Don't Look Away (Veronica Sloan)

by Leslie A. Kelly

  It was broken by a sound as soft and small as a puppy’s whimper.

  She tensed, tightening her grip on her weapon, casting a quick glance up the stairs, looking for her partner. No sign of him. Hell.

  Another soft, vulnerable sound came from somewhere down in that dark corridor, this time a bit louder. It sounded like…a child. A crying child.

  That was impossible, there couldn’t be any kids down here. But there could be somebody who was so badly injured they had strength to emit only the most pathetic cry for help.

  She couldn’t wait any longer. If the psycho who’d killed Leanne Carr was down here with another victim, every second counted in saving that person’s life.

  Stepping into the corridor, she called, “Detectives Sloan and Daniels, D.C.P.D., identify yourself!” It wouldn’t hurt for the mystery man to think she already had backup.

  Not expecting a response, she wasn’t surprised not to receive one.

  “Okay, have it your way,” she mumbled.

  Moving down the hallway, she hugged the inside wall, away from the tiny bit of light cast by the Exit signs. She stepped quietly, on her toes, hoping to catch the unknown party off guard. Hopefully he’d think she and her partner were playing it safe, waiting for the perp to make some kind of move, give them some indication where he was. He wouldn’t expect her to be creeping toward him in the utter darkness, when he knew she had a flashlight.

  She passed one green pool of light, kept walking, passed another. One more and she’d at last entered the cavern of blackness. The final sign was far in the distance. Between her and it? She had no idea.

  Gauging her steps, she figured she’d just about reached the place where the first missing Exit sign would be. She looked for it, then looked down, seeing the tiniest gleam of something on the floor. Broken plastic. He smashed them.

  Assuming her opponent had destroyed the two that would most reveal him, she had to guess he might be about halfway between her and the next missing sign. She tightened her grip on her weapon, her eyes scanning the shadows, alert to every beam, every doorway that led into every dark, unfinished room off this hall.

  Then she spotted one. An open door. The only open door in sight.

  She crept toward it, raising her firearm, raising the flashlight. Stepping to the threshold of what would someday be some politico’s office, she paused, breathing silently, listening for any sound from within. Then, adrenaline surging, she flipped on the mag-light and barked, “Police, put your hands up.”

  There was no rush of movement, no opponent awaiting her in the darkness.

  But that didn’t mean the room was empty. She most definitely wasn’t alone in it.

  Leanne Carr’s head sat right in the middle of the floor, staring sightlessly toward the doorway—toward Ronnie—as if she’d just been waiting for her to arrive. Her blood-matted hair was tangled around her ravaged face, her eyes open, her mouth gaping and filled with blood. She looked like a monstrous prop from a movie or a haunted house.

  “Jesus.”

  Shuddering once with revulsion, she stepped inside, playing the flashlight’s beam all over as quickly as she could to ascertain the room was empty and to avoid stepping on any evidence. There was absolutely nothing—no bloodstains, no weapons, certainly no killer. Just the gruesome remnants of a victim who had been a pretty woman thirty-six hours ago and was now a bloody ball of hair and torn-up flesh.

  Well, at least she knew now what the psycho had been doing down here and why he’d chosen to work in the darkness. Why he had decided to play hide-and-seek with the head, drawing her to it with those doused lights, obviously knowing she would come investigate, she couldn’t say. And their theory that he’d taken the head specifically because he knew Leanne was an implantee would have to be reexamined…at least, as long as the O.E.P. device hadn’t been removed from the victim’s brain through her smashed skull.

  God, she hoped it was there. Not just because she longed to solve this poor woman’s murder, but because she now felt personally invested. This prick had been playing games with her, taunting her, daring her to catch him. He might even have been watching her in the darkness, laughing as she moved toward him while he slipped out of her grasp.

  Nailing him would be incredibly satisfying.

  She was so focused on that, and on the best way to proceed with this new evidence, that she almost didn’t hear the assailant coming at her from behind.

