Frazer pinched the bridge of his nose. Petra Danbridge was competitive and she was pissed with the BAU for hiring Rooney instead of her. Thankfully she didn’t know the reasons behind the choice, although in retrospect he’d much rather deal with Rooney on a daily basis than the SSA from Charlotte. Hanrahan had made a damn good choice for all the wrong reasons. Frazer wasn’t a case agent but he did outrank her, and he knew all the right people. He didn’t want to pull too many strings and draw attention to what was going on down here until he had to.
“I need another twenty-four hours if I can get it.” Even that wouldn’t be enough. Danbridge would either pull Randall because a single victim homicide wasn’t a federal case, or she’d put more investigators on it and figure out the Denker connection.
“I’ll do my best but if I get a letter of censure in my file—” Randall didn’t look convinced.
“I’ll deal with it.” Frazer promised. “The ME found a seashell placed inside the victim’s vagina.”
Randall froze in the act of eating and put down his food. The fact Denker liked to put objects inside the victims was in the case files. Randall knew what it meant. “So the guy is either an old associate or a new friend of Denker’s. Either way they must have communicated.”
Frazer nodded. “I have a call in to the warden to try and access copies of his mail and tapes of any phone calls. She hasn’t gotten back to me yet. I’m betting he’ll make a move soon and I want to be ready for him.” He’d also asked Parker to find out as much as he could without going through official channels. Having a cyber security expert on his team had made him rethink all electronic methods of communication. There were no secrets in cyberspace, unless you were the king of code and data manipulation.
“You think Denker’s going to suddenly plead innocent? Claim that his confession was forced?”
“I doubt it—I mean the victim was in the trunk of his car and the condom he used when he raped her was in a trash bag with her clothes. Not only that but the guy would lose face and his ego wouldn’t be able to cope if he suddenly claimed he wasn’t really the big nasty serial killer, but some poor asshole too stupid to plead innocent. All he can really hope for is that his sentence is commuted to life in prison with no chance of parole.”
“I’d rather get a bullet.”
“Yeah, but you’re not the one facing imminent death, and Denker’s in love with himself. He’ll do anything he can to stay out of the death chamber.” And Frazer didn’t intend to let him.
He looked back at the murder board. He’d drawn an arrow from the bracelet to the name “Beverley—1998.” Christ, that was the year Helena Cromwell had been born. Above that another box with the initials “FD” sat. He didn’t want someone snooping and leaking Ferris Denker’s name to the media.
Beverley had gone missing in February. Denker had been arrested later that summer. Frazer needed to determine the connection to the Outer Banks.
“How do we figure out if this new killer is an old associate or a copycat?”
Frazer finished his food and put the carton on the table. He’d worked thousands of crimes over the years and he always started the same way. “Look at the victim, the evidence. Work up a profile using inductive and deductive methods. Assume as little as possible until we can prove it. Right now we don’t even know for sure the attacker was a single male. We need those forensic results back ASAP. The Denker angle is just another aspect. Don’t get distracted by it.”
Randall nodded but looked unconvinced.
“Do you have the evidence list?” Frazer asked.
Randall retrieved his notes and passed over the information. Frazer went through it twice before he finally figured out what he’d been missing. “What the hell happened to Helena’s shoes?”
* * *
IZZY LAY IN bed staring at the pale shadows on her bedroom ceiling as she listened to the rhythmic beat of waves in the background. A flash of an image played inside her mind—a little girl running in and out of the surf, her father shadowing every step and making sure she wasn’t dragged away as she giggled crazily and let him sweep her up into his arms.
Her throat ached. It had been a long time since she’d remembered anything good about her childhood without it being overwhelmed by other memories. She shifted restlessly under the covers, unable to get comfortable as thoughts of past and present collided.
Should she confess?
Damn. The whole point of leaving the Army and coming home was to make sure Kit didn’t have to go into foster care. Confessing would mean that sacrifice would go to waste. Her sister would find out the truth—on top of losing her best friend she’d have to face everything alone, then end up in the system and probably drop out and have to repeat the last year of high school. Considering the path she was already on, Izzy didn’t think it would be a good idea.
