What the hell had Prudence Duvall been up to?
The scene through the one-way window twisted his gut. Dancer had stopped talking and rested his forehead on clenched fists against the table. Nicholl left the room and Marsh heard footsteps along the corridor and the rattle of the doorknob as Nicholl entered the viewing room.
He stopped dead when he saw Marsh.
“Sir.” He nodded his head, pursed his lips and seemed to make up his mind. “Special Agent Dancer refused counsel, but he’s been asking for you.”
Grinding his teeth, Marsh pulled out his cell phone and held up his hand for a moment’s silence. “Dora, get Colavecchia back here immediately. Yeah, I don’t care what he says and I don’t care what Dancer says either. Colavecchia defends Dancer whether he wants it or not. Tell him I’m calling in all the chips this time.”
Benedict Colavecchia, Brett Lovine and Marsh had been best friends for fifteen years growing up. He was going to talk to Lovine next and he was going to obtain Steve Dancer’s exit visa from this shithole, whatever the cost to himself, his job, or his friendships. He knew things about the Director of the FBI that no one else knew. He pocketed the cell phone knowing he needed to make the second call in private. Steve Dancer was innocent and the Blade Hunter was out there, trying to get to Josie.
He wanted to play games? Game on.
* * *
“What. Are. You. Doing?” Each word boomed out like it was a whole sentence.
“What. Does. It. Look. Like?” Josie tried to imitate Vince’s deep rumble but sounded more like a dog with parvo. She turned away, sick and tired of trying to pretend everything was all right when it was so far from all right she was ready to volunteer for a straitjacket and a padded cell.
Sitting on her knees in the closet, she was surrounded by shoes. After years of being a pack rat—grinding childhood poverty did that to a girl—she was finally having a clean out.
There was a pair of sparkly stilettos that Elizabeth had loaned her for some party her old roommate Pete had needed a date for. A straight date.
The heels had damn near crippled her and Pete had gone home with a blond named Dave.
She threw the stiletto at the bed, but it missed and thumped to the floor. Next came a pair of lime green Doc Martens that had seemed like a good idea at the time. She lobbed them out.
“Hey!” Vince yelped.
“Then get out of the way!” she snapped at the big man.
Vince rubbed his shin like she’d shot him. Then he picked up the sparkling high heels and checked the size.
“You want ‘em, you can have ‘em,” she told him.
He laughed the way she knew he would. “Thought my girlfriend might look good in them, but they’re two sizes too big.”
Josie stretched her eyebrows high, though the effect was lost as he couldn’t see her face beneath the rack of clothes. “I do not have big feet.”
“I never said you did, but Laura has got the tiniest feet I ever saw.” He’d never told her about his girlfriend before, it was like they’d crossed some barrier or threshold whereby she was suddenly to be trusted with classified information.
Maybe because she didn’t have long to live…
“What exactly did you do to be a war hero?” She made her tone as dubious as possible because baiting Vince was a damn sight better than crying in the bottom of a smelly closet.
“I single handedly rescued thirty-six orphans from a refugee camp in Darfur that was under attack by rebel forces.”
Suddenly very white teeth were smiling at her from a yard away. His diamond stud twinkled.
“You’re making that up.” Josie glared at him, chewing her lip.
“Why would I do that?” His tone suggested he was laughing at her. “That’s what the press reported.” He crouched lower. “That’s what my military record says.”
It was so obviously not the truth, but… if he could do that…
“Do you really think you can save me?” Josie swallowed and the tears started to flow. They were hot on her lashes and hotter still on her cheeks.
Big hands hauled her from the closet as if she were a rag doll.
“Josephine.” He hugged her to the wall of his chest and wrapped her in his big strong arms and she wanted to believe Vincent would be enough to protect her from this man who dogged her life like a ghost. She told herself to be grateful it was Vince and not Marsh she was crying all over.
“I’ll do for you what I did for those kids,” he told her.
“What was that?” Her words were muffled and her nose was running. God, she hated tears.