  Something gave him away—his movement through the very air, perhaps. Every cell in her body went on high alert. Reacting instinctively, she swung around, Glock coming up.

  But before she had the chance to make out any more than a figure cloaked all in black rushing into the room, she felt something smash into the side of her head.

  And then she saw nothing.

  -#-

  Daniels glanced at the clock again. It had been thirty-two minutes since Ronnie had gone off to do her get-into-the-head-of-a-killer thing. For most people, being two minutes late for anything was no big deal. For his partner, however, it was serious. She knew he’d be worrying, watching the clock. She wouldn’t keep him sweating like this intentionally.

  So either something had happened to her, or she was on to something important and couldn’t give up the scent. Question was, which?

  He clicked his pen. Shifted some papers. Glanced at the clock.

  Three minutes.

  “Damn it, Ron,” he muttered, knowing she would ream him if he stumbled down there and ruined some big, important moment of clarity. Also knowing there’d been a psychotic killer in this building yesterday and they had no idea who he was.

  He didn’t want to piss her off by being overprotective. But he’d sooner lose an arm than even think about the person who’d killed Leanne Carr getting his filthy hands on Ronnie.

  Four minutes.

  He grabbed his phone, thinking to text her, then remembered the signal was spotty here in the building. Reaching for his handheld, instead, to send her an email, he tapped the screen and realized the damn thing had died. He’d forgotten to put it on the charger last night and it had run out of juice. Crap.

  “Oh, you’re still here,” a voice said.

  Daniels looked toward the door, seeing Bailey stick his head into the room. The young Secret Service agent looked tired, a little sweaty. The kid’s boss had been keeping him running around all day, but during every spare minute, Bailey had been hovering around them. The agent either had a serious case of hero worship for Ronnie, or he’d been assigned to babysit the unwanted D.C. cops and report back to his boss, Johansen, or his boss’s boss, SAIC Kilgore, on what they were doing. Probably both. Stinking little snitch.

  “Murder investigations take a little time,” he finally replied.

  Bailey grinned, trying to appear friendly, as if knowing he was interrupting but wanting to stick around and get more information anyway. “Everybody’s got to sleep sometime, though. Are you almost finished for the day?”

  “Yeah. Almost.”

  “Where’s your partner?”

  He hesitated before answering. He and Ron didn’t always play by the rules and this kid’s boss would probably do anything he could to mess with them. Finding out they’d split up—against regulations—could play right into his hands.

  “In the can,” he mumbled, rubbing his jaw and wondering how soon he could be hitting his favorite bar. Hopefully Ronnie would come walking up behind Bailey any second now, the two of them could get out of here and go back to the precinct, where she would sequester herself in a computer lab and he could call it a night.

  “Huh, that’s funny. I just walked past there and the janitor asked if he could lock up for the night. He didn’t say anything about anybody being inside.”

  Bailey eyed him. Mark held his stare, silently daring the agent to make something of it. The kid looked away first.

  “So are you going to leave when she gets back?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you have any luck today?�
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  Yeah, wouldn’t you like to know. “We made some progress.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “Can’t talk about it.”

  “Oh.” Bailey hesitated, then added, “Leanne seemed like a nice woman. I hope you guys catch whoever did that to her.”

  “We will,” Mark said, knowing his voice held absolutely no doubt. He and Ronnie were a great team on any case. With one like this, in which they were both already so invested, he knew neither of them would rest until the son of a bitch was caught.

  “Good.”

  “Look, I’m gonna finish up this paperwork, then round up my partner so we can get outta here. I’ve had enough of this place for one day. I don’t know how you can stand it full-time.” Talk about a depressing spot to work. Having to spend five days a week locked inside the most cursed spot on earth couldn’t be easy.

  “Okay. Catch you later,” Bailey said with a pleasant nod. Before turning away, though, he licked his lips and cast his eyes downward. “Uh, would you please tell Detective Sloan thanks from me?”

