Heroes in Uniform: Soldiers, SEALs, Spies, Rangers and Cops: Sexy Hot Contemporary Alpha Heroes From NY Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors

by Sharon Hamilton

  Walker fingered another file. Marsh recognized it and gritted his teeth. His secretary Dora had sent a copy of the report on Josephine’s attack from his office in Boston to the NYPD and FBI at his insistence. Walker took out another photograph, this one a thin hollow-eyed child who lay sleeping in a hospital bed.

  Every muscle in Josephine’s frame tensed to stone. Then she started to shake. Slowly she extended a hand and stroked the edge of the photocopy like it was alive and the child might wake if she disturbed her.

  The form in the picture was flat-chested, narrow hipped. Androgynous. Sexless.

  “I think you were lucky on several counts.” Josephine flinched but Walker continued. “His behavior hadn’t escalated to murder yet, or you didn’t fit his victim profile.”

  “You don’t think he chose her specifically? You think she was an accident? Or an opportunistic attack?”

  Walker shrugged. “It’s a theory.”

  Vince stared hard at the table, mouth turned down, eyes focused on the images. “Is that you?” He nodded to the picture.

  Picking it up, she nodded, her eyes wide with shock.

  His deep baritone stirred the air. “So how many women do you think this animal has killed?”

  Sam Walker looked grim, rubbed his hands over his face.

  “Well, after interviewing Ms. Maxwell, I decided to run the information through ViCAP again, only this time I omitted the MO and just used the knife wound information.”

  They locked eyes and Marsh held his breath, dread settling into his marrow. “How many?” he asked.

  “I’ve found ten that fit with what we already had—all blondes, with their skin sliced rather than stabbed, some found in remote locations, others pulled out of rivers, some even burned.”

  “He’s destroying evidence.”

  Walker nodded at Marsh’s grim statement. “And now Interpol is involved…” The silence stretched on and on until Marsh wanted to grab the man by his jacket lapel and shake the information out of him.

  “How many?”

  “We’re setting up a timeline of disappearances going back as far as nineteen ninety-three when Josie was attacked—”

  “How many?” Marsh repeated harshly.

  “Maybe fifteen since ninety-three,” said Walker. “Sometimes it’s impossible to tell if decomp is too advanced.”

  Vince swore and turned away.

  Fear and unease radiated from Josephine’s taut frame like a violin string being plucked. Walker stared at her, but Marsh didn’t know what the man expected her to do. Feel guilty? For what? He doubted she knew her attacker, though she wasn’t telling them everything.

  Marsh hated seeing her scared. It tied a knot in his gut and scrambled his brains when he needed them most. He stared at the hardwood floor, knowing this situation was going to get worse before it got better—unless they got very, very lucky.

  “Why does he cut them?” Marsh repeated Josephine’s question.

  Vince frowned, hunched forward, his hands clasped together.

  “Scarification is big on the S & M scene. Lust murderers are often involved in sadism.” Walker shrugged. “We don’t know, we’re guessing at this point.”

  “So have you guys worked up a profile?”

  “The guys at the BAU are working on it now we have more information—unfortunately there are more murderers than FBI resources.” Walker frowned down at the coffee table, ran his hands along the hard edge. “We know we’re looking at a geographically transient, organized offender.”

  “The hardest type to catch.” It wasn’t news to any of them that they were dealing with a smart bastard, but even smart bastards made mistakes.

  Walker flipped some pages in his notebook.

  “Age,” he pressed his lips together. “This new information revises our age estimate. Assuming he was between eighteen and twenty-five when he first attacked Ms Maxwell, that puts him around thirty-eight years to forty-five years of age.”

  Which gave him a lot of good killing years left…

  “Caucasian?” Vince queried.

  Walker looked at Josephine who nodded in confirmation. “Yes, average height, white male with gray eyes is about our only solid point of reference right now.”

  “What do you want from me?” A single silvery tear tracked down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away, perhaps thinking they wouldn’t notice it if she didn’t draw attention to it.

  Marsh answered for Walker. “In serial murder cases, the first and last victims are the most revealing about the UNSUB.”

