by Devyn Quinn
Her heart rate sped up. Roger had fifteen years on her age-wise, but that meant nothing. At forty-five he was vital and vigorous, having twice the energy of a much younger man.
Figuratively speaking, seeing Roger was like having shards of glass ground into her eyes. It hurt. “I came as soon as I got the messages.” There was nothing else to say that would be appropriate, so she said nothing. Callie could only look at her ex-lover.
And remember.
Seeing him so close, a fierce urge to beg him to take her back shot through her mind. How in the name of God had she gotten along without him for six months? If she closed her eyes, she easily pictured him naked, palming her hips in his huge hands, fingers digging tightly, almost painfully, into her skin, pushing the tip of his cock against her clit, teasing but not entering. Roger enjoyed making her beg for it.
She’d begged.
Remembering his possessive touch, her skin responded with fire. The air in the cramped room seemed to evaporate. She was suddenly burning up despite the chill. She unzipped her jacket.
Roger’s eyes caught the move. A secret knowing smile crossed his lips. He knew exactly what lay under her clothes. She might as well have stripped down to her skin by the hungry look lurking in his eyes.
She turned away. Damn, that man’s gaze was an eyefuck almost as satisfying as sex itself. She’d believed she was ready to work with Roger again, despite the ugly end of their affair. She was mistaken. She was far from ready. She had no business accepting this assignment.
The rhythm of her heart sped up. She cursed herself for allowing her emotions to simmer. In the back of her mind, she measured the man she’d have to stand up against. If he wanted to play it that way, she’d have to brush him off and give him the cold shoulder. Indulging herself with him had almost ruined her personally. Letting it destroy her professionally would be the last nail in her coffin. That couldn’t happen. It would be a test of her mettle to go on as if nothing had ever happened between them.
Nothing at all, would be her mantra.
She swallowed, attempting to banish her fear and discomfort. The morning’s coffee curdled in her stomach. Fear was an emotion for the weak. Fear would make her too afraid to go on with her life. Fear would destroy her, shred her like a small animal under the claws of a larger, hungrier beast. She had to be intense, focused, relentless.
Clearing her mind of thoughts related to their affair, Callie refocused her attention. “What happened?”
Without missing a beat, Reinke answered. “We’ve got another victim.” In the span of a few seconds his gaze had changed, to cold, flat, and impersonal. “Take a look for yourself.”
Callie looked. Tension returned. Damn. She hated looking at dead people, especially murder victims.
Under the glare of probing lights, the naked victim was female, young, and, once, very pretty. Hair the color of pure corn silk straggled around her face and shoulders, strangely bright against the unhealthy pallor of her skin. A simple gold cross on a chain circled her neck.
The jolt of recognition struck powerfully.
Callie felt the blood drain from her face. Just a day before, the girl had been alive and, seemingly, well. Though not a particularly religious person, Callie hoped the cross offered a comfort to the woman before she died. In the back of her mind she doubted the thought.
Squelching her rising emotion, she clenched a hand at her side. If she cried, it would ruin the illusion she was desperate to create, one of control and distance.
Callie blinked.
The victim didn’t. Brown eyes stared up with an opaque gaze. Her complexion was pale, as if God had cast her in wax instead of flesh. Dried blood crusted both nostrils. The trail had rounded her mouth to track down her chin and neck. Colorless lips were drawn back in a rictal grimace. She’d resisted death.
And lost.
The medical examiner caught the look on her face. “First one you’ve seen like this?”
Callie nodded. “Yes.”
Reinke watched her every reaction like a hawk. “Know who she is?”
Mouth all of a sudden desert dry, Callie swallowed, reminding herself to breathe. Still, the invisible fingers refused to lessen their grip. Trying to clear her mind, she felt both sick and shaky, like someone suffering a nerve-shattering shock. Her head felt as though it had been squeezed in a vise.
