Ferguson scowled, and folded his arms over his chest. It was an intimidating sight. “So how could he know someone else wouldn’t find the yacht first?”
“Maybe someone did,” Gilroy said.
Jack nodded. “Maybe Stone did. We don’t know. Yet.” Jack released a heavy sigh. “The stanza is our perp’s rulebook. The stanza is assigned to a victim. I don’t think he’d have blown the yacht up for anyone but Hannah.”
Ferguson used his thumb to indicate the incident room’s doorway, and the hall beyond. “Bolger is still waiting in Interrogation Room 1.”
“He had access to the yacht,” Vivian said. “Could have made the call to the cell phone. He knew you were going there.”
Jack caught Ferguson’s attention. “I have to get Hannah home to change. Put some pressure on Bolger, get info on his girlfriend. What’s her name?” He turned to Hannah.
“Janice,” she said.
“And if he drops something interesting, call me.” Jack motioned to Gilroy. “I’ll want verified alibis on him for the time of every murder before you release him.”
“Consider it done,” Gilroy said.
Ferguson gathered his badge and gun from his drawer and then hurried out of the room with Gilroy trailing behind him.
“You were lured to your death.” Vivian’s words startled Hannah.
One glance made it clear the tech’s words were meant for her, and they were not what Hannah needed right now. She wanted to go home, hug Ellen and pretend none of this was happening.
“No.” Jack’s tone was harsh, and final. “Hannah’s alive and she’s going to stay that way.”
Vivian nodded. “Charlie will find the bomb fragments and put it together like a puzzle. Then we’ll know if the perp was trailing Hannah and made the call, or if it was a trap that you two happened to spring. It might help explain the other kills, too.”
Jack seemed to bristle with nervous energy and anger. “We have more evidence than we had this morning, and no one had to die to get it. I count that a good day.” He caught Hannah’s attention. “This means the patrolmen and detectives on the Stone crime scene definitely need to be interviewed again. Deming was right. Something was missed.” He turned to Vivian. “Find out what vessels were searched the day of the Stone killing. We need to know if the Teapot was searched, and if not, why not.” She nodded. “Today Hannah and I never had the chance to do more than interview the dockmaster. Everyone involved gets interviewed again. This is big, the biggest lead so far. But first,” he held his arms wide, staring down at his dripping self. “I need a shower. Damn, I smell.”
Hannah studied Jack with as much objectiveness as she could muster. She envied his anger. It was healthier than this emptiness she was feeling. The last year had taken its toll on her physically and emotionally, and though she admired Jack’s strength, she resented it, too. He wasn’t the one who’d mourned a lover while creating a life, and struggled to stay gainfully employed while she overcame those challenges.
Her life was out of control because of Jack’s decisions. Why couldn’t she hate him?
Vivian finished scrolling through a file on her computer. “Records show they didn’t search the Teapot. It wasn’t even on the list of vessels that were near the crime scene.”
Jack swore. “It’s a well-maintained marina with a rich clientele. They must have a sophisticated surveillance system. See if you can gain access to it, Vivian. We’ll subpoena it if we have to. And find out where the Teapot was during the time frame of Stone’s murder to when she was found. I want pictures, video, dock records, whatever we can get our hands on. See the lieutenant if you need warrants before I get back, but get them ASAP. If the perp’s been active at the marina for months, there’s a picture of him.” Hannah was dripping on the floor, too, feeling more and more miserable. Jack finally noticed. “You’re dead on your feet, Hannah.” He pressed his palm to her lower back and led her toward the door. It was meant to be comforting, but it forced her clammy shirt and suit jacket against her skin. She shivered. “Vivian,” Jack said. “Find Deming. Tell her I want a report of her findings when we get back. Have her study these photos, and see if she can find something new. She thinks Stone’s murder is an outlier, and now Hannah and I agree.” When they reached the door, he stopped, and looked over his shoulder, sweeping the murder board with a last scan. “We’ll get this bastard. We’ll get him.” Then he led Hannah into the hall toward the elevator.
