Mortal Sin

by Allison Brennan

  Sean put his left hand on the back of Lucy’s neck, her long, soft hair luxurious in his fingers. He searched her face for any reticence, any doubt. Her expression was serious and for a second he thought he’d misunderstood her, that she wanted him to back off. Then her full lips parted just a fraction, and he leaned down and kissed her.

  She tasted sweet, like the cheesecake and champagne they’d shared. He’d intended to give her one warm good-night kiss with a promise of more, but he didn’t want to let go. He wanted to taste more of her, to feel more of her. He gently pressed his body against Lucy, her back bending as her head dipped back to continue the long kiss.

  Her hands found his biceps, then inched up to his shoulders. Her thumbs held his neck, attaching him to her as much as he kept her close to him.

  Any other woman, and he’d be moving this dance to the bedroom. But Lucy wasn’t a one-night stand. He was confident in his powers of seduction, but he didn’t want to push too fast. He wanted—needed—to do this right.

  But she fit so well against him, he didn’t want to stop.

  Yet if he didn’t, he would make mistakes. He knew it as certainly as he knew that the sun would rise over the Atlantic tomorrow.

  He slowly pulled his lips away, holding her close. He looked down at her face. Her eyes were closed, but they opened the moment after he broke the kiss. She appeared bewildered, like she didn’t know where she was, as if she’d been lost for the last few minutes. She licked her lips, then glanced down and stepped back demurely, almost as though embarrassed. He pulled her back to him and kissed her lightly, showing her that there was nothing to be embarrassed about.

  “I’d like to take you on an official date,” Sean said.

  “A date?” she repeated.

  “Tonight wasn’t official. This was … filling in for your brother.”

  “I—”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” she repeated.

  “I’ll pick you up at ten a.m.”

  “Ten.” She shook her head and glanced down, sheepish. “I have church. I usually go to nine o’clock Mass. How about eleven or so?”

  He almost said he’d pick her up at eight-thirty for church, but he hadn’t stepped inside a church since his parents’ funeral fifteen years ago. “I’ll pick you up there. Ten, okay?”

  She nodded. “Holy Trinity. On Thirty-sixth between—”

  “I know where it is.” He kissed her again. “Ten in the morning.” He kissed her one last time. “I’d better go before we let any more snow inside.”

  Lucy had forgotten she’d opened the door, and stared at the puddle of melting snow that had blown in through the crack. “I’d better clean that up before Kate sees it,” she said, then smiled at Sean. “You’re a distraction.”

  She kissed him spontaneously, surprising herself. “Thanks again.” Her insides were light and airy, a far cry from the way she’d felt only a few hours ago. She should be freezing standing on the small covered stoop, but she was anything but cold.

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” he said with a warm grin, his dimples showing.

  She smiled and closed the door behind him. She waited, listening for his car, until it had started and driven off.

  Lucy couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt so comfortable with someone. When she’d felt so attracted. Maybe because tonight hadn’t been a date, there hadn’t been any pressure on her to act normal. Everything they said and did was almost spontaneous. For the first time in a long, long time, she felt like a typical woman.

  He’d asked her out on a date. An official date. When was the last time she’d dated anyone? Cody? That wasn’t right. She considered, and realized that while she’d gone out with one or two men since breaking it off with Cody, she’d eased herself away from any potential commitment after the second date. She’d been with Cody for nearly two years—it had been comfortable and normal, until he proposed and she realized she didn’t love him. She couldn’t imagine being married to him—or to anyone. The thought of marriage left her cold and panicky. Odd, considering her parents had an incredible, forty-five-year marriage—and counting.

  But Lucy wasn’t normal, and she knew that. Her past would always be part of her. While she’d learned not to let her past control her, it colored all her decisions, leading her down this path in front of her. The FBI. Fighting predators.

  Why shouldn’t she enjoy the company of Sean Rogan? Didn’t she deserve a little happiness?

  She vowed to have fun tomorrow, no matter what. She probably wouldn’t have a choice—Sean had a knack of getting to the heart of whatever was bothering her and turning it around without making her feel foolish.

  Lucy’s romantic thrill ended when she glanced at her computer and remembered what Cody had said earlier.

  “Did you change the location?”

  He’d been so positive, which meant the bartender had been convincing, which meant that the bartender was simply repeating what Prenter said. That he was meeting a hot blonde.

  It wasn’t “Tanya” who’d talked dirty to him. Prenter was obviously embellishing—he was a convicted rapist who had an inflated sense of ego.

  But Prenter was at another bar at the same time he’d told her online identity to meet him at the Firehouse in Fairfax. The more she thought about it, the more she convinced herself that he’d been working a couple of women online, and the “hot blonde” who talked dirty had given him a better offer than the more reticent “Tanya.”

  She sat down at the computer and logged into her “Tanya” account. With a little work, she could find every person with whom Prenter had chatted. It might not be completely legal—it would require hacking in as an administrator, but that wasn’t difficult since she knew all the protocols that this particular site used.