  “For?”

  “Just thanks. I think she’ll understand.”

  “Gotcha.”

  He did get it. Ronnie had handled this guy just the right way earlier. In the process, she’d also probably made him fall a little in love with her, the way most red-blooded males did.

  Something about his partner made her almost irresistible to most men. It wasn’t just the looks—which were stellar—or the brains, which put him to shame. She had the most fascinating combination of strength and vulnerability. He’d never known anyone tougher or more self-confident. He’d also never known anyone as determined to not let down her guard or actually feel anything that made her uncomfortable.

  He guessed that was understandable, given the way she’d lost her father and brothers in the attacks. Still, that unobtainable quality in her made her that much more of a challenge. Ronnie could make a guy feel like a totally inept screw-up, make him want to do better just to impress her, and make him almost desperate to be the one to break through her emotional barrier.

  She could also make him want to dive off a cliff.

  Frankly, that’s how he’d been feeling more often than not lately.

  “Okay, well, bye,” Bailey said as he ducked out of the office.

  “S’long,” he replied.

  Mark got back to his notes, trying to remain patient. Finally, though, unable to help it, he glanced at the clock.

  Eleven minutes. Enough.

  He got up, leaving his folders and interview notes on the table, and ambled out into the hallway. Bailey was already gone, back to the office used by Kilgore, the main Secret Service supervisor. Daniels glanced toward that door, seeing it begin to swing open. Johansen, the only one of the three S.S. stooges who actually seemed like he had a clue, was stepping out, though his head was turned toward the room as he addressed someone inside.

  Hoping not to be spotted, Daniels quickly strode to the stairs, and jogged down them, skipping every other step. Though he told himself he shouldn’t overreact, his inner-partner-voice kept telling him something was wrong. He’d learned to listen to that voice over the years, especially when it came to Ronnie. They might not have the personal relationship he’d once dreamed of having with her, but as partners, they were unbeatable and utterly joined.

  When he reached the sub-basement, he called for her. “Ronnie? Where are you?”

  No response. His concern growing, he flipped the breaker, setting the entire sub-basement ablaze, the harsh, bare bulbs spilling unforgiving light on the bloodstained floor. He could easily see in both directions and immediately knew his partner wasn’t here. Weird. He hadn’t passed her on the stairs, hadn’t seen her on the first floor. There weren’t even any roughed-out rooms on this level. There was absolutely no-place she could be that he wouldn’t see her, and he didn’t see squat.

  His mind churning, Daniels killed the lights and trudged up the stairs. Though he couldn’t imagine why she would have stopped on the basement level, he decided to check it out, and went to the breaker. Nothing happened when he flipped it.

  Now general concern was becoming worry. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

  He unsnapped his holster and removed his flashlight, very aware of the cavernous darkness. “Ronnie! Detective Sloan!”

  Not a sound. Yet something made him proceed further, heading down the long, shadowy corridor, calling her name, shining his flashlight all around. His heart was pounding now, both because of the tension, but also because of his fear for her.

  That wasn’t a good thing; she wouldn’t like him being afraid for her. But hell, he was crazy about the woman, personally and professionally. If anything happened to her, his life wouldn’t be worth shit, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her safe.

  Beginning to wonder if he’d just somehow missed her upstairs—if she’d hit the ladies room sometime after Bailey’s interaction with the janitor—he was about to turn around and go back the way he’d come. Just then, he heard a crunching sound beneath his foot.

  He glanced down and saw the shards of a broken Exit sign.

  “Damn it,” he mumbled, his tension rising. He drew his weapon. “Ronnie, answer me.”

  Something made a tiny sound, a click, and he jerked his attention toward a door nearby. He ran toward it, seeing it move slightly. “Police! Get your hands up!”

  Nobody rushed out, and he couldn’t rush in. Because, he realized to his horror, the doorway was blocked by a limp, lifeless body.

