Cochrane held a phone to his ear and barked out, “Senator Duvall just reported that his wife cleared out her bank accounts before she died.”
“It’s the bastard’s getaway money.” Marsh’s mouth went dry. The killer—all indications pointed to it being Philip Faraday who also fit the general description of the attacker—had probably been Prudence’s lover and had somehow convinced her they were going to run away together. She’d met Steve Dancer for lunch because the bastard had wanted to set Dancer up, maybe punish the FBI agent for his involvement in confiscating the painting, or to screw with Marsh as he was protecting Josie. And the bastard had killed her as easily as he’d murdered all those other women. The guy had no conscience, no empathy, not even for a woman who was willing to give up everything for him.
Facts were starting to come together. How the killer accessed Josie’s address even though it wasn’t in the public domain. If he had access to people in the NY art world it was merely a question of bribing the right person for the information.
Marsh took out his cell phone and dialed Vince. Sweat broke out along his brow. If they could keep Josie away from Faraday until he was picked up, this whole thing would be over.
“So you think Joshua Faraday was fucking Margo Maxwell and the son found out?” Walker was also on his cell, obviously waiting for information. He winced as he glanced up at the priest’s face. “Sorry, Father.”
Marsh held up his hand as the call to Vince went through. “Who the hell is this?”
“EMT on the way to Downtown Hospital. I’m afraid the person you’re calling was involved in a hit and run—”
Sweet Jesus. “What about the woman with him?” Marsh’s voice cracked, his breath so tight in his chest he thought he might be having a heart attack.
“I’m sorry sir. There wasn’t anybody with him when we arrived.”
Shit, shit, shit. He held the phone down as he pressed his hands against the surface of the table, every muscle in his body screaming with tension, papers scattering around him as he struggled to breathe. He put the phone back to his ear. “Is Vincent going to make it?”
“We don’t know. He’s pretty badly injured and needs surgery—we need to get in touch with next of kin…”
“I’ll deal with that.” Marsh rang off and noticed the silence.
Everyone in the room was staring at him expectantly. The smell of rot and decay crawled around inside his senses and made him feel sick. Do not think about Josephine. Do your job.
How could he not think about Josephine being at the mercy of a killer? He knew the guy had her. “Vince was involved in a hit and run and is seriously injured.” He swallowed to get the words out. He tried Josie’s number again. “Josie isn’t answering her cell and wasn’t with him when the paramedics arrived.”
He stared at Walker. “Get a trace on her cell. We need to pick up Philip and Gloria ASAP.” Saying the words made him want to puke—why hadn’t they found that clue ten minutes earlier? “I need Steve Dancer out of jail now, helping me get Josephine back.” His nerves twanged, strung so tight it would take one small push to make him snap.
He needed to hold it together. The law had to be enough to get Josie out of this alive. And Vince… Please God.
“Aiden.” He worked through his cell phone address book, pulled out one for Vince’s girlfriend, Laura. “Get in touch with Vince’s girlfriend and get her to the Downtown ER.” He held the man’s gaze. “Stay with her and with him. We need to know if he saw anything, or heard anything or…” In case he dies…
Aiden was dialing his cell as he grabbed his jacket and disappeared.
“This doesn’t let Dancer off the hook—” Walker started.
“We know who the Blade Hunter is.” Marsh shrugged into his tailored jacket. “I bet with a little detective work we can place Philip Faraday at all the locations of the murders and I know he knew Pru Duvall, even though she lied about the fact.”
“How do you know that?” Walker asked.
“Because the day he tried to kill Josephine, Pru Duvall was at the same gallery opening as Lynn Richards and Steve Dancer. His gallery opening.” Marsh was running out of patience. “The same gallery opening where I confiscated his fifty million dollar insurance policy.”
That painting had never been for sale for eighty thousand dollars no matter what the price tag said—it had been on display to some of the most powerful art connoisseurs in the world.
Why the hell hadn’t his brain been working? Marsh shouldered past Walker, stood outside and inhaled huge lungfuls of fresh fall air.