Vince didn’t answer and Josephine knew whatever it was, it wasn’t in his file. She hoped it would be enough.
Her Last Chance: Chapter Sixteen
“You got anything from the tip called in?” Marsh walked fast. He’d parked a block east of the church the closest he could get even with a shiny gold badge.
Detective Cochrane had been sent to babysit him. Marsh didn’t care as long as the veteran cop didn’t get in his way.
“Disposable, bought in Manhattan last week.” Cochrane was having a hard time keeping up with his stride, but Marsh didn’t ease the pace. The little man huffed out deep breaths, clouds of water vapor condensing in the frigid air, his feet shuffling quickly through piles of fallen leaves. “The feds are checking it out. Maybe they’ll get something off a surveillance camera or those financial records they’re always pulling.”
Marsh snorted. He wished the Blade Hunter was dumb enough to leave a trail. “You read all the files?” Marsh asked. He needed to know the detective was up to speed on this investigation.
“Sure, I read them and Special Agent Walker got a hit on what he thinks might be a Jane Doe who fits Margo Maxwell’s description, but he’s waiting for a court order to begin the exhumation—”
“And he never mentioned it to Josie?”
“You guys were out of town…”
Boston, right. A million miles away.
“And until they’re certain…”
Walker hadn’t informed him of any of this, despite Marsh sharing the information on Admiral Chambers—who’d right now be Marsh’s prime suspect for Pru Duvall’s killing, except, the whole thing was so planned, so organized, so reeking of the Blade Hunter’s insidious style.
So how the hell did Pru Duvall and Steve Dancer fit in? She didn’t fit the profile of the other victims. And Dancer—he had to be a fall guy. Why him?
Marsh dodged a streetlight and kept moving. He checked his cell phone, made sure it was set to vibrate only. He was expecting the shit to hit the fan any minute when the admiral was hauled in for questioning. Unless the admiral was a damn sight smarter than he looked, Marsh doubted the guy had much to worry about except being caught in an extramarital affair. But his parents would go ape shit and the admiral’s wife was going to freak. Brett Lovine had already gone ballistic.
Clenching his fingers, he knew he’d deal with the devil himself as long as Josephine was safe. He’d been an asshole, but he was going to make it up to her.
Keep her safe, Vince…I can fix anything but dead.
This was a nice part of Brooklyn. The sky was so blue it provided a deep backdrop for the bright-yellow Aspen leaves. They weren’t far from Greenwood Cemetery and Marsh paused for a second, sure he heard the squawk of parrots. That nailed it on the head. He was going insane.
“Why would the perp set up Special Agent Dancer?” Cochrane asked.
That question bugged him constantly.
The UNSUB had targeted Josephine, then Lynn, then Pru and Dancer—and the only link Marsh could see was…himself.
Do I know this fucker?
Or had that picture on the front page of The NY News been the catalyst the UNSUB needed to target his next set of victims? Had he been following Josie that day and seen Marsh talking to Pru Duvall in Washington Square? Did he have a source inside the investigative team? He shot the detective a look. The wrinkled suit and worn brown shoes sc
reamed bad pay and crappy fashion sense. He didn’t look dirty, but then they never did.
Cochrane remained silent, as watchful of him as he was of the NYPD detective. Thirty seconds later they were opposite a big old ruined church that was surrounded by acid yellow police tape. The walls of the limestone building looked solid, but the roof was buckled and the windows broken and boarded up. The cross on top of the old church tower was crooked and tilted to the north.
Why here?
A priest was talking to a beat cop and shaking his head with a worried expression on his face. A dead birch tree threw a shadow over the two men as they stood speaking too softly to overhear.
Marsh passed an old weathered sign and made out the faint shadow of a name. St Mary’s. He took out his cell and dialed Agent Walker. “Did you figure out this was the same church Josephine Maxwell attended as a kid?”
The long pause told him the agent had already made the connection.