She only had to wait until Kit graduated. After all this time what did it really matter?
The sound of the wind rattling the shutters was both creepy and comfortably familiar. The cadence of the ocean soothed her and usually sent her straight to sleep, but not tonight. The sea was the only thing she’d missed when she’d been away all those years—not her mom, not her kid sister. She saw them regularly, if infrequently, but she didn’t miss them. Not the way she should have. They were a unit and she felt like an outsider.
It had added another layer of guilt when her mom died. She hadn’t been a very good daughter. Another reason to step up and do what needed to be done. But living back here in the town where she’d grown up wasn’t easy.
It was claustrophobic living in a community where people thought they knew you inside out just because they knew your relatives. Her family’s dirty secrets would make them shudder, and her and Kit would be outcasts. She pushed the thoughts away. Kit must never know—perhaps ignorance was the only real gift she could give her sister.
She rolled over in frustration. She’d been so tired when she’d gotten home, barely able to keep her eyes open. Now thoughts were whirling inside her head so fast they spun. A floorboard creaked and she froze, before realizing it was Barney moving from one spot to another.
When she’d gotten home, after putting the Chinese food in the oven to keep warm, she’d searched the house, weapon drawn, looking in every linen closet, in the showers, under every bed. No monsters. Not today. Kit had been asleep in her room with her headphones and the TV on.
Just as Izzy had relaxed, Agent Randall had knocked on the front door and nearly given her a heart attack. She’d handed over the food and spare keys with the firm warning that if anything was damaged at the beach house she’d be talking to his boss. He’d winked and promised to be good. Openly flirting and not shy about it.
Lucas Randall was exactly the sort of guy a woman like her should have smiled back at. He was good-looking, intelligent, funny, and approachable. He had a cute name, cute face, body that looked like it would be worth exploring under the G-man suit.
But when she closed her eyes it wasn’t him she saw.
She punched her pillow.
The faint sound of metal grinding against metal had her shooting bolt upright in bed. What the hell was that? She threw back the covers, went to the window and looked out. Her room faced south with a view of sea oats, sand, and ocean. She pulled on a pair of sweats beneath the oversized olive “go-army” t-shirt she wore to bed. She palmed the Glock-17 off her nightstand and checked that there was a bullet in the chamber. She kept it pointed at the floor, but away from her ever-present excitable dog, who was always game for a new adventure. Through the north-facing window in the living room she could see the cottage dimly lit as if someone was in the sitting room or had left a light on. It looked quiet, peaceful.
It was doubtful the noise came from her paying guests. Another faint grinding noise had her listening harder, trying to pinpoint the exact source. It sounded like it was coming from under the deck.
Raccoons? Ponies? Her father’s ghost?
“Dammit.” She slipp
ed into a pair of flip-flops by the French doors, hesitated with her hand on the door knob. She could let Barney out to chase away whatever it was, but if he got bitten or kicked by a wild animal, a five-minute excursion would turn into an all-night adventure to the vet’s office. But what if it was the man who killed Helena last night? He’d have no compunction about hurting her dog.
Why would he be under your deck, dummy?
But what if he was? She shuddered.
The gun rested against her thigh with solid reassurance. She was armed and not afraid of going head-to-head with anyone, especially not with the FBI billeted next door. She wasn’t a fragile seventeen-year-old. Truth was, she never had been. If it was the man who’d killed Helena this thing would be over. The FBI would leave the Outer Banks and her secrets would remain exactly that.
She grabbed the flashlight she kept behind the curtain on the windowsill. “Stay,” she told Barney as she eased open the door, closing it on him before he could race off into the night. If it was a wild animal it’d run away as soon as she showed her face. If it was a person, she was armed and dangerous, and the FBI was right next door. She could shoot, she could defend herself, and she sure as hell could scream for help. She paused on the deck and looked across to the beach house. No movement there.
