Her Last Chance

by Toni Anderson

  “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 pocket. 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.

  Time to reverse the flow of news. Time to start directing an operation.

  ***

  Josie put the phone in the cradle and stood up, determined to feel energized instead of scared stupid. Weeping in a closet was not how she was going to live her life, but clearing out all the excess crap felt good.

  The positive news was she had a new commission. The bad news was she had to go out and meet with the client this afternoon. She made a valiant attempt at a smile, but caught her grim reflection in the glass of a framed photograph on her mantel.

  “What’s going on?” Vince’s bass rumble reached out from where he sat on the couch.

  She glanced at the telephone, wondering if
Marsh would call or if they were over. They didn’t feel over, but they didn’t feel together either.

  “Are you in love with Laura?” The words got through the knot in her throat with difficulty.

  His chuckle made her want to smile.

  “Honey, can’t you tell?” he said, raising a thick brow.

  “The way you checked out that flight attendant’s ass?” she shot back at him, wondering if she was way too uptight when it came to relationships.

  He chuckled again, unperturbed. “Laura and I have a look, don’t touch policy.” He grinned up at her. “Although I’m not dumb enough to look when she’s around, nor do I want to. To answer your question, yes, I’m in love with Laura.”

  Josie noted his happy expression. “So why does being in love suck so much for me?”

  Taking his time, Vince started reassembling the gun he was cleaning. “I take it your little shot at Marsh on the plane this morning was an attempt to provoke some sort of a reaction?”

  “Ya think?” Okay, so sarcasm wasn’t something Vince deserved, not after he’d rocked her and wiped away her tears earlier. Not when he’d protect her with his life.

  She slumped next to him on the sofa and pressed a cushion to her face. “He can’t even look at me. Not since he got the call about Dancer.”

  Vince stayed quiet for so long Josie didn’t think he was going to answer. Despite her sweater, cold trickled through her, stealing her earlier determination.

  God, she hated the cold…

  “In the teams, when we found out we were about to go on a mission, most of the guys would get very quiet and introspective.” She heard a metallic snap as he finished with the Desert Eagle Pistol. Smelled the bittersweet scent of gun oil in the still air.

  “Guys who are about to go into combat don’t want sex. They don’t want to jack off. They focus on the mission and on the job they need to do, so they can celebrate all that other shit when the job is done.”

  She frowned at him. “He was pissed because we were in bed together when that monster was killing that poor woman—”

  “Of course.” Vince nodded, tugged one corner of his lips up in a mirthless smile. “Marshall Hayes is a good man and was an excellent naval officer—a rare commodity, believe me. I’d imagine he’s got a gutful of remorse that he allowed himself to be distracted during an important investigation.” Vince raised his hand to stop her from interrupting. “And now he’s trying to focus on getting the job done, rather than sitting around holding your hand, or any other part of your anatomy for that matter.”

  She smacked him with the cushion.

  When he grinned his white teeth were luminous against his dark skin. “He’s trying to keep you safe and get the job done.”

  Could it be that simple…?

  “You told Marsh you love him yet?” Vince asked, stuffing the gun back into its holster and snapping the clasp closed. “Because that might go some way to easing the situation.”

  The bright afternoon light reflected off the walls and made her squint. She hugged her arms tightly around the cushion. “No.”

  “He ever say anything to you?” Vince asked.

  The sigh deflated her chest. “No.”

  “So you’ve got into some pretty heavy shit with this guy, but you don’t really know how you feel about one another?”

  Swallowing back tears she nodded.

  “Then why the fuck don’t you pick up the phone and tell him?”

  Josie laughed even as tears filled her eyes. It should be that simple. But it wasn’t. Because she was terrified. She’d spent a lifetime erecting barricades around her heart and only letting a few people even touch the outer surface—not because she was tough—but because she was weak. Marsh had rammed his way through her defenses and left her completely vulnerable.

  And it terrified her.

  Because what if he didn’t love her back? What if she took a chance on him but all he’d wanted was a quick fling? A lifetime of insecurity was hard to fight, but dammit she was going to try to be braver. Try to be more worthy of a good man like Marshall Hayes.

  ***

  The cop was a hot blonde with a Playboy figure, the top half of which was pressed against Marsh’s shirt. “I didn’t have this much trouble getting solicited in Vice.” Detective Lanie Jenkins sank her fingers into his hair and dragged his mouth toward her, but still he resisted. Her Southern drawl reminded him too much of Prudence Duvall and his gut twisted. He couldn’t do this.

  He used both hands to hold her away from him. “Give me a minute, please.”

  She stood back and rolled her eyes.

  These guys thought Dancer was good for the Duvall murder but he had airtight alibis, involving several FBI agents, for the previous two murders. Pretty much everyone had come to believe he couldn’t be the Blade Hunter.