“You speak to the priest from back then?” Marsh asked, eyeing the gray-haired man talking to the uniformed officer.
“Priest from her day is dead.” Walker sounded like he was talking through gritted teeth.
“Talk to anybody else from the parish?” asked Marsh.
“I’ve been chasing evidence and leads since Angela Morelli was murdered last week. I haven’t slept in—”
“I’m not questioning your dedication, Agent Walker, just your results.” He snapped the phone shut and flashed his badge to the cop, who looked all of twenty and puffed up with self-importance. The detective gave the beat cop a roll of his eyes, making the rookie grin as the kid backed away. Marsh didn’t let his mood show. This was no good for law-enforcement relations—was that what the perp wanted? Cops divided and not sharing information? Purposely screwing up the investigation and slowing them all down?
Marsh held out his hand to the elderly gentleman in a tweed jacket and dog collar.
“SAC Marshall Hayes, and this is Detective Cochrane, NYPD.” He indicated Cochrane with his right hand, realizing he didn’t even know the guy’s first name.
“Father Malcolm.” The priest held out his hand to shake first Marsh’s and then Cochrane’s. “I’m the priest of this parish.”
“Were you ever in charge of this church, Father?” Marsh asked, noticing the brisk wind that made both the priest and the detective shiver. Inside he felt as hot as a volcano on the verge of eruption. Every cell in his body was fueled with rage and focused on catching this killer. Nothing else mattered.
Father Malcolm had wiry gray whiskers and nose hair that bordered on fluffy. “I was the priest here up until four years ago—”
“When did you start here, Father?” Marsh asked.
“March, 1998.” The man crinkled a smile at him. Seemed to realize a murder scene wasn’t the place for smiles and became somber again. “It was Father Mike before that—the best preacher and the best man I ever had the pleasure of working under.”
“You knew him? You served with him here?” Excitement and hope started to trickle back inside Marsh’s mind.
“I worked under him for four years. I thought he was odds on favorite to become Bishop.” His mouth twisted with old regret. “He joined Our Lord in—”
“Sorry to cut in, Father,” Detective Cochrane put in and Marsh could hear the same excitement in his tone that he felt rising up inside. “But do you remember any missionaries from Africa coming here about twenty years ago?”
“Well, yes.” The priest recovered himself, hunched his shoulders up, crossing his arms as another gust of wind blasted down the street. “We’ve had lots of missionaries from Africa over the years—”
“It was about the time a woman called Margo Maxwell disappeared. Do you remember anyone in particular, Father Malcolm?” Marsh tried not to sound as desperate as he felt.
Thick wiry brows scrunched up into a bristled line. He shook his head. “I remember Margo—she was a beautiful woman and no one was surprised when she ran off. Her husband was a man…in need of counseling.”
Marsh held the priest’s gaze. “I met her husband, Father Malcolm. I know what sort of man he was.”
“Well, it is no excuse for going off with another man, especially when they left that poor little girl at the mercy of—”
“We don’t believe Margo ran off. She was murdered, like the woman was murdered in that church last night.” Marsh held the old man’s stare, pissed at the judgmental attitude of a church that’d done nothing to help a small child. “Margo didn’t abandon her daughter. She was stolen from her in the most brutal way imaginable.”
And although it wasn’t proven yet, he knew it was true.
“We think it might be connected to the visit of an African missionary around the same time she disappeared,” Cochrane finished, sending Marsh a warning, take it easy, glance.
The old man had raised a hand to his chest as if feeling a pain there. “I don’t remember the names…”
Marsh’s hope deflated like a popping balloon.
“…but it’ll be in the old church records.”
Anticipation made him want to grab the clergyman by the collar and shake him, but Cochrane spoke first. “We need to see those records, Father.”
* * *
The smell was a combination of fermented carpet and moldy mouse poop.
“I’ll open a window.” Father Malcolm walked over to the barred window and pulled it open.
“You have problems with theft, Father?” Marsh eyed the steel bars.
