by Misty Evans
And those murders followed a pattern. A pattern Grey had been tracking a year ago, before he shot his career to hell when he got too close to the killer. He’d been the scapegoat of Special Agent in Charge, Harold Donaldson, on The Lion case before this. Monroe—a man Grey would lay down his life for—had crossed a line with his boss that no FBI agent should cross, ending Monroe’s career. Covering for him had ended Grey’s.
A sense of duty and the fight for justice were the only things that had Grey working under Donaldson this time.
For the girls, he told himself as Sydney eyeballed him. He was doing it for them.
Earning back his badge would take a goddamn miracle, but for now, he’d tell Sydney she could either cough up the evidence to reveal Ian Goldberg, attorney at law, as the dickweed he was or go to jail as his accomplice. Goldberg’s pro bono work for the shelter was either incredibly generous or a cover for the girls Ian and Sydney recruited for a prostitution ring.
Goldberg visited the shelter once a week at most and, at least on paper, had no direct contact outside of the shelter with any of the dead women. Sydney on the other hand…
Sydney was their best friend, den mother and sister. If they trusted anyone, it was her.
That meant she was either an accessory or could help Grey untangle the thread that would lead to a murder conviction.
Grey watched Syd closely. Behind her eyes, her brain was cartwheeling. He knew all about the ways she helped certain women disappear from Fresh Start. Had seen it himself two nights ago. She took her job and the shelter’s mission seriously. “It’s okay to take a minute to digest this, Miss Banfield.”
She rubbed her forehead. “I’m confused about the false names. These girls had no one. Literally. No one cared about them. Why would they need false names?”
Grey withdrew a cell phone from his pocket, hit a couple of buttons and showed Sydney the screen. “This was Kaitlin’s false birth certificate. The others also had them. I was hoping you could tell me why they needed false names, false identities. Does any of that make sense to you?”
“Fed Boy, none of this makes sense.”
“Friends call me Grey.”
He paused, seeing if she’d accept the name and by extension his invitation to be a friend.
She let him dangle. “Ian told me they left here to be interns for a senator. How the hell did they go from being interns to escorts? And how were they killed? Were they together?”
“The murders happened separately over the past year, but I believe they were all killed by the same man. Same MO. According to the autopsy reports, all were strangled, during or shortly after sex. The suspect is known to be into erotic asphyxiation and he’s not a fan of independent Western women. He likes ’em young, sexy and submissive. In profiler language, he’s a lust killer with a little power seeker mixed in. He kills because sex motivates him, but dominating women is a large part of the package. Amanda and LaToya were killed in their apartments, Kaitlin at a private club.”
“What kind of club? And if you know who the killer is, why don’t you arrest him?”
Here was where things got dicey. The Lion’s heart was as black as his diplomatic passport, but it was that passport that put him out of reach and under the protection of his own government. Not to mention the worthless diplomatic laws of the United States.
But not above justice. Not in Grey’s book.
Now, the escort service was missing another employee, a woman murdered in the privacy of Panthera Leo, Washington’s best-kept dirty secret.
And with all the dirty secrets floating around D.C., that was saying something.
The politicians and diplomats who frequented the private club lived above the law. The club, hidden under the guise of a legitimate place for the president and his cabinet to entertain visiting dignitaries, mocked everything Grey had stood for as a member of the army and the Bureau. Catering to diplomats, it provided all the vices a man might want: top-shelf booze, free-flowing drugs, and beautiful women who didn’t mind losing their clothes for powerful men.
Until this last murder, the killer hadn’t been so stupid—or so bold—as to kill at the Panthera. His previous victims had been killed in their luxury apartments, their deaths easier to sweep under the political carpet.
A dead escort, murdered in their midst, hit too close to home. What if the murderer turned on a diplomat or senator next time? And if the press got hold of this...
How much should he reveal about the inner workings of the Panthera Leo? About The Lion? Knowing too much in D.C. was as dangerous as not knowing enough. And regardless of his gut reassuring him Sydney was innocent of recruiting the girls into the service, he still wasn’t sure he could trust her. Was she a partner in Ian’s operation or was she simply his gullible lackey?
She fit the killer’s target prey, right down to her hair and eye color. Except for the submissive part. Sydney was no meek woman, and Grey needed a woman willing to take chances. To break rules. Because of his firing, there wasn’t a female FBI agent in the entire U.S. who would get within five-hundred yards of him, and definitely not one who would trust him to have her back. But without bait, he had no trap. He needed a woman who was capable of going undercover and putting herself in the heart of the action.
Sydney knew the women who’d been killed. She was smart—street smart as well as intelligent—and she had an in with Goldberg to get herself recruited.
Unless, of course, she was the one doing the recruiting.
“Knowledge is dangerous in this case. The less you know, the better.”
“Then I’m outta here.”
Tough and direct. Damn. “The club is a hotspot for international affairs, but it’s clandestine. Off the books. Drugs, alcohol, women, you name it, this club provides it for visiting dignitaries and various diplomats the U.S. government wants to sway on foreign policy.”
