Take the Key and Lock Her Up

by LENA DIAZ,

  Devlin blew out a frustrated breath. “Where’s the evidence against me? These pictures prove nothing.”

  His friend’s bloodshot eyes zeroed in on him like laser-guided missiles. “Cyprian doesn’t care about fingerprints or fibers or blood spatter analysis. Two enforcers with personal connections to you have been abducted or murdered. The police found you in a basement with Shannon’s body.”

  “No, they didn’t. I found a police officer in the basement with Shannon’s body. Big difference.”

  “You think so? Cyprian doesn’t. He thinks it’s more likely you heard the cop had discovered your little underground horror chamber, so you went there to kill the cop and make sure no one discovered your playground. But O’Malley had called for backup already, so you had to come up with the story that you were trying to help her.”

  Devlin laughed without humor. “This is ridiculous. None of the other enforcers are going to buy into the fantasy that I suddenly turned rogue and started locking women up and torturing them for kicks.”

  Gage leaned toward him, the skin taut across his cheekbones. “You’re right. You’ve got a rock-solid reputation as the Enforcer. No one would believe you’d ever turn bad. They’d deny it to their dying breath. Except for one thing.” He dug another picture out from the bottom of the stack and set it on top. “When you strangled Shannon, you used that fancy garrote you designed yourself—the one with the wooden handles that twist the wire and snap off so the victims can’t remove the wire no matter how hard they claw at their own flesh.”

  Devlin stared down at the gruesome scene, the wire cruelly cutting into the tender flesh of Shannon’s neck. Beside her lay the pieces of wood that were the genius of his design. They allowed him to twist in one swift movement, leaving Devlin’s hands free for other things. But the garrote wasn’t a tool he was fond of using. It caused a slow, painful death. He used it only as a last resort, when he needed to defend himself, or to save the life of an innocent.

  Now, looking at all the evidence mounting against him, he had to admit it looked pretty convincing.

  “Anyone could have copied my garrote design.”

  Gage simply stared at him.

  Devlin tightened his finger on the shotgun trigger beneath the table. “This is a setup. Tell me you know that. Please tell me you don’t really think I hurt Shannon or Kelly.”

  Gage pulled his hand from beneath the table. Devlin was disappointed but not all that surprised to see the .357 Magnum pointing at him.

  “Convince me.” Gage’s voice was a deadly echo in the small room.

  All Devlin had to do was squeeze the trigger and a bullet would rip through the soft wood with deadly force. If anyone besides Gage were sitting in that chair, pointing a gun at him, he would have already shot them. But the man across from him wasn’t a stranger. He’d been Devlin’s closest friend for over a decade. And since Devlin could count all of his friends on one hand, that meant something. It meant everything.

  He studied Gage’s eyes, the little lines at the corners tight with tension. His mouth was a thin line. The hand holding the gun made a telling wobble before Gage tightened his grip and steadied it.

  Devlin was betting everything on that one little wobble. He carefully eased his finger off the trigger. “Why should I bother trying to convince you that I’m innocent?”

  “Other than the fact that I’m holding a gun on you?”

  He raised a brow. “Other than that.”

  Gage stared at him for a full minute before cursing viciously and shoving his gun into his shoulder holster. “You’d better hope that Cyprian doesn’t realize I couldn’t shoot you. If he does, he’ll send someone who will, like Ace. Remember when an EXIT order was issued against Ace’s longtime girlfriend? Cyprian assigned another enforcer to carry out the sentence and told Ace about it as a courtesy. Rumors are that Ace volunteered to kill her and filleted her like a fish, splitting her open from the neck down—right after making love to her. Going after someone like you or me wouldn’t make him blink twice.”

  As always, hearing about Ace’s brutality sent a surge of anger sweeping through Devlin. But he had his own survival to focus on right now. “So Cyprian really did send you to kill me. He issued an EXIT order.”

