by Rita Herron
He bit back a caustic remark, and fisted his hands by his side.
“After you finish here, and interview the family, then take copies of the files on the other vics to Dr. Madden. Let her study them and see what she says.”
Raul silently cursed but nodded. He couldn’t disobey a direct order.
Not when it meant his job.
Besides, he could handle one little Jenny Madden. He could always pretend he was accepting her help. But he didn’t have to like it. And he sure as hell wouldn’t let her get inside his head or pour out his heart to her.
After all, that heart had died the day he’d lost his wife and child. And it was dead forever.
JENNY ROLLED her shoulders to alleviate the tension knotting the muscles as she climbed into her car and started the engine. It was only midafternoon, and she’d already had a hell of a day. The visits with her mother always drained her, but she normally took a long run afterward to relieve the stress.
Not today. No, she’d had to endure Raul Cortez, a man with a mountain of an attitude and dark eyes that were sinfully sexy, but haunted by some demons that only he knew. Because he obviously wasn’t a sharing kind of guy.
But dealing with the detective was nothing compared to the anguish she’d felt at the sight of Judy Benson’s dead body. An innocent girl who’d died before her time.
Nothing she or Raul Cortez could do would bring her back.
Tears burned her eyelids, but she waited until she was driving away before she let them fall. She’d cry now, and then she’d focus on work.
Finding the girl’s killer and giving her justice would ease the pain of the family. She’d dealt with enough victims to know that. So she would help, regardless of how much it hurt her to see the family and friends suffering.
She’d even tolerate the surly detective for Judy Benson’s sake.
The wind tossed her ponytail around her face, and she pushed it back. Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but the scent of the girl’s corpse lingered on her skin, and her appetite vanished.
With a sigh, she made the turn to her place, knowing she had to shower before she could stomach food. When her cell phone rang, she checked the number, half expecting it to be the hospital. Sometimes her mother became agitated after she left and she had to return, or the nurses had to give her extra medication. Instead it was Captain Black.
“Dr. Madden speaking.”
“Dr. Madden, this is Adam Black.”
“Yes?”
“I want to apologize for my detective today. He can come across as being rude, but he’s a good cop. One of the best I have and totally dedicated to the job.”
“No problem.”
“Good. Because I—we at the department—value your expertise and I’d hate for his behavior to dissuade you from assisting us.”
“Trust me, Captain, my skin is thicker than that. Working with him won’t be a problem.”
His sigh reverberated with relief. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“So it’s my job, not me personally?”
A long hesitation. “I really can’t say any more. If Raul wants to tell you, well, he should explain himself.”
Curiosity nibbled at her, but she refrained from asking more. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the reason for the man’s brusqueness. It was probably best that they agreed to dislike each other and leave it at that.
“He’s going to drop by later with the victims’ files. Maybe you can pick up something we missed.”
Great. She’d get to see the man twice in one day. She couldn’t wait. “That’s fine. I’ll be home all afternoon. Tell him to stop by anytime.”
He thanked her and hung up, and Jenny spun down the road to her new home, an old Victorian she was in the process of renovating. She loved the unique architecture, but it needed a face-lift, and paint. A work in progress, it would be something she could see visible progress more quickly than her patients.
Pushing aside her frustration, she parked and dragged her weary body inside. A shower, a salad and glass of wine later, she felt more relaxed.
But knowing Detective Cortez would stop by kept her on edge. Curiosity nagged at her. If she was forced to work with Raul Cortez, she needed to know all she could about the man.
Fortified by that thought, she decided to research him online. A quick search revealed his father was Cuban, his mother American; they’d met after his father had escaped into the country, married and had five children. They lived in Miami where Raul had resided until two years ago. He had served with the Miami Dade Police Department until his wife had been murdered.
His wife and unborn child.
A lump lodged in her throat, but she forced herself to read on: Louie Mulstein had been arrested for butchering his family in cold blood. The therapist who’d evaluated the perpetrator stated that he was schizophrenic and off his medication, but that she had stabilized him and that he was no longer a threat. House arrest and an ankle bracelet would suffice until the trial in which the defense attorney would be pleading an insanity charge. Raul Cortez had argued, insisting the man was dangerous and shouldn’t receive bail.
But the judge had rendered his decision and released the man according to the guidelines recommended by the court-appointed therapist.
That night Mulstein had escaped and butchered Raul’s wife, who was pregnant with his child.
Raul had found the man still in his house, bloody knife in his hand, and the man had attacked him. Raul had shot him, killing him instantly.
But it had been too late for his family.
Her throat closed as she studied the photo of the detective at the graveyard. It was a cold, windy, rainy day, and his massive shoulders were hunched in grief. His expression appeared tortured as he lay a bouquet of roses on the freshly turned grave.
Her comment today, her dig that he wasn’t a family man, echoed in her mind, and she dropped her face into her hands with a pained moan. No wonder he had reacted to her with such fervor.
She’d made a beginner’s mistake. Had allowed the man’s insulting attitude to push her buttons on a personal level, and she’d struck back.