“Hannah!” Mrs. Pepperidge hurried toward her. “What in the world happened to you?” Wearing a black pantsuit with a fuchsia blouse and gleaming white pearls, her hair and makeup impeccable, the lieutenant’s wife contrasted sharply with Hannah’s bedraggled, smelly state.
“The Boston Harbor happened,” Hannah said.
Mrs. Pepperidge hugged Hannah to her chest with surprising strength. “Poor girl.” Hannah tried to ignore the sympathy she heard in Mrs. Pepperidge’s voice, because in her state, sympathy was sure to turn her into a weepy puddle. “You look like you’ve been put through the ringer.”
“I’m okay.” Hannah’s voice cracked, contradicting her assertion.
“Don’t kid a kidder.” Mrs. Pepperidge studied her face, tilting her chin up with her fingers. “You should go home. Do you have someone to take care of you?”
Hannah’s lower lip quivered, so she bit it, but the lieutenant’s wife saw it. Mrs. Pepperidge’s face fell and her eyes welled with tears. “Oh, Hannah. What can I do? You know I’ll do anything.” Hannah forced a smile. Just standing next to Mrs. Pepperidge was calming.
“I’m fine.” Not now, maybe, but she would be. Hannah would function because she had to. She was a mother now and Ellen needed her to be strong.
“Hannah.” Jack stood at the elevator, twitching with impatience. He’d never been good with the whole “feelings” thing.
Mrs. Pepperidge finally noticed they weren’t alone. “Oh, I see. Good. As long as someone is here to take care of you.” Her words immediately reminded Hannah why she liked the Pepperidges so much. When you don’t have family, and life is a series of bureau posts across the country, it was nice to find people you could count on.
Mrs. Pepperidge waved to Jack, gave Hannah another hug and disappeared into the incident room to find her husband. The woman had style. Not once did she acknowledge that hugging Hannah had ruined her gorgeous suit and blouse.
When they were alone in the hall again, Hannah glanced at Jack’s face. It wasn’t hard to see that he wanted to bench her. She could see it in his eyes and didn’t blame him, nor did she have the energy left to fight him.
Taking a deep, calming breath, Hannah straightened her back and walked toward Jack; her past, her present. She couldn’t wait until Jack was in her past again, but she had other, more pressing issues now.
He was about to meet Ellen.
Chapter 8
“You can let us out at the corner, please.” Hannah’s voice sounded weak as she gave directions to the uniformed officer driving the patrol car. A quick glance told Jack that the explosion at the harbor had done Hannah in, and hoped to convince her to stay home and recover, at least for the rest of the day. The police presence guarding her apartment would keep her safe. “I don’t want to be seen stepping out of the police cruiser,” she said.
The officer drove past kids playing on the sidewalks, old people lingering on stoops, then pulled up to the curb, a few houses short of her brownstone address.
Jack thought to lighten the mood. “Afraid of what the neighbors will say?” Hannah’s sidelong glance told Jack he’d inadvertently hit the nail on its head. She didn’t want to be seen leaving this car with him. It hurt his feelings and confused him.
When they’d been in the water, struggling to survive, Jack had never seen her so afraid. Devastated, really. At the time, he’d felt like railing at her, because the debacle at the marina was her doing, and just her late
st really bad idea. First, she’d left D.C., separating herself from people who knew her best, who had her back, and then after putting herself in the crosshairs of a killer, she’d refused protective custody. It was reckless, and so unlike her. The Hannah he’d known was a methodical thinker. She’d never take unnecessary risks. But this Hannah…
She’d said that she was broken.
Well, her behavior seemed cracked, that’s for sure. And she blamed Jack. He shook his head as the patrol car stopped and he could finally escape the oppressive silence in the car. Had news of his “death” truly broke Hannah as she’d said? He couldn’t believe it. Hannah just wasn’t thinking straight. It was the stress of being the target of a serial killer. Yeah, that was it, and she was projecting her angst on Jack.
He rushed around the car to open the door for Hannah. His onetime woman warrior was looking delicate again. Luckily, she didn’t fight the curtesy. Old Hannah would have flipped him the bird.
He caught the officer’s attention. “Be back in an hour. I need to pick my car up at the marina.”