God. Please, let him find Josephine alive. Don’t hurt her. Don’t fucking hurt her.
Marsh needed a cigarette even though he’d given them up months ago. Walker followed him out onto the street and they stood looking at each other as Walker held his phone to his ear and repeated whatever he was being told.
“Joshua Faraday died in Africa in 1996, no details. Nancy Faraday died in England a couple of years later.”
Walker stared up at the bare branches of the silver birch. “Officially I cannot get Steve Dancer released…” He put his hands on his hips, determination obvious in his stance.
“Wait.” Marsh held up his hand. “I know what you’re going to suggest, but before we get everybody’s ass screwed to the wall, let’s see if I can do something.”
Marsh dialed Brett Lovine, the Director of the FBI, on his private cell.
Lovine didn’t bother with small talk. “I’ve fielded calls from a senator, a retired admiral and a retired general this morning. The latter two want you sacked immediately, one of whom is your own father.”
“Brett—”
“Marsh—”
“Shut up and listen! None of it matters.” Silence on the end of the phone told him he finally had his friend’s full attention. “We know who the Blade Hunter is. We know he set up Agent Dancer to take the fall for Mrs. Duvall’s death and we know he has taken Josephine Maxwell hostage.”
Walker’s eyes bulged because they didn’t have proof of any of it, but Marsh knew. Marsh was silently praying. Praying the guy he’d grown up with trusted him. Praying the woman he loved survived long enough so that he could actually say the words to her.
“What do you need?” Brett said. The quiet tone and somber pitch told him he had his friend’s attention.
“I need Special Agent Steve Dancer released immediately. Drop the charges and give me my best man back, so we can find Josephine.”
Silence. The hesitation was killing him. Doubt booming inside his chest with each beat of his heart.
“If it turns out Agent Dancer was involved in any way I’ll have your badge.”
“If Dancer was involved you can have any damn thing you want, Brett.”
“Dangerous promise to make to a politician, Marshall. I thought you’d have figured that out a long time ago.” Brett laughed, but it was a hollow bitter sound.
“Some things are worth selling your soul for.”
* * *
The knife was sharp. Not as familiar in his hand as the last one, but it slid through the outer layer of his skin like he had no more substance than water. He sucked in a breath. Watched the blood slide over his wrist and drip onto Josephine’s olive green t-shirt in ugly dark blotches.
Her chest rose steadily, fell gently on a silent exhale. He’d thought he’d have had more trouble getting her away from her FBI handlers, but one fake call and a little fast thinking and it had been brutally simple. He’d intended to lure them both inside one of his friend’s galleries and kill the bodyguard and anyone else who got in his way. He’d set up in position to watch them and make sure it was just the two of them and then WHAM! Literally.
Placing a finger against the soft skin that covered her carotid, he felt the calm settled beat of her heart. Her skin was warm to the touch.
She was still unconscious.
Good. He didn’t want to rush this.
Breakers crashed on the beach. A seagull screamed and
he looked out of the darkened window, feeling the energy of an incoming storm, excitement and poignancy competing inside him because this would be the final chapter of this part of his life.
He had money to aid his escape and transform into someone new. He’d stop killing for a while and see if he could tame the beast that raged within him in other ways.
He had the painting back.
Since the gallery showing he’d had several offers from people who wouldn’t care how bloody his hands were. Their greed had fewer morals than his bloodlust.
He felt an unexpected ache of loneliness in his chest. He missed Pru.
When they’d met there had been that sexual spark. He’d always been attracted to things he wasn’t supposed to have, and to doing things he wasn’t supposed to do. He’d sensed a kindred spirit and their affair had crossed continents without anyone ever suspecting. Poor Pru.
She was still serving him well.
Pru had first brought him here to the senator’s North Fork hideaway one weekend not long ago when Brook had been in D.C. It was secluded, nestled between two vineyards. This was where the big butch senator came to relax with his gay lover. No neighbors close enough to spy and no staff except for the woman who cleaned once a week.