Why? Because she’d just come from her mother’s and felt like a failure because she helped others but couldn’t help the one person in her life who mattered most.
Her reasons, excuses, didn’t matter. She was a professional and she would act like one. Raul Cortez deserved her sympathy and understanding, not her disdain.
Maybe he did blame the therapist, even her, but his grief was eating him alive. And Jenny understood grief. Although technically her mother was still alive, she’d mourned her loss for years.
Unbidden came the image of Judy Benson’s pale, stiff body and those haunting eyes. The detective would have to relay the news to the parents. Then the nightmare of their sorrow would begin.
And the questions. Who would have done such a horrible thing to their daughter?
Maybe she should look at her files to see if any of her prior or current patients fit the profile.
Immediately two names sprang to mind—could one of them be the strangler?
DAMN JENNY.
Dr. Rupert Zovall closed his eyes, envisioning Marilyn Madden’s pale face as she lay propped against the hospital pillows when he’d last seen her in Charleston. He’d treated Jenny’s mother for years, had been her psychiatrist since her breakdown.
Why the hell had Jenny moved her mother to that Coastal Island Research Park in Georgia? Hours away from him in Charleston?
Because she thought Marilyn needed another doctor? Thought the psychiatrists at CIRP could do something for her that Rupert hadn’t been able to do? Thought he was incompetent?
Hell, he’d been her lifeline back to reality in the few lucid moments she’d experienced.
Another image rolled through his head; this one from years ago before…before he’d lost her that day. She had been so young and beautiful, a vision of loveliness that had robbed his breath
at times. He’d known it was taboo to fall for a patient, but he had fallen hard.
Then her husband had interfered.
But at least when she was in Charleston, he could monitor her daily.
Bolstered by the fear creeping through his veins, he carefully packed his toiletry bag, then placed it by the door beside his computer bag and suitcase. His palms were clammy as he wrote a check and left it for the maid service, then he flung his computer bag over one shoulder, stacked the toiletry bag on top of his rolling suitcase, and headed outside to his Mercedes.
He had to get to Savannah. Had to see Marilyn Madden before she started ranting crazy things and aroused curiosity. Before the doctors messed with her medication.
Before anyone discovered their secret and started asking questions.
Chapter Three
“Mrs. Benson, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Raul patted the woman’s knotted hands and waited for the dam to break. It did a second later, and she burst into tears.
Her quiet demeanor reminded him of his mother, and a pang of guilt hit him that he hadn’t talked to his family in weeks, hardly at all since his wife had died.
He folded the fragile woman into his arms and let her cry her anguish and shock. Though Judy had been missing for days, her mother had held out hope until the end. Most families did.
Until they received the final word that their loved one was dead.
Finally Judy’s mother’s sobs settled into a low sniffle, and she wiped at her face. He handed her a handkerchief and allowed her a moment to dry her eyes.
“Do you know who killed her?” she asked in a tortured whisper.
“I’m afraid not, not yet.” He inhaled and forged on. “I promise you I will find the guy, Mrs. Benson.”
She nodded, although grief strained her features. “I…I don’t know what to do now.” She gave him a helpless look, and he squeezed her hands.
“You have some time. Is there any other family you want to call?”
“My sister, I suppose. Judy’s dad…he died a few years ago. And there’s no other children.
“Did you talk to her roommate?” Mrs. Benson asked.
“Did she know who Judy went out with that night?”
“We did talk to her,” he said quietly. “But she said she left the bar before Judy. She had a test the next morning, but Judy wanted to stay.”
“She shouldn’t have left her alone,” Mrs. Benson murmured.
“No, and she’s beating herself up over that,” he said. She’d been practically incoherent with guilt when he’d first interrogated her.
Her expression turned contrite. “I…I guess that was a mean thing to say.”
He smiled. “You’re grieving, Mrs. Benson. It’s allowed.”
A small smile broke through her grief, then, as if she remembered the circumstances, immediately wiped it off.
“It will be a couple of days before the medical examiner releases Judy’s body,” he said. “During that time, you can talk to your sister, start making arrangements.”
She nodded, and more tears trickled down her cheek. “There’s so much to do….” Her gaze lifted to his. “You’ll let me know when you find the monster who did this?”
“Absolutely. Now I’ll have an officer take you wherever you want to go.” He guided her to the door, watching as she slowly wove her way through the precinct beside the officer.
His promise to find the killer echoed in his head, and he strode out the door and headed back to the bar where Judy had last been seen. He’d questioned everyone there before, but he’d do so again. Then he’d beat the streets for a witness as to who she’d hooked up with that night.
Maybe he’d find a clue, and he wouldn’t have to drop those files off at Dr. Madden’s.
JENNY BREWED a pot of coffee, then accessed her work files and skimmed through them.
She had several seriously disturbed patients, and two weekly group therapy sessions—the first, a group of obsessive-compulsives; the second, a group of sex addicts. She combed through the members of the sex addicts group, but nothing stuck out as suspicious. One man was addicted to porn, and had sought therapy because his boss had threatened to fire him for viewing it at work. One female was a nymphomaniac, one man was obsessed with having sex in public, and two others had various fetishes.