  He moved the photograph of Angela Morelli next to the picture of Josephine as a child, mentally recoiling from both. She was the key.

  Her gaze was transfixed on the gruesome photographs.

  “What were you doing in Queens that day, Josephine?” Marsh asked.

  Pain filtered through the deep blue eyes, followed by denial. She shook her head and then opened her mouth to speak. Shut it again. Frowning, she picked up a shot of Donna Viera.

  “Oh, god.” Shock made her sit up straighter, balancing on the edge of the cushion.

  “What?” Walker pushed. “What is it?”

  “My mom. This woman looks like my mom.” Josephine covered her mouth. “Maybe he was stalking her, the night he found me.”

  “I thought you said your mother disappeared before you were attacked?” said Marsh.

  She went silent and Marsh wondered if she’d finish telling her story or clam up the way she usually did.

  Mouth half obscured by hair and fingers she said, “I followed her that night. That’s why I went to Queens.” She squeezed her eyes closed, clearly torn with indecision, a pink flush rising up her cheeks and neck.

  “Why did you follow your mom, Josephine?”

  “It was so long ago.” She slouched back against the couch, staring at the high ceiling.

  “Try to remember.” Sam Walker barely contained his frustration. Marsh knew exactly how he felt.

  She gave a bitter laugh. “That’s the trouble. I remember every detail.”

  The slight tilt of Walker’s lips gave away his skepticism. Eyewitnesses were notoriously unreliable. And after all this time…

  “I was worried she was going to leave me again. She’d left for a few weeks when I was younger and…” Her laugh was bitter. “Well, I was right wasn’t I? I never saw her again.”

  Her eyes glazed over as she looked into the past. “I was on my way home from school when she got on a bus I was riding, but she didn’t see me because I was sitting toward the back.”

  Marsh had to strain to hear her voice as it grew softer.

  “She’d been acting strangely, dressing nicer, wearing make-up, smiling.” Josephine caught her lip with strong white teeth. Continued to stare at the high vaulted ceiling. “So I followed her. She got off in Queens, went into this big red-brick building with a fire-escape that snaked up the outside.

  “I climbed onto a Dumpster and managed to catch the lower bar of the fire escape and hauled myself up. I was a gymnast back then so it was easy.” A slight frown touched her brow.

  Exchanging a look with Walker, Marsh wondered if this was the break they needed.

  “I peeped in different windows searching for her and finally, I found her.” Disgust dripped off her words. “Being fucked against the wall by a guy from St. Mary’s Church.” Slowly, carefully, she picked up her glass of water and drained it. “Nice, huh? Brought a whole new meaning to Come all ye faithful.”

  “You remember the guy’s name?”

  She shook her head.

  “So what happened next?” Walker prompted, stone-faced.

  Josephine glared at him, rubbed her hands over her knees in an unsettling repetitive gesture. “It got dark, but I hadn’t realized. I just sat on the fire-escape, watching, waiting for Mom to go home.”

  Marsh’s chest tightened as he fought for breath. Imagining the child on the fire escape.

  “Then all of a sudden this guy wearing a mask was beside me.”
She looked up, eyes stark in her pale face, “He clamped his hand tight over my mouth and dragged me to that alley.” She shrugged. “Everything else is in the police report.”

  Special Agent Walker tapped a pen against a notepad that had appeared in his hand. “Could your attacker have been the same man who was in the room with your mother?”

  Her hair fell out of its knot. She shook it out in an untidy halo. “I don’t think so. They’d gone into the bedroom or bathroom, out of sight. I was watching the front door, and I never saw him leave.”

  “But is it possible?” Walker pushed.

  Josephine shrugged, looking confused, “I suppose, but why’d my mom let him hurt me? Oh…” Her mouth opened and closed. Ashen-faced, she caught up with where Agent Walker had been trying to take her. Marsh wanted to cradle her in his arms and soothe her rigid muscles. He didn’t dare touch her.

  “You think my mother’s dead?” Her voice rose and she lurched to her feet. “How could she be dead? There was no report of a murder.”