She was going to get a bit of a shock this week.
It was isolated but less than two hours drive from NYC. The perfect kill zone. Pity he couldn’t stay longer.
Light from the hallway sparkled in Josephine’s pale hair, made it translucent beside her fair skin. So beautiful. He’d killed her once. The bitch who’d seduced his devout father and destroyed his family.
She had been dead for a long time.
He’d enjoyed that day. The shock on her face when his father had left and he’d found her still in the apartment across the hall from where they were staying. They’d used the place to fuck, not twenty feet from where his mother was cooking dinner. He’d killed her and then spotted the shadowy figure on the fire escape. She’d been asleep. He’d planned to kill her too, but when he’d grabbed her she’d been so frail and thin. So miserably unloved. He’d let her go and always wondered why he’d been so weak. Now he knew. It wasn’t weakness, it was some divine plan.
He’d never been able to recapture the pure adrenaline rush of that first time, but now… Now he was going to get his revenge, close the circle and finally be free.
Philip picked up the knife again and ran it along his flesh, sucking his teeth as he sliced his skin.
He walked over and picked up the canvas. The one he’d taken from her apartment in Greenwich. The color shone with vivid light. Intensity, passion and hatred visible to the blindest onlooker. It was unsigned. He propped it against the bed and took up a hammer, standing over the woman’s limp body. His shadow fell across her as he felt the weight and brought it down hard against the nail on the wall.
Josephine had painted blood and pain as if she was intimately acquainted with it. But those memories were old. Time for a refresher course.
* * *
Special Agent Steve Dancer stumbled out of the back door of the Brooklyn PD and climbed into Marsh’s Beemer, his face as white as china clay.
“You okay?” Marsh asked, cataloguing the lines of strain around the other man’s mouth. He’d been patched up, but still looked like shit.
Dancer nodded, clearly unable to speak. Closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. The only light was the blotchy liquid reflection of yellow streetlights on the rain-splattered windshield.
Christ. Marsh couldn’t begin to think what Dancer had gone through, but right now they needed to concentrate on finding Josephine. There was no time for healing, no time for acceptance, or recovery. No time for the man suffering by his side.
“I didn’t think I was ever going to get out of there, boss.” Dancer twisted his face toward him and peered through the dark interior. “Thanks.”
If it hadn’t been for Marsh pulling strings, he wouldn’t have for a long time.
So much for law and order.
Marsh tightened his hands on the leather steering wheel. The rule of law wasn’t enough to deal with an SOB who twisted the rules and sacrificed people like a chess player sacrificed pawns. Fear crawled up his belly and landed in his throat. Rain lashed down from a moonless night, battering the glass and tempered steel that encased them.
“He’s got her, Steve.” His voice vibrated. No matter how hard he gripped that wheel he couldn’t stop his fear from leaking out.
“What?” The expression of defeat on Dancer’s face morphed into alarm, then anger. “What about Vince?”
Marsh ground his teeth together and bit down on his emotions. Sweat gathered on his skin despite the autumn chill. He turned on the wipers, the dull rhythmic whoosh steadying his heart.
“Ran him over with an SUV.” Marsh turned to the backseat, grabbed Dancer’s laptop that he’d retrieved from Special Agent Walker—who hadn’t been able to crack the passwords anyway—and maneuvered it awkwardly through the gap between the seats. “The Blade Hunter is none other than Philip Faraday—”
“The art dealer?” Snarling, Steve banged his head against the headrest. “That puny shit killed all those women?”
“And set you up.” Marsh finished, “Yeah. Smarter than he looks.” He buried the acid terror beneath professional impatience. “We’ve got to find him, before Josie ends up like Prudence Duvall.”
Blood leeched from Dancer’s face.
“She was still alive when the cops got there, you know that? They could maybe have saved her.” Dancer frowned, still concentrating on the past when Marsh needed him to think about the future.
“Steve, I need you. We’ve got to find Josie before he kills her too.” His voice broke.