“People’ll steal anything that ain’t nailed down.” Cochrane stood at the door, looking at the row of filing cabinets. Sweat glistened on his face from the walk over.
Numbness had washed over Marsh. Calm. Purpose. Do the job. Find the name. Find the killer before he got Josie. He wanted to call her, wanted to tell her he loved her—because what if something did happen to her…? Shit. Why hadn’t he already told her that? Because he was an idiot. Because right now she hated him? His cell phone weighed like a piece of lead in his pocket. Dancer was sitting in a cell with a broken nose. I love you’s could wait.
“Where are the files?” Focus. Saving her life would give him time to make everything up to her, but if she died…
Father Malcolm coughed with embarrassment. “Well, we had a break-in about six months ago and—”
“Did you report it?” Marsh’s gaze connected with Cochrane’s with the unspoken question. Could it be the killer? This UNSUB wasn’t omnipotent, but he was pretty damn thorough.
“We caught a couple of teenage boys in here, high on drugs. They’d emptied everything from the cabinets and were trying to break into the manse.”
The priest nodded toward the white-painted doorway. He lived in a big old rambling house next door and ran a very modern looking square box of a church across the street. What the church lacked in character it probably made up for in central heating.
“They were looking for money,” the priest offered.
Junkies. Maybe…
“So, what did the church do—give them ten Hail Mary’s?” Cochrane raised a thick dark brow that matched his moustache and sauntered over to the nearest filing cabinet.
“We prosecuted them, Detective,” the father’s eyes had turned to stone. “You have to repent to deserve forgiveness.”
Marsh didn’t want to discuss theology and the law. “And this is pertinent because…?”
A metal drawer screamed along its runner as Cochrane opened it. Documents and files spilled out haphazardly.
Ah.
“Because we never got around to sorting it out. We just threw it all back in the filing cabinets and figured we’d do it another day.” Father Malcolm shrugged and removed his jacket, showing off remarkably tanned forearms. “I’ll get the deacons down here. We’ll sort this out in no time.”
They didn’t have time. Marsh pressed his first finger into his temple and closed his eyes, concentrating on relieving the pressure building inside his skull. His cell vibrated in his p
ocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the display. There were so many people he didn’t want to talk to right now, but maybe it was Josie… Yeah right, or a break in the case—
Philip Faraday? What the hell did he want?
Possibly his fifty-million dollar painting?
“Mr. Faraday, what can I do for you?” Marsh answered.
Now that the admiral had admitted what actually happened, as far as Marsh and the DA could tell, it was a case of he said/she said that they wouldn’t pursue. They could sue each other until they were blue but there weren’t going to be any criminal charges. As far as the DA was concerned Faraday owned the painting and could sell it as he saw fit. He might want to wait until it was authenticated but that wasn’t Marsh’s business.
“Special Agent in Charge.” Faraday sounded like he was talking through a big smile. “I hear I can have my painting back. And I hear from one of your agents that you think the painting might really be a Vermeer.” Excitement made his voice shake.
Aiden must have already called the guy. Marsh rolled his eyes. “Yeah, look.” Marsh tried to keep the distaste out of his tone, but knew it wasn’t working, “I’m in the middle of a really important investigation—”
“Mrs. Duvall’s murder?” The man’s voice was soft with sorrow. “I saw it on the news. Tragic.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing—”
“You are such an arrogant ass, do you know that? You come into my gallery, take my painting and then don’t even have the courtesy to apologize or return it? I’m filing a complaint.”
Join the club.
“I expect my painting back today or else I’m going to the press,” Faraday continued, but Marsh zoned him out. The press. Going to the press…
Damn it, why hadn’t he thought of that before?
He rang off, ignoring the indignant ire spilling from Philip Faraday’s mouth. Then he called information and got a number for Nelson Landry.
Heroes in Uniform: Soldiers, SEALs, Spies, Rangers and Cops: Sexy Hot Contemporary Alpha Heroes From NY Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors Page 191