If it was a raccoon she had no desire to be spotted out here with her weapon. She didn’t need to be anyone’s comic relief.
It was dark, but the night sky clear. Suddenly she became aware of her heartbeat pounding through her ears, deafening in intensity. Distracting as all get out.
Come on, Izzy, where’s your backbone? Where’s your training? She searched for her courage as she eased down the stairs, caught between wanting to scare whatever it was away, and wanting to catch anyone who was up to no good. Her hands tightened on the grip of her pistol. Finger off the trigger.
At the bottom of the steps, she flicked on the flashlight only to discover she’d made a critical error. The switch clicked uselessly and nothing happened. A frisson of alarm crackled through the air and a wave of gooseflesh swept over her bare arms. The feeling of menace grew as the silence stretched. Thick shadows saturated the space beneath the house and fear lodged in her throat. She shook the flashlight and banged it against her thigh as if that would help. It rattled uselessly. Shit.
“Who’s there?” She felt like an idiot, talking to shadows, but she made her voice as commanding as possible. Nothing moved except the sea behind her and the wind rustling through the dune grass with the hiss of snakes.
A sudden screech made her shriek out loud and take a half-step back. Her finger wrapped around the trigger as a large tomcat dashed past her and leapt toward the other cottage. Oh, my God. Her heart pounded. She exhaled and lowered the gun, sagging against the railing as she turned to watch the animal run away. A cat. She’d nearly shot a damn cat.
The next moment her head was slammed into the railing and light burst behind her eyes, cascading along her nerves through her entire body as agony exploded. Aiming the Glock at the sand, she pulled the trigger as she dropped to her knees. The gunshot reverberated through the night, echoing off the water with a powerful punch. She heard a muttered curse, then the sound of running feet as she struggled to rise. Nausea rolled in her stomach, blood dripped from a scalp wound.
A few seconds later a door banged and more footsteps thumped down the wooden steps next-door.
“Dr. Campbell? Are you okay?” ASAC Frazer.
Was she ever glad to see him. He took her Glock from her fingers and she didn’t object.
Agent Randall appeared next, running out of the cottage. He was still struggling to get a t-shirt over an impressive looking chest when he arrived.
She smiled unsteadily. Not hurt enough to be unable to appreciate some six-pack abs apparently. That was a good sign. “Someone was under my house and smashed my head into the railing when I confronted them.” Her voice was a croak, but she hauled herself up the post, counting to ten to find her balance. “I got a shot off into the sand and he ran away.”
“Which way did he go?” Frazer asked, looking as if he wanted to take off after them, but was forced to stay with her.
“Toward the road. Go. I’m fine.” The sound of a small engine roaring to life filled the air—a dirt bike most likely. Randall took off running. Frazer stood staring at her like he thought she was nuts. “Exactly what happened?” he asked.
She touched her temple gingerly. Right now, she wanted to close her eyes and get the dizziness to stop. She braced both hands on her thighs, breathing through the pain, wishing she’d called the cops in the first place. Stubborn didn’t even begin to cover it. “I heard a noise down here. Decided to investigate.” She cleared her throat. “A cat ran out and I turned to watch it run away, assuming it was the culprit. I let my guard down.” She pinched her lips together, pissed. “Someone hit me from behind.”
“Did you see anything? A face?”
“White lights and tweety birds.” She didn’t bother to see if he appreciated her humor. She gritted her teeth and made herself stand upright, wobbling only slightly as her vision blurred. “I didn’t see anything that could identify someone. It was a man, but that’s all I’ve got.”
“What makes you say it was a man?”
Izzy frowned. “The size and feel of his hand on my head felt like a man. He was bigger than me and I’m not exactly petite.” She squinted. “Maybe I saw a pair of black work boots?”
Frazer flicked on his flashlight and swung it under the deck. The door to her little tool shed swung open.
“What the hell?” She went to take a step forward, but he put an arm around her shoulders, holding her in place. Maybe he knew how close to falling over she really was. “Why would anyone break into my tool shed?”
