say that I went to Mr. Ford and asked if I could hire you. He said he was certain that you’d be interested, but that I’d have to ask you personally. He graciously provided your address and here I am. Technically, I sent myself.” She remained seated on the ultra-plush couch and offered her hand. “Teagan Ray. Nice to meet you.”
He didn’t bother with a handshake. “Bryson Anton. I don’t work for Mason Ford anymore. Get out of my house.”
CHAPTER THREE
“No.”
Bryson stared at the defiant young woman sitting cross-legged on his couch. There was nothing about her sensible flat shoes, her conservative navy blue dress pants and short-sleeved white blouse that buttoned all the way to her neck to indicate that she was a radical militant bent on destroying the rest of his miserable morning. Even her black hair, which appeared to be curly based on the little wisps that framed her face, was mostly tamed in a tight braid that hung down the middle of her back. So why wasn’t she cowed by his sour disposition and gruff commands? And why was she still sitting on his couch?
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me correctly, Ms. Ray.”
“Call me Teagan. I’ll call you Bryson.” She flashed a bright white smile that probably cost her parents a second mortgage.
“Ms. Ray, you may call me Mr. Anton, or the jerk who’s throwing you out of his house. Because that’s exactly what I’m doing. Tossing you out. I didn’t invite you here so—”
“Actually, you did.”
“Excuse me?”
She tapped her temple as if that would explain everything. “I have a photographic memory. I basically see words—”
“I know what a photographic memory is,” he bit out.
“Excellent. It’s good to use terminology we’re both familiar with for the absolute best understanding, with no confusion. A common frame of reference will help us communicate better. Don’t you think?”
“You lost me at no confusion.”
She grinned. She seemed to do that a lot. “Let’s go back to the part where you invited me here.”
“I didn’t invite you.”
“When Mr. Ford told you about me, you told him, ‘You expect me to believe she asked for a washed-up former FBI agent to screw up her case so someone else will die? If she did, send her on over.’” She spread her hands out beside her. “Here I am. Plus you invited me in at the front door. It’s kind of like with vampires, once you let them in, that’s it. You can’t just throw them out.”
“Watch me.” He tossed his cane on the other couch, then scooped her up in his arms.
Her dark brown eyes got so wide he could see the beautiful little golden flecks around the irises.
He whirled around, then stumbled and had to steady his shin against the coffee table to keep from tipping over.
She boldly looped her tawny-brown arms around his neck and stared up at him with a look of concern. “I’m not sure you should be holding me like this without your cane. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Plus, even as gorgeous—with a capital G—as you are, I still think we should get to know each other better before we jump into each other’s arms. Don’t you?” She fluttered her impossibly long, thick eyelashes.
Actually fluttered them.
“Has anyone ever accused you of insanity?” he asked.
“All the time. It’s one of my best qualities—the ability to act crazy while I outmaneuver and outsmart everyone around me.”
He scowled down at her.
She tightened her arms around his neck. “I could literally do this all day. We fit together perfectly. My soft curves, your hard muscles. Very comfy.”
“Are you flirting with me, Ms. Ray?”
“I believe I am, Mr. Anton.”
“Because you’re trying to confuse and outmaneuver me so I’ll let you stay?”
“Mostly. Is it working?”
“The jury’s still out on that. But my hip’s starting to hurt like the devil again, so I’m either going to drop you or set you down. I’m leaning toward dropping.”
“I prefer setting.”
“No sense of adventure.” He let her legs slide down until she was standing. Then he gingerly let her go, trying not to move too fast and lose his precarious balance.
She grabbed his cane and handed it to him. “Is this one of those cool FBI things? Like if you twist the head it opens and becomes a rifle? Or maybe the tip has poison in it? You jab the bad guy and he dies a horrible death a few minutes later. Am I right?”
“It’s a gun, of course. Poison is so beneath an FBI agent.”
Her grin widened. “James Bond has nothing on you guys.”
He rolled his eyes. It was all he could manage with the pain slicing through his muscles. When he thought he could shuffle across the room without falling to the floor in an embarrassing heap, he headed toward the kitchen. He eyed her morosely as she used her two perfectly healthy hips to hop onto one of the bar stools at the marble-topped island.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” he warned. “You haven’t achieved victory. Once I liquor up enough to be able to haul you to the front door, I’ll be throwing you out as promised.”
“I consider myself forewarned.” She motioned toward him. “Mind if I ask what’s wrong with the leg? I noticed the ramp outside, and a wheelchair in the corner of the family room.”
“You can ask all you want. And I can choose not to answer.” Bypassing the scotch that he preferred for late-night drinking—alone—he grabbed a bottle of tequila along with a shot glass.
She motioned toward the cabinet. “Can you at least pretend that you have some manners and act like a host for a few minutes?”
“Are you even old enough to drink?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure I don’t look that young.”
He sighed and reached for a second glass. After pouring two generous helpings, he set the bottle between them. “Ms. Ray. You seem like an intelligent young woman—”
She grimaced. “You say young as if you think I’m a child. I can’t imagine that I’m more than ten, maybe eleven years younger than you.”