“And the escorts? They...cater...to these diplomats?”
Grey nodded, gave her time to digest the information.
“In exchange for what?”
“Luxury apartments, flashy jewelry, designer clothes.”
“All on the taxpayers’ dollars?”
“A small price to pay for influencing foreign policy.”
“Wow.” She took a step back, rubbed her forehead again as if he’d given her one major migraine. “And Ian’s recruiting my girls for this escort service?”
Got her. Grey smiled. “Thought they were women.”
Sydney shot him an aggravated look. “You’re sure it’s Ian?”
“It’s either him or you. He has more connections to Washington politicians and diplomats, but there is that incident in your background with your mother.”
Her eyes narrowed and she straightened her back. “Don’t even go there. My mother is dead. And if you know so much about my past, then you know that incident is why I help women not manipulate them into prostitution.”
Definite hot button. He didn’t particularly like pushing it, but if it got him what he needed, push it he would. “So you’ll help me prove Goldberg’s recruiting these women?”
“How will that stop the killer?”
It wouldn’t. But if she could convince Goldberg to recruit her... “One step at a time. Are you in or out with Goldberg?”
She studied him. “I don’t know. Give me a few hours to think about it and I’ll let you know.”
Three hours later, Syd sat staring at the foot-high stack of case files on her desk. All abused women with no place to go. Except maybe an escort service. She pushed back, glanced out the window. She didn’t want to believe this about Ian, but an idealist she’d never been. In her mind, anyone could be a creep.
Including Fed Boy. Which is why she called her private detective friend to see if he had any dirt on one Justice Greystone. Dave, a former cop, had handled many of the assault cases involving women who came through the shelter. Sometimes he even helped her when it came time for someone to disappear. She scooped up her phone and dialed. Su
re she was a pain in the ass, but he knew that already.
“You’re being a pain in the ass,” he said.
She smiled. “What’s your point?”
“I’m still digging, but here’s what I have on your guy. He works for Front Range Training Center under a false name—Jason Black. Teaches personal protection to rich folks. Three new training centers opened this year and every one of them tried to steal him away from Front Range. Guy’s former FBI and a former Delta Force operative, but obviously doesn’t want most folks to know it. His Bureau personnel record is off limits, but my nose says he got himself fired. Left in the middle of a hot murder investigation and his partner disappeared. Just up and went missing. Smells like he stepped in a pile. What do you want with this guy? He giving you trouble?”
How much to tell? Somehow, she didn’t think sharing would be in her best interest. Even if Dave had helped her. She hated liars, but until she understood what she was into, it would be better for Dave not to know. “I’m thinking of asking for his help with one of the women I’m working with.”
“Be careful. My gut says he’s trouble, regardless of his time with the Feds and the Army. I’ll do more digging, see if I can find out why his partner dropped off the grid and what this Greystone had to do with it, if anything.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. Keep this between us?”
“I always do.”
Syd ended the call, let the silence consume her. Peace. She hadn’t had much of that in her lifetime and chances were, given what she did for a living, she wouldn’t experience much of it in the future. Particularly if she let Fed Boy drag her into some sideways case. But really, wasn’t he doing the same thing she did on a daily basis? Playing just on the edge of not-quite-legal?
She grabbed her phone, scrolled the directory to the number he’d given her. Time to see what Justice Greystone had in mind.
The coffee shop was quiet. Syd knew it would be at this hour. Seven o’clock and she’d yet to have dinner. Fed Boy would be treating her to a scone as well as coffee. He sat in the back corner of the shop away from the two women parked at the table against the far wall. Syd dropped into the vacant chair across from him and tried not to fixate on his gorgeous eyes. Why did all the bad boys have killer eyes?
Forget the eyes. “I’m here. Tell me what you need.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That fast? Don’t you want to sleep on it?”
“Don’t need to. I checked you out.” She grinned. “You’re not the only one with contacts. It seems you and I are kindred spirits. My guess is you don’t mind coloring outside the lines if it’s for the greater good. I work hard to help the women at the shelter. One thing I won’t allow is their exploitation. So, here I am. But if you screw me, I’ll find a way to kill you and bury your body. How’s that sound, Jason?”
As if Grey had read Syd’s mind, a waitress delivered two coffees and a plate of scones. When the waitress left, he smirked. “Your detective friend only scratched the surface of how far outside the lines I color. I know he was digging up dirt on me today. I’ve burned a lot of bridges, but I still have people who owe me.” He sipped his coffee. “You want to know about Jason Black? Want the whole story about my tenure with the FBI? I’ll give it to you, but not until I’m sure you won’t be screwed by the same people who screwed me. Fair enough?”
A tough guy. Good for him. She leaned forward, ran a finger down the side of his cheek. “Deal. Start talking.”
He blinked, her touch seeming to surprise him, but he didn’t draw back. “The file folders on your desk. Are those of girls—women—staying at the shelter?”
“Yes, why?”
“Earlier this morning, before you arrived, Goldberg shuffled through the files and stuck a new one in between some others. I snapped a photo. For all I know, he could have been returning a borrowed file.”