“Wait.” Frazer narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the scene. Izzy hated how conscious she was of the strength of his arm, the heat of his fingers touching her. “Can you tell me if anything has been stolen?”
She went to step forward again, but he gripped her tighter, forcing her to stay exactly where she was. She looked up. “From here?”
He nodded.
She hung onto him then, less steady on her feet than she’d realized. She turned her attention back to her tool shed and tried to blink the blurred vision out of her eyes. Lawn mower, weed whacker, hammer, shears, screwdriver. Some dried bulbs. Empty plant containers. Trowel. A half bag of soil. “Everything looks like it’s there.”
“Are you sure?”
The intensity of the question made her look again. Okay, shit. Pay closer attention. It all looked right… Her eyes caught on an empty wall bracket. A sense of dread sliced between her ribs and made it difficult to breathe. “The shovel. The shovel’s missing.” Izzy thought her knees might collapse, but Frazer’s hold kept her upright.
If he noticed her distress he didn’t comment. He pulled out his cell phone, one-handedly flicked through some images and then held the screen in front of her nose. “Is this your shovel?”
Her eyes bugged as she recognized the scene from yesterday morning. The dunes where Helena had died. A shovel lying in the sand. Her shovel—identifiable from the yellow insulation tape her mother had wrapped around the handle, years ago. She hadn’t paid it any attention at the time, she’d been more concerned about the teens. But that was her shovel, and it had been used to bash Jesse over the head.
“Yes.” She swayed, a buzzing sound roaring in her ears. She must have staggered because suddenly he pulled her tight against him. Holding onto him, she laid her cheek on the smooth planes of his chest and closed her eyes, just for a moment, to try and stop the world from spinning so wildly.
He smelled like warm linen with the faint scent of aftershave.
He wrapped both arms around her, and she gripped the material of his shirt and held on tight. When was the last time she’d leaned on someone? She didn’t know. Couldn’t remember. She took a few deep breaths to make her pulse slow, to try and get herself back under con
trol. After a moment she realized she was inhaling his scent and pressing her body flush against his from knee to chest.
Crap.
She pushed away unsteadily. “I’m okay, thanks. I need to sit down.”
“Don’t touch anything,” he warned. His blue eyes radiated cold authority rather than warm comfort, which was exactly the reminder she needed about who he was and what he did. She nodded and then slowly walked down to the beach and collapsed heavily in the dry sand. Her body shook. The man who’d killed Helena had been here tonight, underneath her house. He’d stolen her shovel and used it to beat Jesse. Then he’d come back—why? Was she a target? Kit? It didn’t make sense—and yet, it made a terrible kind of sense.
Every muscle in her body tensed. This couldn’t be a coincidence. He knew what she’d done and was torturing her with the knowledge.
She staggered to her feet. She should tell the FBI everything she knew, but then they’d arrest her and no way was she leaving her sister unprotected. Her hands clenched into tight fists. She could almost hear her mother’s hysterical screams reverberating around her head.
She’d do anything she had to, but she wasn’t letting this sick sonofabitch get anywhere near Kit, even if that meant lying through her teeth to the FBI, including the guy who made her insides melt every time she saw him. Worse, he made her feel safe and protected, but she knew he’d turn on her in an instant if he ever discovered the truth. She wasn’t about to let that happen.
Chapter Eight
LINCOLN FRAZER WAS pissed, and he rarely got pissed.
What had the woman been thinking, investigating alone in the dark, one night after a brutal rape and murder had been committed a few miles down the road?
Except what was she supposed to do, call the cops every time she heard a strange noise? That would get old fast. Isadora Campbell had been a soldier. She was armed. She wasn’t some simpering idiot, but he was still pissed. He wasn’t a sexist asshole. He believed everyone should be prepared to protect themselves because cops couldn’t be everywhere at once. Men and women should both learn self-defense. Kids should know how to fight back. So what the hell was his problem?
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