“Let him go,” she whispered, her mouth coming closer. Clearing her throat, she added, “Go home, Detective.”
He looked down into her eyes, and in them he saw the same things he’d seen in her face that night in the club when he’d first met her—a luminosity. A hunger. A fierceness. A simmering, barely restrained sexuality that was more about power than submission. But now that he knew her better, he knew there was also something broken in her, and it both intrigued him and fed the lust mounting in him right now. It spoke to the detective in him, the problem solver, and the protector and savior. And more … He cupped the side of her face, which glistened pale in the rain. “Come with me, Angie,” he said softly. “Come back to my boat. Let’s finish what we started.”
Her mouth opened, but before she could say anything, Maddocks leaned down and pressed his lips over hers.
CHAPTER 42
Angie went rigid, then a blind, primal ferocity imploded all logic as she suddenly opened to his kiss, coming up to him, her breasts, her pelvis, pressing against the solid mass of muscle that was his body. Her sex rules blurred distantly through her mind.
Never kiss … Never sleep with a colleague … Leave first. Leave early. No names. Never stay the night. Never breakfast the next morning. Never take one that makes you feel vulnerable in any way … Always stay in control …
The rules twisted down into a hot vortex of total oblivion as her mouth, her hunger, her aggression met his, tongues tangling, mating, rough, taking. He fisted her hair, tilting her head farther back, as his other hand slid down her spine. He cupped her buttocks and yanked her hard against him. His shirt was completely plastered to his body, and she could feel every inch of his muscular contours under the wet fabric. She could feel the long hardness of his big, gorgeous dick straining against his zipper as he pressed against her pelvis. Heat pooled molten between her thighs. Dizziness swirled, and her knees began to buckle out from under her. She wanted him. All of him. Inside. Deep and fast and hard and rough. Out here. Right now. She bit his lip, drawing blood as she fumbled for his belt buckle, undid it, found the tab for his zipper, but before she could yank it down, a sound distracted her. She slowed. Her heart hammered.
The pub doors opened, spilling light and voices and laughter out into the night. Angie jerked back and stared up into his face as reality came back into focus. His features had been etched by lust into something smoldering and powerful and dangerous. He licked the blood from his lip. For a moment she was speechless, breathless. Confused. And so was he, both shell-shocked by what had just exploded between them, by this Pandora’s box they appeared to have opened back at ground zero of the Foxy Motel. Possibly they’d never stood a chance—not since the instant their eyes had met over that crowded dance floor—and she’d been kidding herself all along that she could control this. Because right now, right at this moment, she couldn’t. Almost didn’t want to. All she knew right now was that she had to step away. Fast. Process this.
“I … this can’t happen again,” she whispered, voice thick. She spun around and strode fast into the mist, leaving him standing there in his soaking wet shirt, no tie. Blood thudded against her eardrums. It pulsed in her groin. And as she reached her vehicle she began to shake.
She got inside, keyed the ignition, and sat for a moment, heater running, trying to warm up, but the shakes worsened, and tears filled her eyes, and she didn’t want to think. Or feel. She leaned forward suddenly and engaged the gears. And she knew exactly where she was going.
Maddocks watched her disappear into a veil of rain and darkness. His heart drummed a beat in time with the drips coming from an adjacent awning. A far-off siren wailed. Traffic hummed in the distance. And out there somewhere, he knew, a killer hunted.
He also knew exactly where she was going.
His hands fisted at his sides as desire continued to slam through his body. His cock was hard and his head fucked up. And she was the drug he needed to fix it all. But like a drug, the fix would just make the addiction worse; this he knew, too.
She was right. They had to pull back, stop this while they still could. If they still could. Inhaling deeply, Maddocks turned and went back inside the pub. He grabbed his coat and made for his Impala.
But on the way home, he couldn’t help himself—he turned onto the road that would take him onto Highway 1 instead of the marina. She was going to fuck someone else, and it was eating him alive. He didn’t want to believe it. It wasn’t his business. But his compulsion to prove it to himself took him onto that highway, and he kept his eyes peeled for the rear lights of her Crown Vic.