“Sir.” He waited for Jack to close the door, and then merged the cruiser into traffic.
Hannah hadn’t waited for him. With a few long strides, he caught up with her. “Since when did you care what the neighbors say?”
She grimaced, and then shook her head. “Don’t poke me, Jack.”
Fair enough. Hannah took the five stairs up to the brownstone door, pulled her keys from her jacket pocket and got them into the foyer. He closed the door behind them. “Do the neighbors know about me?”
“Why would they?” She glanced at him over her shoulder as she stepped into the hall. “As of this morning, I thought you were dead.”
Once again…fair enough. A door down the hall opened and an older woman appeared. Her white hair was pulled back into a bun and she wore a housedress. One look at Jack and she scowled. The vehemence of her expression took Jack by surprise, because, mostly, women tended to like him. Especially older women. This one acted as if he’d just kicked her dog.
“Hannah,” the woman said. “What a surprise. Back from work so soon?” A baby cooed from inside the apartment.
“Hello, Mrs. Branaghan.” Hannah’s smile was tired, but seemed genuine, as if she liked the woman. Hannah lifted her arms, and then looked down at herself. “Had an accident, but I’m fine. Just need to change into dry clothes.”
A stylish woman stepped into the doorway next to the old woman. She held an adorable infant girl. Presumably, she was the infant’s mother, yet she acted as if she didn’t know the kid, and held it at arm’s length. Jack supposed the kid must have a messy diaper or something.
“Here,” the woman said, aiming the baby at Hannah, but Mrs. Branaghan tsked and took the cooing child.
“Hannah’s filthy and wet.” She tilted her head toward the woman, catching Hannah’s eye. “Natalie arrived an hour ago.” Mrs. Branaghan narrowed her eyes at Jack. “Who might this be?”
Jack waited for introductions, hoping this didn’t take long. He wanted out of these wet clothes. But Hannah was too busy smiling at Natalie, and then the baby. He could tell she wanted to hold it, and didn’t blame her. She looked brand-new, and sported a tiny pink bow that was dangling off a wisp of hair. Without thinking, Jack fixed it.
All three women stared at him, as if he’d done something wrong.
“What?” When they did no more than blink, he became self-conscious and looked away.
“I need to change,” Hannah said. She blew an air kiss to the baby and led Jack upstairs.
He was curious to see what her apartment looked like. When they’d been living together in D.C., she’d catered to his taste. Sleek, urban minimalism. Jack missed that apartment. He missed their life together. The stability, maybe? Now, watching her slip her key into the door’s lock, he guessed her new place would more reflect Hannah’s preference. Girly, he supposed. Maybe flowery upholstered couches and pillows everywhere… Pinks. He could see it all. Lace maybe. Lots of antiques.
He reminded himself to ask her about his stuff. There were a few things, like pictures of his mom, a few items of memorabilia he didn’t want to lose, but had abandoned when he’d ‘died.’ Now, however, didn’t seem the time to talk about stuff like that.
“I don’t think that old lady liked me,” he said.
She swung the door open and stepped through. “You’re easier to like when you’re dead.”
Burn. She must be feeling better, he thought. As he closed the door behind him and Hannah stripped off her sodden jacket, he looked around the room. He’d been wrong. No antiques. No lace. It seemed less a home than a storage unit.
“I guess I deserved that,” he said. “All I can do is continue to apologize.”
Hannah’s wet white shirt was see-through, and her bra was negligible, hiding nothing. She couldn’t have known, otherwise she wouldn’t be facing him like she was, hands on her hips, treasures on display. He averted his gaze with great difficulty as he focused on controlling his body’s response.
“You guess?” She hurried around the dining room area, picking up a few items, hiding them under pillows. Then she closed a door to a room. “You know you should have told me you were leaving, and you shouldn’t have left it up to Goodwin, so why didn’t you tell me?” She folded her arms under her chest, glaring, all very impressive…if her shirt hadn’t been nearly transparent, and her arms didn’t push her breasts higher, making them look even more lush. He swallowed the lump in his throat and averted his gaze again.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m an ass.” To go into more detail would bare his soul and strip him of what little pride he had left. He hoped she’d drop the subject.
