Lucy - 05 - Stalked

by Allison Brennan

  She looked at the screen. Tied at 1. “Okay, I’ll try.” Lucy liked baseball, but mostly because her family were diehard Padres fans, particularly Patrick and Carina. They could talk baseball with the best of them. Patrick had played baseball in college and could have had a shot at the majors if he’d stuck with it. But then Justin was killed and Patrick ended up becoming a cop.

  Tragedy changes everyone it touches.

  Lucy waved to Carter and Eddie and went down the hall to the staircase that led to the basement. She waved her ID in front of the security panel and it clicked open.

  No one was working this late, and the offices were quiet. She knocked on Tony’s door. He didn’t respond. She looked at her cell phone—no bars, so she couldn’t call him to see where he was. He’d said he was in his office, he could be on the phone.

  She stepped in. As soon as the door opened, she saw Tony slumped in his chair, his face pasty, eyes closed, and mouth open.

  “Oh, God.” She dropped the file on the table by the door and rushed to his side to check his pulse, shouting, “Medics! I need a medic, stat!” Then she realized that no one else was in the basement; it was nearly ten at night. She put Tony’s desk phone on speaker and pressed “0.”

  “Security.”

  “It’s Lucy Kincaid. I need a medic and gurney in Agent Presidio’s office stat. He’s unconscious.”

  At first she thought he was dead, but she finally felt his pulse—slow and weak.

  “Dispatched,” Security said. “Stay on the phone.”

  In times of crisis, relying on training kept Lucy sane. “I’m checking for external injuries—I don’t see any.”

  “Did you check his vitals?”

  “He had a pulse when I came in, but now I can’t feel anything.”

  “Do you know CPR?”

  “Yes.”

  She pulled Tony out of his chair. His bottle of Glenlivit Scotch teetered but didn’t fall over. She laid him as carefully as she could on the floor.

  “Kincaid, you there?” Security said over the speaker.

  “Administering CPR.”

  “Is he breathing?”

  She checked. “His pulse is thready. Skin pasty. He’s unresponsive. Starting second set of chest compressions.”

  Tony, please, don’t die.

  The staff doctor and a medic rushed in. “We’ll take over. Security, you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call the Quantico Medical Center and have them dispatch a helicopter to fly Agent Presidio direct to Prince William Hospital. He appears to be in cardiac arrest.”

  Why hadn’t he called someone? A heart attack could be sudden, but he was in his chair; at some point he would have known it was serious enough to call for help, wouldn’t he? She’d spoken to him less than twenty minutes ago.

  The medic hooked Tony up to an automatic compression machine and put an oxygen mask over his face. Lucy stood out of the way. The seriousness of Tony’s situation hit her now that she had nothing to do but watch. He could very well die.

  The medic checked Tony’s pulse. “Nothing.” He and the doctor slipped Tony onto a board, which they then lifted up and secured to the gurney.

  Security said over the phone, “Medical transport helio, ETA three minutes.”

  “Let’s get him upstairs,” the medic said. “Kincaid, call the elevator.”

  Lucy ran ahead and held the elevator open so the doctor and medic could wheel Tony inside. She held his clammy hand on the ride up.

  Please, God, don’t take him.

  They pushed Tony down the hall and out the front doors. Lucy heard the helicopter nearby and watched as the spotlights filled the parking lot, the pilot searching for a place to land. She stayed with Tony up until he was loaded inside. Thirty seconds after landing, the chopper took off with Tony.

  “We did everything we could,” the medic said as they watched the chopper leave with Tony and the doctor.

  “Why didn’t he call for help?” Lucy whispered.

  “Maybe he didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late.”

  “So he sat back until he lost consciousness?” It didn’t make sense to Lucy, but nothing made sense to her right now. “Can I go to the hospital?”

  “You’ll have to talk to the chief,” the medic said. He watched the helicopter disappear from sight. “I’ll call and see if I can find out what’s going on.”