Rain came down heavier as he headed toward the mountains, but traffic also thinned as he left the city behind, and then, suddenly, he believed he could see her vehicle up ahead. He eased off on the gas, not wanting to be made as a tail.
As the Crown Vic up ahead indicated for the next off-ramp, his heart sank, and a bitterness fouled his mouth. He followed the Vic as it turned off the highway and into the cracked parking lot of the Foxy Club and Motel. The red Xs pulsed into the wet night with a promise of hot adult entertainment.
He drew alongside the curb across the side street from the lot. He watched the vehicle park. From this aspect he couldn’t make out the plate, so held out hope that he’d made a mistake, that somehow the car was not hers … but then the door opened, and she got out.
Fuck.
Maddocks watched as she strode toward the motel office. A few minutes later she exited the office and made for the club door. She spoke to the bouncer outside, and he let her in. A strange hot stab seared through Maddocks’s chest. He punched the dash of his Impala, hard, and swore again, his mind, his body, every inch of him humming with memories of their own liaison in that motel room for which she’d just gone and paid up-front. And now she was in there hunting for a conquest. Within a half hour she could be banging her victim in that room, on that bed.
He fisted his hands around the wheel, debating whether to go in there and haul her out. Or … go in there and take her to that room himself. A kind of madness swirled around and around and around inside his skull along with the firestorm of sexual frustration consuming his body. He bit down on it all, rammed his Impala into gear, and he hit the highway, driving home too fast, trying to outrun his feelings. And yeah, his burning jealousy. His anger at her for doing this, knowing at the same time it was really none of his bloody business.
Angie’s nerves zipped and fizzed like loose electrical wires smacking wet ground. Since she’d tasted Maddocks’s kiss, the shape of her lust had changed. It had grown into a bloodthirsty and fanged thing deep inside her chest, inside her belly, and it had driven her here, to her hunting ground in search of relief she knew she might not find. Not this time. Not after that kiss.
The words of the forensic shrink, Grablowski, drummed through her brain as she scanned the dance floor.
His hunting zone is where his desire for anonymity and his desire to operate within his comfort zone meet …
The parallels unsettled her deeply, because this was her comfort zone, just far enough out of town, but not too far. Anonymous enough at this hour of a weeknight. And here she was herself escalating in some way. Devolving.
The barkeep grinned at her as she took a seat at the bar. “The usual?”
She nodded. But there was nothing usual about this night, she thought as he placed a vodka tonic in front of her. The barkeeper was shirtless tonight—apart from a black bow tie around his thickly corded neck. He’d oiled his torso, and his muscles rippled like a beautiful animal under his tan-bed skin. She inhaled deeply, trying to appreciate the view, trying to erase the sensation of Maddocks’s torso under her palm, his wet shirt … the glorious taste and feel of him. The need in his eyes. The barkeep turned to reach for a bottle, and she saw that heart-shaped pieces of fabric had been cut away to expose his butt cheeks. Christ. She looked away. Find your conquest. Get this out of your system. Go home. Sleep. Start again tomorrow.
Angie scanned the c
rowd. Not very busy. Tonight the club theme was in tribute to a rock star who’d overdosed, and as the disco ball spun it sparked purple light over dancers who moved like sick lovers, pelvises grinding to the slow, seductive songs. The lyrics were about making love … about being engaged with a kiss, the sweat of your body covering mine …
Angie shook herself and reached for her drink, sipped. But even the taste of her drink was off tonight. She stilled as a man at the far end of the bar caught her eye. Tall. Dark blond. Awesome body. Defined jaw. Nice wide mouth. Pale ice-blue eyes that reminded her of an Alaskan malamute. Her pulse quickened, and she inhaled slowly. This was the one. She took another sip, staring directly at him over the rim of her glass as she swallowed. Her brazen attention snared his interest instantly, and he began to make his way over.