  “Maybe we never found the body,” Walker suggested gently.

  “Why leave me alive?” She paced toward the covered windows, her black pants clinging to slender hips, her droopy sweater hanging loosely across her shoulders.

  “Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to kill a kid?” Marsh suggested. “When you passed out he took the opportunity to get rid of the body before you woke up?”

  Josephine stopped pacing, her hands coming up to cover her face, sobs wracking her shoulders.

  “Dammit.” Kicking himself for forgetting the body might be Josephine‘s mother, Marsh moved to where she stood and wrapped his arms around her, forced her head to rest on his chest as her body shook.

  “The interview is over.” Marsh stared at Agent Walker whose mouth tightened with annoyance. “Read the police reports, check the tenant records of the buildings Josephine was found near and see if any Jane Does matching, damn, what’s your mother’s name, Josephine?”

  “Margo, Margo Maxwell. Margo Thomas before she got married.” The words were mumbled into his shirt, tears wet against the thin fabric, making it stick to his skin.

  “See if any Jane Does matching the profile turned up in the six months after Josephine’s attack, or if Margo Maxwell surfaced alive elsewhere—check her Social Security number and driver’s license—that should tell you whether or not she’s dead.”

  Josephine’s sobs grew louder. Christ, he was as sensitive as a neutron bomb. He held her tightly, trying to offer comfort, but the muscles in her back were cast-iron beneath his fingers.

  “Will we see you tomorrow, Vince?” He stared at the big man. There was something unsettled about Vince that suggested he didn’t want this job. Who could blame him?

  Ebony eyes looked up, the diamond stud glinting briefly in his ear. “Oh-seven-hundred, sir.” Gathering his huge frame, Vince stood. “She gonna be all right?” He nodded uncertainly toward Josephine’s worsening cries.

  “Yes.” Marsh inclined his head to Agent Walker who’d retrieved his files and stood, hesitating as if he was reluctant to leave.

  “I’ll need to interview her again tomorrow.” Tiredness etched his features like decomposition degraded a corpse.

  Marsh knew the guy was a good cop but right now Josephine was his priority. “She’ll be ready.” Ready to help nail the bastard who attacked her so many years ago and who might also have killed her mother.

  Her Last Chance: Chapter Seven

  There was pain in her chest. It expanded and grew. Crippled. Ripped. All these years, she’d tried not to hate her mother for abandoning her, for leaving her behind with an abusive father. But maybe, rather than leaving, her mother had been murdered and dumped, and no one had cared enough to look.

  She couldn’t bear it.

  Warm safe arms engulfed her. Heat and strength cradled her in a protective cocoon as tears dripped down her face and off her chin. Why hadn’t someone asked questions?

  Her father had drunk himself into oblivion and blamed her. And Josie had stupidly believed him. She’d seen her mother with another man and had decided with childish certainty it was her fault. She’d driven her mother away because she’d never been good enough.

  It was classic. Classic and stupid and self defeating. Nine years old. Nine years old and responsible for everything that happened in the world—a belief confirmed when she’d been punished by the man with the big knife.

  I won’t kill you if you don’t make a sound… She hadn’t made a sound. The bastard had murdered her mother and she’d never made a sound.

  She stuffed her fist over her mouth, still trying to quiet the sobs that wouldn’t stop. She didn’t break down, she didn’t break. Ever. But right now there was nothing she could do but weep for her mother and the little girl she’d been. Warm hands rubbed her back. Strong arms held her upright. Finally the tears slowed and she remembered exactly who the arms belonged to.

  She gripped the soft cotton of Marsh’s shirt. Her throat felt raw. “If he killed her…I need to know. I need to get this bastard.”

  His eyes glittered as he ran his hands down her arms, supporting her at the elbows. “We’ll get him.” His voice was firm, the undertone urging her to believe in him—in the system. But would he do whatever it took? Or would he play it by the rules like Vincent?

  “I need a gun.”

  “I hired you one. His name is Vincent Brandt.”

  By the book.