  “Thank you.” But Lucy had watched and listened to the doctor and medic, and by the time they put Tony on the helicopter, they couldn’t find his pulse.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  New York City

  “You didn’t show.” Joe DeLucca filled Suzanne’s doorway, all six feet, two inches of solid Italian muscle.

  “I told you I wouldn’t.”

  He made a move to enter, but she blocked him, her hand on the doorjamb.

  Don’t let him inside.

  He raised an eyebrow, giving Suzanne his sexy half-smile that used to melt her, but she held firm. She was crabby and tired from too little sleep and too many questions. “I didn’t want to be dragged into this case, DeLucca.”

  “I didn’t want to hear that your agent buddy leaked information to Banker at the Times without consulting with me first.”

  “I called and told you.”

  “Left a message.” He made another move to enter, and she didn’t budge.

  “I wasn’t going to chase you all over town.”

  “Do you think he’s right?”

  Suzanne had waffled on Tony Presidio’s theory all evening, but in the end she admitted it was a smart play. “Let’s just hope the place our guy pawns the ring has security cameras.”

  “I sent out another notice about the ring, just to keep it fresh. Told the brokers to handle it as they normally would, write down everything, call me immediately.”

  “Good.” She nodded curtly. “Good-bye.”

  “I also brought you a copy of the final autopsy report.” He held it out, a carrot that she couldn’t resist. She let go of the doorjamb to grab the file and Joe weaseled his way inside.

  She rolled her eyes. “Come on in.”

  She closed the door and tried to ignore Joe’s smug grin of victory. She crossed her small, fifth-floor loft apartment and stood by the window, putting distance between herself and Joe. Stand firm, she told herself. She could withstand his charm and sex appeal.

  You have to. Remember what happened last year.

  With new resolve to focus only on the case, she read the coroner’s findings.

  Weber was stabbed with a narrow metal stiletto six inches long. The killer had at least some knowledge of anatomy, because the blade went in below the sternum, through the lung, and pierced her heart. Death was nearly instantaneous. No hesitation marks, no second stabbing. Marks on the victim’s right biceps indicated that the killer was facing her, grabbed her with his left hand, stabbed her with his right. He withdrew the weapon, let her fall to the ground after she was already dead. Confirmed everything the prelim had said, with some added details about the possible weapon. Tox reports showed Weber had a BAC of .03, well under the legal limit, and confirmed her sister’s report that she’d had wine before leaving for Citi Field.

  “So we’re looking for a medic of sorts, someone with training—EMT, paramedic, pre-med maybe. Nothing we didn’t already know. You didn’t need to bring me this.”

  Joe walked over to her kitchen table and spread out the crime scene photos.

  “Make yourself at home,” she said sarcastically. She look at the photos.

  “Thanks.” He opened her refrigerator and grabbed two beers, handing her one. “See anything?”

  “Other than an annoying ex-boyfriend?”

  Joe looked over his shoulder. “Where?”

  She hit him in the arm and stared at the crime scene photos. She used the findings in the autopsy report to re-create the scene in her head. The victim was found between her car and the vehicle next to her—owned by the people who foun
d her body.

  “She was dragged from here”—Suzanne pointed to the blood pool in front of Weber’s car—“approximately four feet to here.”

  “Correct, we knew that—but what does that tell you?”

  “That she’d just left her car and was meeting someone.”

  “That’s what I thought as well, but her prints were on the hood of her car, so—”

  “—so you think she was leaning against her car while she was waiting for someone.”

  “Bingo.”

  “She knew her killer. We’ve been over this, Joe.”

  “Or thought she did. What else?”

  “No trail.”

  “And no weapon found at the scene. The M.E. said the killer’s hand would have been drenched in blood, up to his wrist. He wore gloves—powder common in latex gloves was found on the victim.”

  “He came prepared.” Good detail. She glanced down at the autopsy report again. She’d missed it the first time because Joe was making her nervous. She could just see what was going to happen. She’d get involved again, his ex-wife would threaten to take him to court for full custody, and she’d be waiting and waiting and waiting. She didn’t want to go through that again.