She swayed slightly, then shook her head as if to regain her inner balance. The twinge in her shoulders was turning into relentless knots. “I don’t know her name, but I saw her at the bar last night with Drake. They seemed on good terms.”
Reinke’s lips formed a cruel line across his face. “Apparently things changed.” His voice was barely restrained fury.
Stay calm. “So it seems.”
Leveling an unflinching gaze, Reinke angrily pointed to the body. His expression was so intense it seemed the pressure from his clenched jaw would shatter his face. “That’s what Drake does when he tosses them back.”
His words flooded her mind. Fighting the clench of nerves, Callie drew in a breath, striving to keep her own expression neutral. “How long has she been dead?”
The coroner raised his head. “Not long. From the liver temperature, I’d guess it was sometime late last night.”
Feeling a sudden pressure behind her eyes, Callie lifted a hand to massage her temple. A queasy sensation was slithering into her bowels. This case had taken a turn down a complicated path. She knew for a fact Drake had slipped out of Hell-Bound Train around two AM—taking the woman with him. It seemed inconceivable he could commit murder, and then chase Callie down a few hours later.
Inconceivable, maybe. Impossible? Not entirely. Especially if he had help.
“Where was she found?”
Agent Charlie Grayson consulted his notebook. “Down in the NoLo, an alley behind one of the abandoned hotels. Sanitation workers found her this morning around seven.” NoLo was local slang for Belmonde’s lower north side. Part of the city’s red-light district, the sin and skin trade was alive and well. Along the strip of back streets hosting the city’s sex trade, the sultry town sizzled with blazing hot adult entertainment.
The time was presently ten after one in the afternoon. It hadn’t taken long for the feds to swoop in and claim the victim from local law enforcement.
“Go ahead and fill her in,” Reinke said.
The ME nodded. A balding gnome, nature had put tiny eyes over a large nose and an even larger mouth, none of which matched. Fingers stained with nicotine, he continually dressed the same way: wrinkled khakis, and a lab coat stained with blood, food, and God knew what else.
“We know this one belongs to our suspect, as he rarely deviates from his chosen methods.” Brad Jackson lifted one of the victim’s hands. A series of gouges, like a perfect dotted line, ringed the girl’s wrist. The gouges weren’t deep, just enough to penetrate the surface of the skin. The other wrist bore identical damages, as did her neck.
Callie gave a tight grimace. “What did that?”
Jackson peered over the rim of heavy plastic frames. “My guess is some kind of restraint, very tight and most likely very uncomfortable to endure. Only the most sadistic mind could’ve conceived something like this to assert control.”
An emotional knot wedged in Callie’s throat. Her hand clenched tighter, as if to squeeze away any influences his words might have transferred to her. The prickle rising at the back of her neck kicked up a notch. Being bound with something that invasive must have been terrifying.
“Go on.” Not that she wanted to hear any more.
With the help of an aide, the body was lifted and turned. A shallow hole gaped at the base of the victim’s skull. “Of the five victims we know of,” Jackson continued, “all have this same injury—the death blow. Savage, cold, and downright barbaric.”
An understatement.
Jackson commenced to fill her in for the next fifteen minutes. The rest of the girl’s body bore intense bruises and other cuts. By the bruising be
tween her gently spread legs, there was no doubt that she’d been sexually assaulted. Their best hope at this point was for semen or saliva to provide them with a DNA profile of the offender—or offenders. The possibility existed that more than one man was involved.
Though Callie heard Jackson’s words, they registered as little more than a drone in her ears. Too many thoughts were tumbling through her head to pay attention. Less than twelve hours ago the corpse was a living, breathing human being.
Now the unknown girl was dead, no more than an empty shell soon to rot away into little more than a pile of bones. Who she was, what she was, the sins she’d committed didn’t matter anymore. Death had wiped away her identity, her joy and sorrows. Only her pain remained, stark and brutal. Because she’d passed from life in such a tragic way, those who survived would be responsible for seeking justice, speaking for one no longer able.