He arched a brow. “Meaning that while you were in elementary school, I was losing my virginity to the homecoming queen at my high school.”
She hesitated with a shot glass halfway to her mouth. “Can’t top that. But I did have my first kiss quite early. Third grade. Behind the jungle gym. Ricky Southernton.” She tossed her shot back with one gulp.
“On the lips?”
“On the cheek.”
“Doesn’t count. I was in second grade when I kissed Becky Louis. She bit my tongue.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have shoved it down her throat.”
He reluctantly smiled. “Maybe not.” He tossed his own shot back and reveled at the smooth burn as it went down. A few more shots and he might be able to avoid the wheelchair until at least the dinner hour.
“Have you thought about getting prescription painkillers instead of drowning the pain with alcohol?”
He shot her a look that should have frozen her to the bar stool.
She held up her hands in a placating gesture. “Sorry. The filter between my brain and my mouth is defective. I shouldn’t have asked.”
The completely unrepentant look on her face, in direct opposition to her words, forced a laugh out of him. How long had it been since he’d laughed, or even smiled? He had no idea. But the novelty of both had him starting to relax, if only a little. “I was on pretty strong p
ain pills in the beginning, but it was like living in a brain-fog all the time. Had to wean myself off them. Drinking works better for me, and it’s a heck of a lot more fun.” He refilled his glass, then paused in question with the bottle poised over hers.
“Yes, please.”
He topped off her shot, then drained his while watching her. If he hadn’t been paying close attention, he wouldn’t have noticed the tiny, involuntary shudder when she tossed it back.
“That’s a waste of some pretty great tequila for someone who doesn’t even like it.”
She shoved the glass across the island for more. “What makes you think I don’t like it?”
He poured more for himself, but not for her. “When you have ten or eleven more years of experience behind you, maybe you’ll figure it out. Go home, Teagan. There’s nothing for you here. I can’t help you.”
“You mean you won’t help me?”
“The intent doesn’t matter. The result is the same.”
“Then I guess we’re back to drinking. Shots with a hot guy before noon. I can think of worse ways to spend my morning.” She grabbed the bottle.
He tugged it away from her. “If you’re trying to win me over with the hot guy talk, you can stop right now. Like I said, I’m not going to help with your case. And I’m not buying this over-the-top happy, flirty personality you’re presenting. Nobody’s that cute. You’re trying too hard.”
“You think I’m cute?” She grinned and fluttered her long lashes again.
“I think you’re nervous and overcompensating. It’s time to drop the act.”
Her smile dimmed and she seemed genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
He rested his forearms on the island. “Profiler, remember? At least, I used to be one. It took me a few minutes to realize what was happening. Probably because I’m out of practice and I do my best to avoid people these days. But you don’t have to keep pretending, trying to be something you’re not. Maybe it’s the tequila that I drank, maybe it’s that I admire your spunk and the effort you’ve put into this. Whatever it is, you’ve earned a slight reprieve. I’ll listen to your spiel so you can get it out of your system. Then I’ll throw you out.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed, then grabbed his full shot glass and tossed it back before he could stop her.
He silently cursed himself for not being more careful. Given her small stature and the strength of the tequila, her ability to safely drive herself home was now seriously in question.
“Better?” he asked dryly.
“Better. Although I’ll admit that scotch I saw in your cabinet is more to my taste.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
She grinned.
“This is where I warn you that I haven’t read the information that Mason left me.”
“I kind of figured, since the folder I gave him is hanging half-out of your garbage can on your back patio.” She motioned toward the glass doors on the far side of the kitchen.
“Observant, I’ll give you that. Then again, it’s hard to miss a neon green folder with hideous pink polka dots.”
“Not a polka-dot fan?”
“Not in the least.”
“Pity.”
He shifted his weight to help ease the tightness in his hip. “Maybe you can brief me on what’s in the folder. Mason mentioned you think you’re on the trail of a serial killer.”
She nodded and ran her hands up and down her arms, looking slightly less eager now that the discussion was at hand. She reached for the tequila.
He swore and placed the bottle on the counter behind him. “Trust me. You’re already going to have a heck of a hangover. No more alcohol. Now, for a common reference, so there’s no confusion, what name are you dubbing your alleged killer?”
She drew a deep breath, then straightened her shoulders as if she was about to head into battle. “The Kentucky Ripper.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Bryson froze, then slowly straightened. “That’s not funny.”
Teagan’s eyes widened. “I’m not making a joke. I’m serious. The Ripper is the killer I’ve been researching.”
“At least now I know why you asked Mason for me, specifically. Well, forget it. Rehashing past failures isn’t my idea of fun.”
She held up her hands. The overhead lights winked off several gold rings. “Just hear me out. I’ve been researching this for a long time. I’m not here to cast blame. I’m here for your insight. And I’m here to ask a very important question.” She squeezed her hands together. “What if the guy they thought was the Ripper is actually a copycat and the real serial killer is still at large?”