  Marsh had taken his idea to the captain of the Brooklyn PD—whose acquaintance he’d made last spring when Walter Maxwell had been murdered—and convinced him that the killer seemed to have focused on him and maybe they should set a trap. The plan was to assume Marsh was some doomed Lothario and the real killer would turn his attention to this new target and the cops would be ready for him. He didn’t have much to lose, but this cop was putting herself in the line of fire. He didn’t think he could cope with being responsible for her death too. And if Josie ever found out he was kissing another woman it would destroy what little trust she had left in him.

  “G-men really are duds.” Jenkins scowled at him, then grabbed his hand and stuck it on her ass. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and gritted his teeth.

  “Now look like you know what to do with a woman,” she said.

  Catcalls started from some of the uniforms standing at the end of the alley they’d cordoned off near the Precinct for this particular photo-shoot. Marsh bet most of the guys standing there would beg to fill this role. Meanwhile he’d rather be anywhere else.

  Nelson Landry stood at the end of the alley taking shots as if he was spying on Marsh.

  Marsh had made more deals in the last half hour than he’d made in his entire life and the last one promised an exclusive to a reporter he might have wronged six months ago. Not that he could have let the story about Elizabeth run, but there might have been a better way to deal with the situation.

  He was eating crow, with humble pie for dessert.

  Jenkins rubbed against him. “I won’t tell anybody about your little problem, feeb—”

  Josie being angry with him was better than Josie being murdered in cold blood. So he pressed the detective up against the wall, knee thrust high between her thighs, and kissed her deep and hard, keeping her pinned against the wall.

  Not that she tried to get away.

  The lady was the hottest cop he’d ever met. She was sexy as hell and she kissed him back, tongues tangling as she tried to close the gap. A hell of an actress too.

  Satisfied Nelson had all the material he’d ever need, Marsh stepped back and held her gaze which was a little less derisive. “Thank you for your help, Detective Jenkins, and please be very cautious until we catch this killer.”

  After a moment she grinned. “Let’s hope we can draw this guy out before he attacks your girlfriend again.”

  Their eyes met, guilt and gratitude making him feel like the biggest prick ever, even as she grinned up at him and ran a finger down his chest. “And if she dumps your ass, you know where to come for some mind-blowing rebound sex.”

  She winked at him and strode away, every inch of her lush figure squeezed back into cop mode. One of the uniforms dropped to his knees and begged to be next, but she flipped him off.

  Marsh raised his face to the slice of bright blue sky that glowed above him. God help him, he hoped he never had rebound sex.

  Chapter Seventeen

  _____________________

  Thirty minutes later Marsh skimmed his eyes over the crowded squad room at the Brooklyn Precinct. The feds were in the corner of the room, as far removed from eavesdrop
pers as they could get. Walker sat on a table, one foot planted on the floor, the other dangling in the air, swinging backwards and forwards.

  The lieutenant was outlining the plan to the next shift. They’d let the press believe they’d caught the Blade Hunter, but the FBI, Brooklyn PD and NYPD knew better. Not that they’d released Dancer, yet.

  Detective Jenkins would work her day shift and tonight, after the evening edition of The NY News came out, she would go back to her lonely apartment in Bay Ridge. Except tonight she wouldn’t be lonely. They’d have officers all over her apartment building.

  Setting the trap and baiting the hook.

  “You really think this is going to work?” The skin under Agent Walker’s eyes looked sunken and heavy. Red veins formed a delta across the whites of his eyes and the stubble on his chin was almost enough to be classified as a beard.

  Marsh shrugged. Maybe not tonight, but given time the Blade Hunter would go after the pretty cop—he was too egotistical not to.

  “You have a better idea?” Marsh countered.

  Walker gave a small laugh that sounded anything but amused. “No.”

  “Dancer is innocent.” Marsh walked over to the vending machine and got black coffee that tasted so bitter he gagged, but it fired up some neurons and he seriously needed something fired up somewhere.

  His brain ached.

  “He was leaning over the body of a dead woman with the murder weapon next to him.” Walker shot him a look full of warning, so Marsh held his silence. “And Special Agent Dancer knew enough about the murders to arrange a copycat killing—if he wanted to.”

  “So why the fuck get caught?” They didn’t get how smart the other agent was. NASA smart. Bill Gates smart.

  “I’m not finished.” Controlled anger battled the threadbare patience in Walker’s tone. “Dancer’s tox screen came back positive for narcotics, but a smart perp could plan that himself. We don’t know exactly how or when he received the drug. Might have taken just enough to be found during a routine screen if he was caught, giving himself an alibi. You said your boy was smart?” Walker’s eyes held his.