By the time Jackson finished, Callie was too drained to think. Fighting the clench of nerves, she scrubbed her numb face, disbelieving. “Shit.” The victim’s injuries exactly matched those in autopsy photos she’d viewed of other victims.
Small scars flicked across the victim’s neck, shoulders, breasts, and abdomen. Well healed, these were obviously inflicted before death.
Callie thought about her own scars, and wondered. The impulse died before she gave it further consideration, vanishing like ashes in the wind. Something else took its place, more important than a few old scars on a corpse.
As much as she hated the idea, it was entirely possible she’d just slept with the man who’d carried out the vicious rape and execution. The location of the body was too near the previous three victims to be a coincidence. This one, like the others, wouldn’t be going into the papers. As an ongoing federal investigation, a press blackout would be declared.
Callie turned away from the body. She needed a moment to think, gather her thoughts. Not an easy thing. Her mind was a jumble, personal knowledge warring with duty, doing the right thing versus doing the wrong thing. Without really considering the consequences, she’d put herself between a rock and a hard place. Sleeping with her had given Drake something she hadn’t remotely considered.
An alibi.
Science could only guesstimate when the girl had died. Eye witnesses might place Drake in the bar with the victim, but leaving a bar with a woman and killing her were two different things. His best bet toward a plea of innocence would be to have another person verify his whereabouts.
Preferably someone he was intimate with at the time. The strategy was brilliant. A master stroke.
She leveled an unflinching gaze at the image reflected in the window. Head tilted slightly, her pale face was taut with uncertainty. She didn’t want to look at herself more than she had to, but some inner compulsion drove her to stare down the face the glass presented.
She swallowed a gasp. The woman in the glass looked guilty. If it’s true it’s him, she silently fretted, how do I confront this?
Her heart beat wildly, pulse racing with anxiety. Oh, God, why didn’t she think things through before letting Drake into her apartment? Unfortunately, regret, like hindsight, was always more easily examined in retrospect.
Callie closed her eyes, leaning forward to press her burning forehead into the glass. The cool surface was soothing, like a balm to her soul. She felt as if someone had led her to the top of a cliff and then, without warning, pushed her off. Somehow, she’d managed to catch the edge, but she was still left to dangle helplessly high above the ground.
I fucked up.
Roger’s voice broke into her thoughts, sharp and more than a bit annoyed. “Something wrong, Agent Whitten?”
No answer.
Snapping out of the trance she’d fallen into, Callie considered her options for a few seconds. Drawing in a deep fortifying breath, she made a decision.
Time to confess.
7
“And you’re sure of the time frame Drake was with you?” Roger Reinke asked.
Callie nodded. “Yes,” she answered crisply. “After leaving the bar, I made contact with Norton to debrief, then proceeded along my normal route.”
Roger scowled. “No side trips anywhere?”
Ignoring his apparent dissatisfaction, Callie shook her head. “None. I’ve been careful to keep the same schedule and habits.”
“And your contact with Drake has been…” He let the question trail off. An hour had passed since the agents pulled together a hasty meeting in the morgue’s conference room, but no one seemed satisfied with her answers.
Callie sighed. The grilling was uncomfortable, but unavoidable. She’d already covered these details, twice. Her superiors had expected progress, were hungry for the break that had thus far eluded them. She understood she had to be precise, give agents all the information they needed to establish Drake’s patterns.
Ignoring the edgy tone in Roger’s voice, she broke eye contact and reached for her cigarettes. Her fifth so far. The idea of quitting had long passed. Charlie Grayson asked to bum a smoke, his third. She quietly passed him one, mentally noting the morning’s freshly opened pack was nearing empty as the afternoon progressed.
Wasting no time, Grayson lit up and took a long drag before returning the lighter. “Thanks. Now a cup of coffee would make my day.”
She briefly nodded. “No problem.”
Reinke cleared his throat in disapproval. “If you don’t mind, please proceed.”