This was the ritual—pick a victim. Feel the soft rush of power as he came over to do her bidding … but the power feeling didn’t come tonight. Again, Grablowski’s words snaked through her brain.
We all have what is called a paraphilic love map, and these love maps begin to develop shortly after puberty. But the sexual predator, clinically speaking, has developed a love map where his lust is attached to fantasies and practices that are either socially forbidden, disapproved of, ridiculed, or penalized. And his fantasies usually involve aggression, domination, control. He becomes aroused by mere thoughts of sexual aggression …
She shook herself again, but she was unable to obliterate the echo of Grablowski’s words inside her skull, or the echoes she could suddenly see so starkly within herself, or the unease that these thoughts brought—because there was nothing weird in her childhood that could have made her this way. It was something that had evolved later, after her disastrous affair, and she’d come to like it. Need it.
The song changed to something more upbeat as her victim neared.
“Hey.” He leaned his hand on the bar, slightly to the side, his body shadowing hers, just like Maddocks had done that night. “What’re you having?” He nodded to her drink.
Angie looked up into his eyes. So ice-cool pale they almost seemed inhuman.
A chill trickled down her spine.
She suddenly placed both hands against the edge of the bar counter, gathering herself, and then she quickly pushed herself back off her stool. “Thanks, but I’m with someone.” And with that, she navigated through the crowd and shoved out of the doors into the dark winter wetness. But as she made for her Crown Vic, frustration ripped at her, and she kicked violently at a garbage can along the side of the wall with her steel-toed biker boot. Not once, but several times, kicking her anxiety out of her system as the hollow sounds of crumpling metal clunked and crashed into the night. Fuck fuck fuck. Tears burned. She ached. She burned. For her fix. Like any goddamn junkie. But having been with Maddocks had rendered her incapable. He’d stolen her one avenue of release.
And he’d replaced it with the beginnings of a yearning for something, someplace that she knew she couldn’t go … he was making her ache for something more. Making her want to be a person she didn’t know how to be.
CHAPTER 43
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 14
It was late afternoon when Maddocks pulled up with Pallorino outside Saint Auburn’s Cathedral, adjacent to the Catholic-run Saint Jude’s Hospital. And yes, from here on he was going to think of his temporary partner as “Pallorino.” He would work with her on closing this case, then she could return to sex crimes, and he’d have nothing further to do with her.
They’d come to observe Drummond’s funeral service. As Grablowski had noted, the type of offender they were hunting was likely to follow media, revisit his crime scenes, and he was statistically inclined to attend events like this in order to bask in the penumbra of his handiwork. They also planned to talk to the priest afterward. Ordinarily, this would be the time that the college choir rehearsed at the cathedral, but on this Thursday the choir would instead be performing at the service, to honor one of their dead members.
For the better part of the day, he and Pallorino had been skirting each other and avoiding eye contact as they’d handled paperwork and discussed theories, notes, and evidence. Maddocks had also met privately with Buziak and a trusted prosecutor to see whether they might have reasonable probable grounds to obtain DNA samples from Jayden Norton-Wells and Zach Raddison, who both had black hair, and who were both persons of interest. It was going to take more than they had to get a DNA seizure warrant that would hold up down the road in a court. Especially given the high profiles of the young men and their families—and the fact that Joyce Norton-Wells was the province’s top prosecutor. They needed solid evidence, and they needed to have every t crossed and i dotted before taking this forward.
Hopefully the forensic analysis that was starting to come in from the Thetisby Island crime scene might yield them additional ammunition.
He and Pallorino had, however, ascertained that both Jon Jacques Senior and Junior, Zach Raddison, and Jayden Norton-Wells all carried valid pleasure boat operating cards—proof that they were knowledgeable at least in part about watercraft and potentially able to navigate local waters and islands. All had access to vehicles.
Still, it was tough to see any one of those four fitting Grablowski’s profile of a lone-hunting, sadistic, psychopathic sex killer. Yet all were clearly hiding something.