Moving on, she looked through the other patient files, studying the notes she’d taken during their private sessions. Two names tickled her conscience.
Clyde Anson and Jamal Rakely.
Clyde was a masochist and had been forced into therapy by the courts for assaulting a woman. His preference toward asphyxiation sex made her uneasy—the killer had strangled his victims. He fit the profile in other ways, as well—he was in his mid-twenties, had been raised in an overly religious home by an overbearing mother and had been abused.
Jamal Rakely also raised her suspicion. During a domestic incident he’d turned violent, had lost control and strangled his wife, but his attorney had pled him out on an insanity charge. His history: Jamal had witnessed his father murder his mother when he was five.
Her cell phone rang, and she startled, sloshing coffee on her skirt. She yelped, grabbed a napkin and dabbed at it, then jumped up and retrieved the phone. A check of the caller ID box showed Dr. Solaris, her mother’s doctor at CIRP. A knot tightened in her stomach.
“Dr. Solaris, this is Jenny Madden.”
“Hi, Jenny. You visited your mother this morning?”
“Yes, I always do on Sunday. Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s resting now.”
Jenny frowned. “Are you sure? Sometimes after I visit she becomes agitated.”
“Actually she’s been sleeping all afternoon. But the reason I called is that I’ve phoned Dr. Zovall several times requesting he fax me your mother’s files, and he hasn’t sent them yet. Have you spoken with him recently?”
That was odd. “No, but I can give him a call. Have you tried his cell number?”
“Yes. I’ve left messages. Anyway, he’s probably tied up with another patient, but I wanted you to know that I’m going to proceed and conduct a full and extensive evaluation this week. It’ll include a gambit of tests, complete blood work, tests for physiological conditions, chemical imbalances, MRI, cat scans and neurological tests.”
“Good. I expected you would want to conduct your own tests. And frankly, after all these years and her lack of progress, I think it’s time.”
“You voiced your concerns to Dr. Zovall?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t imagine he was happy about you pulling her from his treatment.”
“No, not at first. But he cares for my mother and wants what’s best for her, so he finally agreed that she should see someone else. I think he feels guilty for her lack of progress.”
A noise outside jarred her, and she peeked out the window but saw nothing suspicious. Antsy, she walked through the den to the kitchen and checked the back door. A stray cat slithered through the yard, jumped on the trash can and the lid rattled.
Sighing, she silently chided herself.
“I’ll call you when we learn the results.”
“Good. And if you need me at any time, you have my number.” She hesitated. “I understand this change may be unsettling for Mom.”
“Don’t worry,” Dr. Solaris said. “I’ll take good care of her. We have some new treatments that are working well with other patients. Hopefully your mother will respond positively, as well.”
“I hope so, Doctor.”
She hung up the phone, but another noise out back startled her, and when she glanced through the window her heart raced. A man was skulking across the backyard, his face hidden in the shadows.
FRUSTRATION TIGHTENED every nerve in Raul’s body as he parked in front of Dr. Madden’s house. He’d spent hours requestioning everyone in the bars along River Street and turned up nothing. No one remembered Judy Benson. No one had seen her abduction.
Scru
bbing a hand over his bleary eyes, he studied the doctor’s house. Evening shades of gray cloaked her blue Victorian. The traditional lines, and the fact that it needed painting and new shutters shook his preconceived image—he’d expected her to own one of the new modern lofts or a mansion on Skidaway Island, not this fixer-upper.
Not that he gave a damn. The less he knew about the woman the better. He’d just drop off these files and leave her to them. Then he’d grab a beer and a pizza and develop a plan to trap this strangler before he struck again.
He climbed from his car and eased up the sidewalk, scanning the periphery of the house and yard. A shadow slithered between the tall oaks in back, moving toward a side entrance.
The strangler case on his mind, his instincts soared to life. He removed his gun from his shoulder holster, and eased around the side, crouching down to hide behind the bushes as he approached. A scraggly haired young man stood on tiptoe and peered in the window.
A Peeping Tom or could this be the killer? Maybe he’d been watching the crime scene and followed Dr. Madden home.
Anxiety made his hands sweat, but he closed the distance, careful to tread lightly.
A twig snapped, and the lurker spun around.
“Police, put your hands in the air where I can see them.”
“Wait! Don’t shoot,” the guy cried.
“Hands up now, buddy.” Raul inched closer, senses alert as the young man’s hands shot into the air.
He was about twenty-five. Light-brown hair that needed a cut, eyes that looked glassy as if he might be high. Around five-eleven, medium build, scruffy.
“It’s not what you think,” the young man screeched.
“My name is Bailey.”
“It’s exactly what I think,” Raul snapped. “You’re skulking around this house looking for a way to break in, and I’m going to arrest you.”
“No, I swear. This is my sister’s house.” His expression turned panicked. “Jenny Madden, she lives here. I’m her brother.”
Raul narrowed his eyes. He didn’t see any resemblance. “If you were her brother, why are you sneaking around? Why not knock on the door like a civilized human?”