Callie exhaled a lungful of smoke. “My contact with Drake has been exactly as instructed. I’ve been friendly, making small talk, eyeing him up and expressing my interest.” She flicked the ashes into a nearby ashtray. “I suppose he got the message.”
Having let Roger Reinke conduct the majority of the interview, Assistant Director in Charge Samuel Faber looked up from his notes, which he’d jotted on a yellow legal pad.
An ex-military man still sporting a crew cut, Faber was fanatical about bending no rule. He was one rung up in the chain of command, the man calling all the shots. “Is it possible you and Norton were seen together?”
Callie glanced up at Faber. Through the last hour, his laser beam stare hadn’t left her once. Probing, dissecting, visually slicing her to pieces. She wondered if he simply disapproved of her less formal style, or if he was sizing her up and finding her performance inadequate.
Or maybe he knew she was lying. It occurred to her Norton was able to slip into her apartment any time he wanted—easy enough to plant a listening or recording device.
Paranoid.
Reining in her wild theories, Callie concentrated on focusing on the task at hand. She had information. These men needed it. Simple. She shouldn’t be taking it personally. Faber wasn’t being a bastard for putting her feet to the fire. He had a job to do, as did she. “More than possible,” she finally concurred. “Same street corner, same time, every night. I buy a couple of joints and slip him a twenty-dollar bill.”
The marijuana Paul Norton sold was, in fact, nothing more noxious than parsley, better eaten than smoked. Buying from her dealer gave a plausible reason for the two to be seen together. Local law enforcement had the heads-up that both were federal agents. Norton had been hassled by the street cops as part of his cover. Callie had been busted once, taken in, but quickly cut loose and hustled out the back door—a vital move allowing her street credibility to remain intact.
Faber nodded. “Any chance Drake’s made you out to be an agent?”
Callie briefly focused her attention on her cigarette, watching the smoke rise from its tip. “I doubt it. We’ve been too damn careful. My professional judgment is he believes he’s found an easy snatch.”
Mitch Reeve snickered, giving her the eye. “And was it easy?”
Callie glanced across the table. Her eyes narrowed. Asshole. “Was what easy?”
“For him to pick you up?” Innuendo laced Reeve’s broadside. He’d struck a nerve, and not in a pleasant way.
A quicksilver cutting remark jumped to the end of her to
ngue. Close to letting loose a verbal bitch slap, Callie thought better of it. Men were pigs. Why did they turn into immature jerks the minute sex was mentioned?
Sitting among these men, Callie felt every bit the outsider, an interloper in their all-male club. Every damn one of them had degrees out the ass. She had two, a bachelor’s degree in computer science, as well as an associate’s degree in criminal justice. She’d served her country and earned her qualifications and the right to sit among their rarefied number. Yet something would always be a barrier between them.
They had balls. She didn’t.
She had a twat, and her sex would always be a strike against her in a man’s profession. As long as you can do the job, it’s not about being male or female, she reminded herself. It’s all in the details.
Fighting to maintain her composure, Callie clasped her hands together until her knuckles whitened from the pressure. She hated the games, but she knew how to play them. “Sure. I’m cheap and I’m easy.” She intended the statement to sound blithe. Instead, her tone was tinged with a longing and loneliness betraying the hollow void in her soul.
Reeve’s tongue went into his cheek in a manner leaving no doubt what he was thinking about. “And you did what?”
So hot a moment ago, a chilly perspiration soaked her, dotting her forehead. “I almost had a fucking panic attack,” she snapped. “What would you do if the man you had under surveillance followed you home at three in the morning?”
A cunning glint sidled into the depths of Reeve’s eyes. “I’d invite him in.”
The rest of the men laughed.
Barely hanging on to her composure, Callie tried to ignore them. Impossible. The tension in the room still felt like a noose around her neck. At any moment someone was bound to kick the chair out from under her feet. “That’s exactly what I did,” she shot back coolly. “I felt contact should be maintained as long as possible.”