“Or planting evidence against me?”
Grey shrugged. “I need to see that file. It could be his next recruit. See if you can figure out who it is and if anything in her background matches the dead women.”
“And if it does?”
“Give it to me and then I’ll decide whether we should convince Goldberg to pick you instead.”
Drop a bomb, why don’t you? “You want Ian to recruit me for the escort service?”
“It may come to that. Think you can handle it?”
She sat back, slowly crossed one leg over the other and he scanned her body. Men. So easy to manipulate. “Honey, you have no idea.”
His gaze rose slowly from her legs to her face. Calculating as well as appreciative. “Actually, I do. That’s why I picked you for this mission. You meet all my criteria.”
Criteria? What was she, a racehorse? “I’ve memorized every name in that stack of folders. I’ll know instantly which one Ian stuck in there.”
And didn’t that put a crack in her cement heart? She’d trusted Ian. In her mind, he’d given her a chance to help women rise above the misery they’d been saddled with. He’d raised funds for new mattresses, put her in contact with donors that kept the shelter pantry stocked and provided gently-used suits and other necessities for the job-hunting women.
For a woman who prided herself on judging someone’s character, on not trusting too easily, she’d blown this one. Big time.
Fixing it meant helping Fed Boy. Posing as a prostitute would carve a chunk out of her, but if it meant exposing a murderer, she’d do it.
“When I convince him to put me to work, is the government going to make sure I don’t wind up like Amanda and LaToya?”
Grey’s intense, beautiful eyes bored into hers. “Not the government, Sydney. Me. I’ll have your back every step of the way.”
Had anyone, excluding her mother, ever had her back? “So we’re partners. You take care of me and I take care of you? No exceptions. Even if you don’t like my methods, you won’t strand me?”
He hesitated, fiddling with his cup. “Another thing your detective friend didn’t figure out about me. I don’t strand my partners, no matter what they do. If you go down, I go with you.”
Just what she wanted to hear. The man wasn’t afraid to push boundaries. “Then we’ll make an excellent team.”
Finally, he sipped his coffee. “Do me a favor, partner.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t carry your gun in your purse. The safest place for a gun is in a holster on your body. If you’re undercover, I’ll fit you with a couple of holsters you can keep hidden on your person.”
He knew about her gun. Interesting.
“My purse works fine.”
He sighed. “Fine isn’t good enough. Personal protection is nothing to do half-assed. If you insist on carrying it in your purse, we’ll get you a purse with a built-in holster meant for concealed carry.”
She smiled. “Look at you, all worried about my body.”
Over the rim of the coffee cup, he eyed her again with that intensity that made the body in question flush. “As my new partner, the care and well-being of your body is now my responsibility. I take that responsibility very seriously.”
Hot damn. She was a competent woman, perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but his concern was touching. Even if she didn’t completely trust him. He’d have to work a little harder for that.
He threw some dollar bills on the table. “Time to get to work, partner.”
Chapter Five
Within twenty minutes, Syd stood in the darkness at the back door to Fresh Start with Fed Boy behind her. She placed her hand on the doorknob, but spun back and took in his suit and combed hair.
“What?” he asked.
“You need to lose the jacket. And roll up your sleeves.” She reached for his shirt buttons. “Let’s undo a couple of these.”
He pushed her hands away. “What the hell?”
“You’re a walking FBI recruitment ad. If I bring you in there, half the women will run screaming. Let’s not blow this thing before we start.”
“Gotcha. Good catch.” He slid his jacket off and she held it while he rolled his sleeves.
Fine looking man, this one. With his white shirt lighting up the darkness, she could ogle his broad shoulders. On a purely animal level, she had an urge to touch all that maleness. Maybe later. She handed the jacket back. “Put this in your car.”
“Yes, boss.”
She grinned. “Now you’re getting it.”
Fed Boy returned from stowing his jacket and Syd ushered him down the hall to her office. Distant chatter drifted from the front of the building where residents watched television in the common room. She’d check on them before she left.
“My office is this way.”
“I know,” he said.
Right. She unlocked her door and flipped on the light. After dumping her keys and purse on the desk, she tapped the stack of folders. “I’ll look through these. Give me a sec to locate the file.”
“Sure.”
Fed Boy casually strolled around her minuscule office, touching her personal effects here and there and her fingers twitched. She glanced up at him, cracked her neck, then went back to the files.
“Why are you so nervous? Nobody knows I’m an FBI reject.”
“Yeah, but I’ve never brought a man other than Ian in here. I think it’ll freak out the residents. At the very least, it’s odd. Here’s the file. Karen Dawson. She’s new.”
He stepped to the desk, huddled next to her and the faded, earthy scent of his cologne made her twitchy for other reasons. Not bad. Not bad at all. On top of Karen Dawson’s file sat the usual form clients completed when seeking assistance.
“She’s twenty-four,” he said. “Married. No kids. No job. Husband beats on her. Jesus.”
The floorboard outside her office creaked. Someone standing there. Syd looked over his shoulder and watched the doorknob turn. Crap.