  “What did you think he would do? He thinks you’ve gone rogue, out of control. He thinks you’ve already killed one enforcer and will probably kill Kelly too. One of the Savannah detectives has already been digging into EXIT. Damage control on this is going to be costly.”

  “And I’m one of those costs.”

  “What would you do in Cyprian’s position? Weighing everything, looking at the facts, at what he thinks are the facts anyway?”

  Devlin shoved back from the table and stood. “I would have sent Ace.”

  Gage grinned for the first time since entering the kitchen. “Yeah, you probably would have. God save me if my life is ever in your hands. You would have shot me without giving me a chance.”

  Devlin reached beneath the table, pulled the shotgun out, and set it on top of the photographs. “Give me more credit than that. You’re still alive.”

  His friend turned pale, but before he could say anything, his cell phone rang. Gage pulled it out of his pocket and took the call. “Yeah.” He listened for a moment, his troubled eyes rising to Devlin’s. “No, Cyprian. Looks like I just missed him. The coffee is still warm.”

  EMILY HID A yawn behind her hand and straightened in her desk chair, struggling to stay awake as she finished reading a report on her computer screen.

  “Great way to spend a Saturday, huh?” Tuck’s voice called out to her from across the squad room as he maneuvered down the aisle to his desk. “Wait, you look like hell. Please tell me you haven’t been here all night.”

  “Thanks a lot. And, yeah. Guilty.” She waved at the handful of other detectives at their desks. “I’m not the only one. So you aren’t allowed to fuss.”

  He glanced around. “Yeah. I am. That’s the night shift about to go home, not the day shift working a double. Go home, Emily. Take a nap. Come back in a few hours.”

  “I already took a nap beneath my desk. I’m fine.”

  “No. You’re not. Your eyes are crossing.” He sat across from her.

  “Stop acting like my mother and take a look at this.”

  He snickered. “Mom still thinks you’re not living up to your full potential since you aren’t a doctor?”

  “If I’m not in the medical field, I might as well sell burgers and fries for all the respect my family shows me. Get over here.”

  He shoved his foot against the side of his desk, sending his chair rolling across the space that separated them. “What are we looking at?” He peered at the screen. “Virginia Hawley’s medical report?”

  “Skim through it. Tell me your gut feeling.”

  He frowned and grabbed the mouse, scrolling through the two pages before sitting back. “Pretty cut-and-dried. Multiple bruises, lacerations. Ligature marks on her ankles and wrists. The doctor mentions a cross-shaped bruise with each of the ligature marks. Did Hawley say what that was from?”

  “She wasn’t sure. Maybe from the rope.”

  He shrugged. “The rest of it looks fairly standard to me. What’s bothering you about it?”

  “She wasn’t sexually assaulted.”

  “Serial killers don’t always rape their victims,” he reminded her.

  “I know. It just seems . . . surprising, given that she was tied up. There aren’t any broken bones either. Not even a cracked rib. Wouldn’t you expect that from the number of bruises?”

  He pursed his lips and tilted his head back and forth as he considered her question. “Okay, yeah, probably. I guess he just didn’t hit her hard enough to break bones. Maybe he’s not a big guy. Or he just likes leaving marks on the skin, some kind of fetish. Or maybe he would have broken bones if he’d kept her longer.”

  “I don’t think so.” She clicked the mouse and maximized another document. “I’m not the onl
y one who pulled an all-nighter. Kennerly was here too. He finished all three autopsies. And this is the part that bothers me.” She highlighted a line in the report.

  “Huh.” His brows rose. “No broken bones on that one either. Okay, but Carolyn Buchanan—I mean, Shannon Fisher—had multiple fractures. Kennerly noted that in the basement, even before he performed the autopsies.”

  “True, but once he performed Shannon’s autopsy he concluded those breaks, all of them, were set correctly and healed with no issue, which wouldn’t be typical if an abuser had broken those bones. He wouldn’t have sought medical treatment for the vic.”

  “Agreed. Fisher was either accident-prone or had a dangerous job or hobby. But her attacker isn’t the one who caused the fractures.”