  “Could have bundled up the blade, the gloves, maybe even external clothing, and dumped it anywhere.”

  “Did you canvass?”

  He glared at her. “I’ve been on the job five years longer than you, babe.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “I’m going with you on the bundling, but I don’t think he dumped it at Citi Field. Too much chance of us finding it. More likely he took it with him, or he dumped it in the Bay.”

  They looked at each other. “Bay,” they said together.

  “Except the stiletto,” Suzanne said.

  “Why?”

  “Because it can be traced. At least, in theory. He planned this—gloves, location, the element of surprise, no defensive wounds, no blood trail. He isn’t going to be stupid and dump anything that could lead back to him. I’ll bet if we recover the clothing it’ll be generic from a major store. Salt water would destroy any forensic evidence.”

  “I have uniforms looking along the shoreline, going with the tide, to see if anything washed up. But he could have weighted it down and tossed it anywhere.”

  “That’s what I would do,” Suzanne said.

  “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

  “You’re already there.”

  Joe stared at her. “Why can’t you forgive me?”

  “Who says I haven’t?”

  He looked into his beer bottle. “I’m not seeing anyone else.”

  “Of course not. Stephanie won’t allow it.”

  “Why do you always have to bring her up?”

  “Because your ex-wife is part of any relationship you have. It’s a threesome, and not the fun kind.”

  “Fuck.” Joe ran a hand through his brown hair, leaving it messy and sexy, just the way she liked to see him. She turned away. She couldn’t give in to temptation, because it would only lead to where it led before: heartbreak.

  “Joe—look, I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t blame you. Hell, there’s no one to blame. Tyler is your son. He’s eight years old and he needs his dad. I get that. I like the kid; he’s going to grow up and be just like you. But the games that Stephanie plays to keep you from being happy, I can’t do that. And I can’t stand between you and Tyler. I won’t.” Her chest heaved and she wished they hadn’t had this conversation. Damn, she cared about Joe and she liked his son. But she wanted something that wasn’t possible.

  Joe put his empty beer bottle down and stared at her. His dark Italian eyes read her, and she forced herself to withstand the visual assault. She stared back, kept her expression blank, kept her mouth closed.

  Do not give in. Do not give in.

  He leaned forward and kissed her. She should have turned her head. She’d planned to.

  But she didn’t.

  As soon as his lips touched her, the slow boil that had been simmering since she’d seen Joe yesterday morning bubbled over. She grabbed him and held on as he pushed her against the counter, his mouth open on hers, one hand tangled in her hair, the other on her back, under her shirt, clutching her. Flashes of hot, fast, hard sex ripped through her thoughts and she gasped as his mouth moved down her neck and his hands moved everywhere. Joe’s thigh pressed between her legs, and she returned the favor, rubbing his dick as it pushed to escape.

  She pulled his shirt from his slacks and kneaded his hard chest. Joe was all man, all cop, lean and ripped.

  He unholstered his gun and dropped it on the counter, then pushed her onto the kitchen table, her copy of the crime photos flying. Her shirt flew in another direction, and when his mouth found her breasts she moaned. He nibbled at her, hard enough for her to feel his teeth but not hard enough to hurt. He pushed his hand down the front of her jeans and found her wet spot. He grinned at her as he slipped in one finger, then another, a promise for what would come as soon as she stripped. She kneaded her fingers over the heavy bulge in his pants and his cat-ate-canary smile disappeared. He fought with her jeans. “God, Suzi.”

  She pulled his head to hers and bit his ear, then licked it, his muscles tensing under her moving hands. He unzipped her jeans.

  Her phone rang.

  “Don’t you dare,” he growled in her ear, pinning her to the table.

  She closed her eyes and reached for the button of his pants.

  Her phone kept singing to her. AFI’s “Miss Murder.” Headquarters.

  She pushed Joe off and grabbed her phone.