He winced, then eyed his empty glass with longing. “If that’s true, then I screwed up even worse than I thought.”
“Not at all. You didn’t make the mistakes during the Ripper investigation. The police did.”
He tore his gaze from the shot glass. “Maybe I drank too much tequila too because that one went right over my head. I’m lost, in spite of our common frame of reference.”
“Then I’ll be happy to explain. First, profiles are tools, not biblical text.”
He stared at her as his own words were thrown back at him. “Did Mason say that to you?”
She frowned. “No. Why?”
He shrugged. “Just wondering. Go on.”
She crossed her arms on top of the island. “When your profile indicated that one of the two top suspects was the most likely killer, the police went after him with everything they had. Meanwhile, their other prime suspect was no longer under surveillance. He took advantage of their mistake to abduct and murder a woman. Instead of thinking of your profile as a divining rod, they should have stayed the course, kept their surveillance on both suspects until some evidence tipped the scales.” She motioned in the air as if waving away her words. “Regardless, my point is that, based on my research, I think your profile was spot-on. The first guy was the real Ripper. The guy they put in prison is a copycat. The police got sidetracked by the last murder and pursued that killer to the exclusion of everyone else. So, while there’s plenty of blame to go around for how everything turned out, none of it should have ever blown back on you.”
He was going to filet Mason for giving this misguided, albeit beautiful woman his address. Her theories were bogus. Unfortunately, he could tell how vested she was in them and he didn’t want to destroy her confidence before her law enforcement career was even off the ground.
Using his nonjudgmental teaching voice, the one he’d adopted while presenting guest lectures at Quantico, he explained, “For that theory to hold water, the first requirement would be that the Ripper is still active. But no other women have been tortured and brutalized per his specific signature since he was put away. Explain how your theory addresses that.”
“No other women that you know of.”
“Fair enough. That I know of. But if new cases had popped up, I can’t imagine the media not making a connection even if the police didn’t. The Ripper case was bread and butter to them. It made for great ratings. If something that sensational happened again, they’d be all over it.”
“The media in Kentucky, yes, absolutely. Other places, not necessarily. They don’t know about the original cases and wouldn’t realize there was a serial killer operating in the area.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely,” she countered.
He admired her confidence, even if she was dead wrong. “Why would the killer change locations?”
“Because he’s smart. He knew he’d been given a tremendous opportunity, that a mentally disturbed fall guy had taken credit for his crimes and turned attention away from him. He knew that if he killed again in the same area, the police would know right away that they’d caught a crazy guy bent on enjoying the spotlight and confessing to crimes he didn’t do. They’d be back on the trail of the
real Ripper, reassemble the task force. But stopping, not killing anymore, isn’t an option either. Our psychopath is driven by an urge to kill that he can’t control. So in addition to changing locations, he also changes his MO, his modus operandi, the way he kills.”
He could see why Mason had found her compelling. She spoke with authority, like someone who’d had real-life experience with this sort of thing rather than just book knowledge. He decided to press her some more, see whether she’d backtrack and second-guess herself, or hold firm and defend her theory. “Don’t serial killers always keep the same MO?”
She gave him a wounded look that almost had him feeling guilty. “You’re treating me like a student, testing me, aren’t you? Pushing to see if I know what I’m talking about.”
“Do you? Know what you’re talking about?”
Her gaze dropped to the island. “Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”
Her ragged tone put him on alert, had him studying her body language. The best indicator of honesty and genuine emotion as opposed to lies and bravado was how a person moved, how they spoke, not the words they used. Her body language told him that something else was at play here, something she wasn’t yet ready to say out loud, something that had dread curling in his chest. “You were talking about modus operandi.”
She cleared her throat. “What I was saying is that serial killers don’t always maintain the same MO, their method, how they kill. Modus operandi is a conscious choice. They can change it if necessary. Like if a killer starts out tying his victims with shoelaces. If one of them manages to break a shoelace and escapes, the next time he abducts someone he’ll use handcuffs. Different MO, same killer.”
“That’s a good way to explain it,” he allowed. “But I’d add that MO is more about what’s necessary, or what the killer feels is necessary, in order to carry out his crime. Outside of forensics, with no fingerprints or even DNA, what would convince you that some murders were done by the same killer if the MO had changed?” Again, he watched her closely, trying to decipher the subtext, the meaning beneath her words.
“Signature. A serial killer, a true psychopath, is driven to kill. He can change parts of what he does, but the signature is an intrinsic part of his killing ritual. It’s the part of his crimes that he can’t change. Signature is a subconscious action, something he doesn’t choose to do or not to do. It’s something he’s compelled to do.” She clasped her hands on top of the island. “Like the Ripper carving an X across the abdomen of each of his victims after he abducts them. That’s his way of branding them, of letting them know that he…he owns them.”
Harlequin Intrigue January 2021 - Box Set 1 of 2 Page 20