  “Right. Set that aside and what do we have? None of the three women in this case—four if you count Hawley—had broken bones as a result of their treatment by the killer. None, that is, except for the hyoid bone in their throats.”

  “Wait, the killer was strong enough to strangle them, but not strong enough to break any other bones when he beat them?”

  She tried to imagine Devlin as the man who’d hurt these women. He was tall, fit, arms bulging with muscles. If he’d beaten someone, wouldn’t he break some of their bones? He was certainly capable of violence. He’d killed Hawley’s abductor with his bare hands. And she hadn’t changed her mind that he was hiding something, that he might very well be the hired assassin she’d believed him to be back in the interrogation room. So then, why couldn’t she picture him hurting these women, or any woman?

  She shrugged. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “That’s because you’re exhausted. Go home. Don’t come back until you’ve had at least four or five hours of sleep.”

  “I told you, I’m fine.”

  “Okay. Then I guess you want to hang around for Drier’s press conference. That should be fun. It’s scheduled to start in a couple of hours.”

  She shot him an aggravated look. “I’ll be out of here in five minutes.”

  He laughed as she shut down her computer.

  GOING TO THE police station was risky, but Devlin considered it a risk worth taking. Whoever had brutally murdered Shannon was either holding Kelly as his prisoner or had already killed her. Until a body was found, Devlin was holding out hope she was still alive and he could save her. And if she could save him in the process by telling his boss he wasn’t involved, that would be one hell of a fringe benefit.

  He figured the fastest way to find her was to catch up on the police investigation, so he wouldn’t waste time covering the same ground they’d already explored. That was why he was once again in the lobby of the one place where he felt the least comfortable, the police station.

  One specific thing he wanted was a copy of the missing persons report that had been filed on Shannon. Getting a copy, or at least getting O’Malley to share the information, would take some creative lies. But he’d find a way. It was bugging the hell out of him that an enforcer could have been reported missing without any alarms sounding within EXIT. Shouldn’t someone there have known she was unaccounted for? Her parents knew she worked for EXIT as a tour guide. Wouldn’t they have called someone there to ask if they’d seen Shannon? He had way too many questions and almost no answers.

  He started toward the main desk to ask for O’Malley, automatically scanning the lobby for potential threats. When he noticed a young man on the other side of the room, he stopped. There was nothing about the man that made him look any different from anyone else sitting on the benches and chairs waiting to see whomever they were there to see. Nothing except his deathly stillness, and the way he seemed to look at everyone except Devlin, as if purposely trying not to draw his attention.

  An EXIT enforcer? Had Cyprian given EXIT orders to two different assassins? Or maybe this young kid was the real rogue, the one who was framing Devlin. Doubtful. Devlin didn’t recognize him. And he knew the faces of every enforcer EXIT employed. The only way this guy could be an enforcer was if he was a new recruit, fresh out of training, still on probation. Which meant he had a handler somewhere. That upped the number of people after Devlin to at least three—Gage, this kid, his handler—and possibly four, depending on who was orchestrating this conspiracy against him.

  The young man’s gaze met his and quickly flitted away. Oh, yeah, he was definitely watching Devlin and trying unsuccessfully not to be obvious.

  This was all spiraling out of control fast. He needed to talk to Cyprian again, try to convince him he was innocent—or as innocent as Devlin could ever be at this point in his life. But right now, the only thing that mattered was figuring a way out of the police station and into hiding without getting himself, or anyone else, killed. Seeing O’Malley was no longer an option. He couldn’t risk making her a target by being seen with her again. If Cyprian were already convinced Devlin had gone rogue, it wouldn’t take much of a leap to think that he’d told O’Malley more than he should have, especially if she’d said anything outrageous on the phone when she’d called EXIT.

  Keeping the rookie in his peripheral line of vision, he strolled back toward the front doors. His plan was to use EXIT’s own rules against them. Rule number #3: Never kill anyone in law enforcement. The only exception to any of the rules was if EXIT’s mission was in jeopardy, serious jeopardy, and there wasn’t a viable alternative. Which meant the rookie couldn’t shoot Devlin if it meant shooting a cop to get to him.