  “Madeaux.”

  “This is Ray Jordan from the night desk. I have Assistant Director Hans Vigo from national headquarters on the line for you.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Joe walked across the room and stared out the window, all sweaty and sexy. She turned her back to him.

  Two clicks later and Dr. Hans Vigo said, “I’m sorry to bother you this late at night, but it’s important.”

  “What can I do for you Assistant Director?”

  “You worked with SSA Tony Presidio today, correct?”

  “Yes.” Suzanne knew immediately something was up. Not just because of a call from an assistant director but also because of his tone. “The murder of Rosemary Weber, which I’m working with NYPD.”

  “I need all your reports and a detailed list of every place Tony went while he was in New York. Anything you can remember about what he said and did.”

  “Of course; may I ask why?” She picked her shirt off the floor and slipped it on. She held her phone with her shoulder and began to button it up.

  “He died of a heart attack thirty minutes after arriving back at Quantico.”

  Suzanne sat down, forgetting about her shirt.

  “He went back early to go through his notes. I had no idea he was ill.”

  “He left a message for me before he boarded the plane in LaGuardia, concerned about FBI exposure on this case. Do you know what he was talking about?”

  “No, sir. We discovered some of Weber’s files were missing, and Tony’s having an analyst re-create them off shorthand notes. Unless—he did leak specific information to the press about how we know the killer staged Weber’s murder to look like a robbery. He’s hoping the killer will try to pawn the ring to prove us wrong.”

  “Thereby proving us right,” Hans said. “Sounds like Tony. Stay on it, and keep me in the loop. I’m heading down to Quantico in the morning to take care of Tony’s affairs.”

  Joe smiled but didn’t look at her. He walked back toward the kitchen and grabbed his gun off the counter.

  “I’ll send you everything first thing in the morning.” She hung up. “Joe—”

  He shook his head, leaned over, and kissed her. “Next time, I’ll flush your phone.”

  “There won’t—”

  He put his hand over her mouth. “There’s always a next time.”

 
; CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ten Years Ago

  No one was happy with me that I’d lied about my parents being dead, especially not my parents. But in my defense, they were dead to me. Grams had been my legal guardian for five years, but I was fourteen when she died and the idiot judge thought that I had to live with someone. He picked my mom.

  Mom and Dad had divorced after the trial and Mom tried to force me to live with her. Grams had been stronger then and stood up to my mom. Mom cried, but I just kept my thoughts focused on all the lies she’d told. Grams had been as hurt as I was, because Mom was her daughter. I might have only been nine during the trial, but I understood a lot more than people thought. I told Grams not to blame herself, that Mom made me live with the consequences of my bad choices, like when I thought the Jacuzzi would make a good bubble bath or when I went over to Jared’s house to play his war games after Mom said I couldn’t play any games rated M. I was grounded for a month.

  Mom and Dad made bad choices—it was like that FBI agent said; some bad choices have unforeseen consequences. That doesn’t make it okay to lie.

  Grams and I had a tacit agreement that day. We could talk about Mom or Dad or what happened to Rachel, but we’d remember only the fun things, like when Grandpa taught Rachel and me to fish or when Grams taught us to bake.

  And then Grams was gone, just like Grandpa and just like Rachel, who I remembered more than I wanted.

  It was my second week back living with my mom, the day I started high school, and Mom drove me to the campus. As if being a freshman who was shorter than everyone else as well as notorious wasn’t bad enough, Mom had to pick a fight.

  “You need to forgive me.”

  “For what?”

  “For what happened to Rachel.”

  “You didn’t kill her.”

  “Don’t talk about it.”

  “You started it.”

  I’d never have talked to Grams like I spoke to my mom, but I loved and respected Grams.

  I looked at my mom. Pilar McMahon. Forty-five. Dyed her hair and wore too much makeup.

  “Do you know how sorry I am? Do you know how much I have suffered these five years? Knowing what happened to Rachel, knowing that you never wanted to see me again.”