  Counting on Marsh and Vince felt like juggling hand grenades—not good for her mental health, but she wasn’t dumb enough to take on this predator without all the help she could get. She just wished she could defend herself. She moved away from him. The sun had set and the apartment was clothed in deep shadows that reminded her too much of that long ago night. She turned on a lamp. There was an unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach; more than grief, more than fear, more than hatred. She was a loner. She didn’t work well with others. It wasn’t what she was used to.

  “What if he kills you and Vince?” Unexpected pain sliced into her at the thought. The words revealed too much weakness so she gave them a twist. “And I’m left with him and he has all the weapons? I’ll have nothing to defend myself with.”

  “If he’s shooting at me or Vince, or any other law enforcement personnel for that matter, you run like hell, scream like crazy and get yourself to a safe place.”

  Marsh drew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “You must be the only guy left in the world who carries handkerchiefs.” She sniffed, knowing she’d never win this argument. No way would Marsh trust her with a gun. Frankly she didn’t blame him. She wiped her face, blew her nose and then pocketed the white linen in her pants. “I like that about you.”

  “Well, at least that’s something.” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes but it didn’t hide the sadness. Or the regret.

  They hadn’t done well together because she didn’t know how to act like a normal person. She’d never been normal. She was damaged and insecure. Had grown up trying to survive. Something in his gaze made her wish things were different, that she was different. She held her breath, but he looked away as if suddenly uncomfortable. A thought struck her and she looked down, concentrating on her hands. Marsh was dating someone. She’d forgotten.

  “You should go. I’ll be okay tonight. I’ll lock myself in and promise not to open the door for anyone. Go back to your girlfriend. I’m sure she’s missing you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Marsh’s brows pinched as his frown deepened. Then his expression cleared and humor lit his eyes, making them gleam wickedly. “Ah, my date from last night?”

  Was it only last night since her safe narrow little world had shattered? It felt like a million years ago. Jealousy stirred low in her breast, unfamiliar and ugly. “Did you have the best-sex-ever with her too?”

  Whoa, where the hell had that come from? And why did she feel so angry with a man who was doing so much to help her? She wa
s an idiot.

  “Lynn’s eighteen and hot as hell.” Marsh moved toward her in a way that made her jealousy morph into unease. There was grace in his movements, banked heat in his gaze.

  “And I thought you were too old for me.” She eyed him apprehensively, but forced herself to remain still. On many levels he made her feel safe—all except one. Her awareness of him as a man scared the crap out of her. He stepped closer. Suddenly she was brought up short by the wooden mantel against her shoulders and the realization she’d been backing away.

  “I am too old for you.” The wicked gleam turned molten as he glanced down at her lips. He lowered his head, slowly. She watched, fascinated, powerless to move because she wanted him to kiss her. And for all her faults she’d never been a hypocrite, so she rose onto tiptoes and braced her hands on his wide shoulders. Surprise radiated through suddenly taut muscles. Her soft, hesitant lips met a warm, hard mouth. She closed her eyes and let herself kiss him. Savored the careful exploration, the sweet hesitancy. It was so unexpectedly gentle, so foreign and so heady.

  He placed his hands on the small of her back, brought her flush against him, every point of contact cycloning excitement through her body like an electric shock. Her breasts tingled, nipples grew aching and tight. She ran her hands through his hair, wondering why every sensation was heightened just because he touched her.

  His lips released hers, cruised her neck, her ear. Shivers danced along her skin, heat thrumming along her veins like liquid craving. He lifted her off the ground and she wrapped her legs around his hips, his erection rubbing against her center, feeling so amazing she wanted even closer. He braced her against the wall. The unrelenting hardness at her back felt good against her spine. Solid and reliable while the rest of her world crashed around her. He stroked her and sensations exploded between her legs, making her muscles clench and her breath gasp.

  “I want you. I always want you even though you drive me crazy.” His breath blistered her ear, his hand rough on her breast, playing with her nipples, making her damp. Making her tremble with desire. He ground against her and she wished he was inside her, filling her as she cascaded over that inexplicable edge, lights flashing, sirens blazing, crying out with astonishment.