  Not knowing who might be watching from outside, he stopped well back from the glass doors, waiting for his chance. The rookie suddenly stood, as if only now realizing Devlin’s intent. Devlin timed the movements of a large group of detectives and uniformed officers heading toward the doors. Ten feet, nine, eight.

  The rookie started toward him, his movements jerky, panicked, as he tried to push his way through another group of visitors between him and Devlin.

  Five feet, four . . .

  The rookie burst through the group, turning his head back and forth, searching for Devlin.

  Devlin edged closer to the door. Now!

  AVOIDING THE MAIN lobby of the police station so she wouldn’t get stuck talking to anyone, Emily headed out the side door to the parking lot. As soon as she passed the visitor’s row, she stopped and did a double take. There was only one vehicle parked there, on the end, near the street. A white Ford pickup. The same one she’d ridden in earlier—Devlin’s truck. Why was he at the police station?

  She headed to the truck and looked through the driver’s window. Empty. She felt the hood. Warm. He must have just gotten here. Had he gone into the lobby while she’d gone out the side? She debated continuing to her car, but her curiosity wouldn’t let her do that. She wanted to know why Devlin was here and whether it had anything to do with the case.

  She rounded the corner of the building to go in through the front this time, then stopped. What if Tuck caught her talking to Devlin and started teasing her again? She’d told him her suspicions about EXIT Inc. right before she’d left. Big mistake. He’d told her exactly what he thought about her ideas, that she was letting all those muscles distract her and was wasting time looking into both Buchanan and the company he worked for. Could he be right? Was she not thinking clearly? Was she really that shallow that a few dimples and a flat stomach could make her see clues where they didn’t really exist?

  Her shoulders slumped. If there were even a chance Tuck was right, she should go home right now. If Devlin asked for her upstairs, Tuck would take care of it. That’s what partners were for.

  She started to turn back around when movement across the street caught her attention. There, partially concealed by a coffee stand, was Devlin Buchanan. But he wasn’t getting coffee. He looked almost like he was . . . hiding . . . or watching someone. She followed the direction of his gaze. He was looking at the police station’s front entrance.

  Tuck’s teasing faded into insignificance. Something was going on here, and she was going to find o
ut what it was.

  Chapter Eleven

  * * *

  HALF-HIDDEN BEHIND A busy coffee stand, Devlin stood across the street from the police station. Blending in with the group of policemen leaving the station had gotten him out of the building, but instead of turning toward the police lot where his truck was parked, they’d continued to the diner a few feet from where he was now. He’d been forced to stay with them or lose his cover. But when they went inside, he turned around to see if the man from the lobby had followed him.

  Sure enough, the recruit was staring right at him from a crowd of pedestrians waiting for traffic to clear so they could cross the street. There was no point in either of them pretending not to notice each other now. The game was on. But since they’d both come directly from the police station, with metal detectors at the entrance, neither of them was armed. Confronting the rookie now might be Devlin’s only chance to try to talk to him, to find out who his handler was. But only if the handler wasn’t nearby, possibly with Devlin in his crosshairs even now.

  As the recruit started across the street toward him, Devlin decided to stand his ground. But not here. In the alley. There were some Dumpsters twenty feet in that he could use for cover, with scraps of lumber lying on the ground nearby. Those could become lethal weapons in a pinch.

  He headed into the alley, grabbed a thick length of wood, and positioned himself so his right hand, holding the makeshift weapon, was concealed by the Dumpster. When the young man came into view, he headed straight for Devlin without hesitation and without fear.

  Not a good sign.

  He stopped about five feet away and pulled a small derringer from the waistband of his pants.

  Damn.

  The derringer might not be a powerful weapon, but at this close range, it could kill just as effectively as a higher caliber gun. The advantage of the derringer was that it was easy to hide. Devlin used them himself when the situation called for something small and deadly.