Dancer gave him a blank look, which suddenly cleared. “The transmitter?” He swiped his unruly hair out of his face as he began to unzip the laptop from its case. “I’d forgotten about it.”
Marsh had implanted the transmitter into Josephine without her knowledge last April when they’d been hoping she’d lead them to Elizabeth. Right now that little bit of moral impropriety was the only thing keeping an infinitesimal speck of hope alive in his heart.
Dancer booted up, battered through a whole series of passwords to access encrypted files, fierce concentration on his face. “Those transmitters may only last a couple of months. It could be dead by now,” Dancer warned.
Marsh knew there was little hope, but without that signal, Josephine was on her own with a vicious serial killer. Gloria Faraday was telling them squat. Maybe she didn’t know anything, but Walker had her in custody and Marsh hadn’t been able to get near her.
The need for air forced a breath into his lungs as Dancer clicked on the tracking program.
Please God. Please God…
Dread and uncertainty ravaged his nerves. Even if they found Josephine this second it might already be too late. She might be dead. The SOB had had her for one-hundred and fifty-six minutes. The terror was unbearable, crippling, and Marsh shoved the feelings away. Concentrated on the need to find her. He needed to find her. She was going to be OK. They were going to have a life together.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Thank God.
“Where is she?” Grim determination filled him. This bastard wasn’t getting away this time. Whatever he’d done to Josephine Marsh was going to reap ten-fold on the twisted fucker’s body.
Dancer looked up. And Marsh knew he was thinking the exact same thing.
“Signal is stationary. North Fork of Long Island, but we don’t have an address yet. Should we alert the locals?”
Sticking the car in gear, Marsh shook his head and checked his watch. “I don’t fancy their chances against this guy. They’ll spook him and if Josephine isn’t already dead, she will be when they arrive all sirens blazing.”
Steve stared intently at the screen of the computer. “It might be better that way,” he said quietly.
“Goddamn it, Dancer, don’t quit on me no
w.”
“How the hell are we going to get there before he—” Dancer cut himself off, unable to say the words neither of them wanted to hear.
“Call Walker and tell him to get HRT ready.” Marsh scrambled in his pocket and lobbed his cell phone at Steve. “First call Dora. I want a chopper and a pilot ready to fly at La Guardia in fifteen minutes.”
“Ah fuck.” Dancer was terrified of helicopters, but he dialed the number and got through to Dora straight away.
Marsh shot him a glance, but didn’t say a word, just pressed his foot to the floor and headed for the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, turning on the siren and driving hard.
Her Last Chance: Chapter Nineteen
Lightning flared and thunder vibrated through the air, waking her. Shivers wracked her body as she registered the icy temperature.
Where am I?
Waves crashed, the scent of brine pervading the air, so thick it filled her nostrils. Mystic? Visiting Elizabeth? Her tongue felt swollen and parched; she tried to swallow but there was no moisture in her mouth to ease the dryness. She went to sit up, but had to lie back down as she reeled, breathing hard. Her brain was slow. The light hurt. She turned away from it.
“Oh, good. You’re awake.”
A bolt of terror shot straight through her. She tried to swallow, but the muscles bunched and clenched in her dry throat, constricting her airway, choking her. She squinted, though her eyes didn’t like it. She needed to see.
A man stood in front of her. Lean, not overly tall; the cold steel of his eyes matching the knife that glinted in the lamplight. Her oldest foe. The man who’d killed her mother and shaped her life. Her arms and legs jerked instinctively, only to be brought up short by a rope on each limb. She glanced upward and saw the painting she’d done of blood and death hanging on the wall like the promise of a sacrifice.
The lights flickered as he watched her.
“Why?” her voice cracked. The more she strained, the tighter the bindings became, cutting off her blood supply, making her hands and feet go numb. Not good. Not good at all. She forced herself to relax.
Heroes in Uniform: Soldiers, SEALs, Spies, Rangers and Cops: Sexy Hot Contemporary Alpha Heroes From NY Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors Page 194