  His partner’s limp, lifeless body.

  -#-

  The bitch had been bluffing.

  She’d called out a warning to put up his hands, claiming to be speaking on behalf of herself and her burly partner.

  But she’d been lying. Sloan had been all alone the whole time. Damn her to hell.

  He should have known she was lying, since she’d been stumbling around in the darkened sub-basement by herself for twenty minutes. He had known, deep down, but there’d been the tiniest sliver of doubt, the possibility that her partner had met her on the landing, the lumbering ox moving quietly for a change. So, after using his little electronic toy to make a helpless sound and lure her toward him, he’d ended up abandoning his plan to grab her and take her to a private spot for a good, thorough killing.

  Leanne had been easy, so trusting and weak. Sloan would have put up a fight if he hadn’t gotten the drop on her. But if Daniels had come barreling down the hall after her, there would have been hell to pay. He’d have been in a fight for his life. So he’d had to play it safe.

  Of course, he’d soon realized the partner hadn’t been lurking in the darkness with her. In fact, Daniels had been upstairs in the interview room the whole time. By that point, though, it had been too late to go back and finish the female cop off.

  “Stupid whore,” he mumbled, his voice a low whisper as he watched through a window as the woman was loaded into an ambulance outside the front entrance of the White House.

  He’d intended only to place Leanne’s head where it could be found, and slip away without being caught. But when Detective Sloan had wandered down into the sub-basement, by herself, he’d realized he might have the chance to kill two birds with one stone. He’d decided to stick around, see if he could lure her into a trap and finish her off. Though he might not have had the time to enjoy it, to kill her the way he liked best, even a clean, quick kill would have sufficed. The main point was to snuff out her life before she got any further with her investigation. Because he’d already sensed she was a bit too clever, too observant, unlike her blustering partner.

  Maybe that bash in her head had caused brain damage. Perhaps a sharp splinter of skull had smashed into her brain, destroying her memories, ruining her for good, leaving her all but dead, anyway.

  He could hope, anyway.

  If it hadn’t, and she came through with her faculties intact, she’d be more determined than ever to find him. To get revenge.<
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  He had to be careful. Oh, so careful. He’d always been lucky, but it had been his extreme caution that had enabled him to do what he did for so long and not get caught.

  Maybe going after Sloan on the spur of the moment, without a detailed plan, had been a bad move. If she recovered, he could end up regretting that move for a very long time.

  But there was no way of knowing now. He’d just have to keep his ears open, wait to find out if he’d hit her hard enough, if he’d based her skull and smashed her brains and shut her busybody mouth for good.

  If not, there would be time to make new plans. And the next time, he wouldn’t screw up.

  Chapter 7

  Trying to swim toward consciousness, through what felt like a sea of confusing, disconnected images, Ronnie flicked her eyes open. Immediately regretting that as sharp shards of light stabbed at her, she groaned and quickly shut them again.

  Her head felt like it had been crushed in a vise, her brain throbbing in what felt like a too-tight skull. The slightest movement brought agony, so she remained very still, concentrating on taking slow, even breaths, trying to figure out where she was and what was happening.

  “Detective Sloan? Veronica?”

  Hearing the male voice, which she couldn’t instantly place, although there was a familiar ring to it, Ronnie tried to focus. She swallowed, wondering why her mouth felt so dry, why her head was on the verge of exploding, and why she was lying flat on her back in a bed when the last thing she could remember was walking down the steps to the sub-basement of the White House.

  “Was I attacked?” she whispered through a cottony-dry mouth.

  “Yes,” the man’s voice said. “You’re very lucky.”

  “I don’t feel lucky,” she growled. She felt like something spat out of death’s mouth. Post chewing.

  “It could have been worse. He might have used the other end of the two-by-four he smashed you with. That side had nails sticking out of it.”

  Nails. Two-by-four. Bits and pieces began coming back to her. She’d been in the basement, right? And something had happened.