No such luck. “What would you have done if your father had still been alive?” she said. “Would you have asked Goodwin to tell him, too?” He suspected her question was rhetorical, but it was a question he could answer truthfully, so he took the bait.
“Of course I wouldn’t have asked Goodwin.” When his father was alive, Jack could have cared less what he’d thought. In fact, if Jack had died first, he suspected his father wouldn’t have noticed.
Hannah startled, taking a step back, prompting him to replay their conversation. His answer had him wincing. Of course I wouldn’t have asked Goodwin, he’d said. He’d insinuated he’d tell his abusive father he was alive, yet had left without telling Hannah. Jack lowered his head, resting his hands on his hips.
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” His ability to plumb the depths of asshood never failed to surprise him. Now, he was left to flounder, searching for words that would make her hurt go away. He settled for the truth. “Honestly, Hannah. We were fighting so much I didn’t think you’d care.” She swayed, reaching out to support herself against the wall. Jack panicked, rushing toward her.
She held up a hand. “Don’t touch me.” It stopped him cold, a few feet in front of her. She shook with…what was it? Anger? Hurt?
Her reaction forced him to admit he’d been afraid she wouldn’t care. He’d bailed without a word, allowing Goodwin to do Jack’s dirty work, so he wouldn’t have to find out one way or the other if she cared that he was leaving. What did that say about him? Nothing good, and he already looked bad in her eyes, so he didn’t want to share that humbling piece of honesty.
Hannah turned her back on him and disappeared into what he presumed was her bedroom. He followed, though he was positive his presence was not welcome. When he saw her rummaging through drawers, pulling out underwear, opening her closet and grabbing a replica of the suit and blouse she was wearing, he was reminded of a time when this had been a commonplace occurrence. Hannah, donning her “uniform.” Did she wear the same clothes because it was easier, or because she knew she looked so damn hot in them?
“Your stuff is in boxes at the back of the closet. It’s not much.” She wouldn’t look at him. Her eyes br
immed with tears, and her expression revealed he’d hurt her again. She stepped into the bathroom, closing the door in his face.
Jack stripped, grateful to peel the sodden, smelly clothes off until he was bare. His clothes were ruined, and would need to be tossed, so he kicked them into a pile on the hardwood. Opening the closet, he rummaged behind her hanging clothes for those promised boxes, and thought to notice there were no signs of another man’s suit next to hers. His relief humbled him, because even he, dumb as a stump when it came to women, knew he had no right to have an opinion about her personal life. He’d forfeited that right when he’d left…when he hurt her.
Two boxes, side by side, were pressed against the closet’s back wall. As he grabbed for them, her silk blouses caressed his face and arms. He found himself inhaling, eyes closed, reacquainting himself with her delicate scent. Memories surfaced of the first time he’d met her.
It was in the D.C. office. He’d just completed a long embed with a motorcycle gang suspected of gunrunning. Six months later, he was closing the case, having gathered enough evidence to jail the lot of them. He remembered smiling at her, checking her out, noticing how she liked it, and he smiled when he recalled how she’d responded by giving him the finger. Her. Little Hannah. So prim and proper, flipping a motorcycle gang member the finger. She hadn’t known he was fresh off an undercover mission.
His hair had been long then, he hadn’t shaved in weeks, and he’d been running on zero sleep for days. So, yeah, Jack had been disreputable looking and ripe. In fact, he remembered barely being able to stand his own smell that day. Combined with his motorcycle gear, gang signs, the leather, and shit-eating grin, it was no surprise Hannah had dismissed him out of hand. If he hadn’t caught her checking out his ass, he might have chalked the experience up to lack of interest, but he did catch her, and later that week, after days of consistent sleep, thorough grooming and a debrief, he approached her again. By then his reputation had preceded him, and she’d said yes. On the QT, but they were exclusive for two years. It was the longest relationship he’d ever had, and every day of it, he’d wondered if that was going to be the day he screwed it up. Wanting her that much had scared the hell out of him, but fearing he’d lose her made him lose his mind. How else to explain his behavior?
Catch a Killer Page 11