Holgersen and Leo were off pursuing the Jon Jacques angles. Leo had come in silent and sullen this morning, nursing a bruised jaw and a mother of a hangover. He’d kept his head down, his mouth shut, and avoided interaction with either Maddocks or Pallorino. It was clear that no one was going to pursue the incident.
“We could just ask Norton-Wells and Raddison to voluntarily give DNA samples, for elimination purposes,” Pallorino said as Maddocks parked his vehicle. She was overtly edgy now that she was alone with him in the car again. Her voice was clipped, and she wouldn’t meet his gaze. “At least to see if their profiles are a match to the black hair evidence found on Hocking’s body.”
Maddocks turned off the ignition and inhaled deeply. Looking ahead out of the rain-smeared windshield, he said, “We considered that, since we don’t have grounds for a warrant. But Buziak doesn’t want to risk getting their legal counsel winding up for a fight to quash things before we’re ready. It could send them into damage control mode, which in turn could stymie the investigation and shut down potential avenues of further inquiry. He wants additional evidence—he wants reasonable and probable grounds. And he still wants to keep a tight lid on the connection between the ADAG’s son and the mayor’s aide, because of the MVPD leak, in part.”
“When did he tell you this?”
“Earlier this afternoon. We met with legal.”
She stared. “Why was I excluded this time? Doesn’t he trust me?”
“I don’t know who he trusts. I’m lead investigator. It made sense to meet with me.”
“So why didn’t you tell me this?”
“I just did.”
She swore, got out, slammed the door, popped up a black umbrella, and climbed the stairs to the cathedral entrance at a clip. Maddocks joined her there. From a vantage point next to the doors, they watched as people started to arrive and sift into the church. Other officers watched also—down the street in plainclothes. Two members were filming the crowd. The Cemetery Girl’s funeral was expected to draw large numbers, including the media. Mayor Killion had also made a statement to the press that he would be in attendance to pay his respects. He of course took the occasion to hammer home that he would be taking immediate action to toughen up on crime and to make the city safer.
“There’s Killion’s vehicle pulling up now,” Maddocks said with a nod toward a black town car.
“Bastard,” Pallorino whispered as they watched the mayor alight from the car with Raddison. “They’re using this poor girl’s service as a political event.”
As the crowd swelled, there was no sign of Norton-Wells or Jon Jacques Senior or Junior. Pallorino stiffened sudde
nly, and drawn by the motion, Maddocks snapped his attention to her.
“What is it?” he said.
“I … nothing.”
“Nothing is nothing. What did you see?”
“That guy—the tall blond one standing near the west door, wearing the skullcap and black coat—I’ve seen him before.” As if sensing the sudden scrutiny, the man glanced their way. He stilled as his gaze met Pallorino’s across the crowd. Even from here, Maddocks could see that his eyes were the palest blue.
“Where?” he said quietly.
“Just … last night. I went out.”
“Why’d you go? Why’d you hit the club?”
“What makes you think I went there?”
“I followed you.”
“What? You followed me?” She cursed. “It’s none of your business.”
“You made it mine.”
“Oh, fuck off,” she whispered, eyes glittering with anger, hot spots riding high into her cheeks. “Just fuck the hell off out of my life, okay? You don’t go following me.”
“Did you screw him—that blond guy? Is that why he looked at you like that?” The man was moving away now, down the stairs and into a throng of people lining the sidewalk.
“I said, it’s not your business.”
Maddocks burned inside his gut. His neck was tight. He fought to not fist his hands, fought to keep focus on his job of watching the mourners. He could no longer see the blond Adonis in the crowd. He struggled not to picture her naked on top of him, and it just fueled his anger.
“Besides,” she said under her breath, “you’re no saint yourself.”
“My going to the club that night was a one-off.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It was. My buddy was visiting from the mainland. He said I needed to get out more. He said he’d meet me there, that I needed a life. He didn’t show. I was about to leave, but then there was you.”
The Drowned Girls (Angie Pallorino Book 1) Page 26