  Most likely Prenter had ditched “Tanya” for a better prospect; it was the only thing that made sense. Maybe it had been that girl from the alley, the one he may have drugged.

  She frowned as her computer query yielded no results. In fact, she couldn’t find Prenter on the site at all. His profile was gone. Deleted. Had the police secured it? If so, there should be something that showed that his account was here, but locked. There should be a record of his chats in the admin area, even if they didn’t have any data. It was common for users to lock their profiles when they didn’t want strangers contacting them. His screen name should be here—but it wasn’t.

  Lucy logged out and tried to create an account using his log-in. It was available to use, which meant that no other registered user in the chat community had it, locked or unlocked.

  Why would the police delete his account? It made no sense. Not for what on the surface appeared to be a routine homicide. And so quickly? He was killed only forty-eight hours ago.

  Lucy shut down her computer, but it took her a long time to fall into a troubled sleep.

  I watch her bedroom light turn off. Her room is dark. She is alone.

  Except for the woman in the house, who I know to be a cop. A federal cop.

  The house is owned by Dillon Kincaid and Katherine Donovan. They are married. Married—that pussy-whipped bastard let the bitch keep her maiden name. Now I do not wonder how Ms. Lucy Kincaid turned out to be a lying, whoring killer, with role models like that.

  It is war. Us against them. Most men are pleased to give in to the demands of females. Let them work. Let them play. Let them do whatever fucking damn thing they want! Let them cheat, let them lie, let them leave.

  I close my eyes and the rage flows through my veins, my sustenance, nurturing my needs as I remember.

  Rosemarie.

  I love you, Rosemarie.

  I loved you through your lies and tricks. Did you always know you would disobey? I gave you the world because I wanted you to stay with me, and still you left!

  You pretended to love me, but you loved your friends more. You pretended to be with me, but when you cried out you called his name.

  I miss you, Rosemarie.

 
Father knew best, and I should have listened. He lived through the same thing, but I thought you would stay if all you depended on came from me! If your dreams and hopes and needs were fulfilled by me, you would never leave. I worked day and night for you! You lying, cheating whore, you used me like every woman uses man. Like Eve used Adam, like Delilah used Samson, like every other woman in the world used man.

  But you were weak. All women are weak. All women need to be taught to obey.

  To stay.

  To beg.

  To fetch.

  Like the bitches they are.

  I am one of the few left. The only one who understands that until women once again know their place, our society, our future, is gone. All women should be trained by me. Only the most obedient will survive. Only those who do exactly what I say will live.

  I have not yet found any worthy.

  I will come for you, Lucy. Very soon.

  SEVENTEEN

  The morning sky seemed an even more vibrant blue in the icy cold, and while last night’s snowfall had been cleared from the roads, the delicate blanketing of white across small yards, parked cars, and roofs sparkled in the sun. The walk to Holy Trinity usually allowed Lucy a chance to reflect, but today the quiet and subtle beauty of winter gave her no peace of mind. She walked into the church late and slid into the back row.

  Her lack of sleep showed in her lackluster responses to the Mass. She thought through possible scenarios as to why Prenter’s account had been deleted. An account could be accidentally deleted, but that seemed too coincidental. Or Prenter himself might have deleted it to avoid a trail of evidence. That was more likely, but why? Because he’d planned to drug and rape “Tanya”?

  That went against type. He hadn’t gone to any lengths to cover up his rape of Sara Tyson, which yielded physical evidence that had aided in his conviction. Still, he could have learned from that experience and become more cautious.

  After communion, Lucy knelt and prayed, pushing all thoughts of Prenter from her mind. Someone knelt next to her, and she automatically shifted away while glancing at the person. She didn’t like being snuck up on.

  “Cody,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Shh.” She wasn’t going to argue with him in church, even if he was apologizing.

  Ten minutes later, Mass was over, but Lucy didn’t leave. She turned to Cody after the recessional and said, “Prenter’s chat account was deleted.”

  He looked confused. “Why is that important? Lucy, anything could have happened to his account. The police could have locked it.”

  “It’s been deleted.”

  “They could have archived it, then deleted the public copy.”

  “There are no archives on that site, except for private messages. I never sent him a private message.”

  “I think you’re making a big deal over nothing.”

  At first Lucy was enraged—it wasn’t nothing; then she noticed Cody’s brow was furrowed. He was at least thinking about her concerns.

  “I need to know what happened, Cody. I have run the scenario every way I can think of and some are plausible, but I need to know.”

  “Why is this important to you?”

  “Because—” Why was it? Why did she care? She glanced at the corpus of Christ suspended on the wall behind the altar.

  She’d killed Adam Scott and didn’t regret it. He’d deserved worse, but her lack of guilt had bothered her for years. She’d talked to her brother Patrick about it, only him, and he’d dismissed it. “You feel guilty because you don’t feel guilty about killing the man who raped you, who nearly killed Dillon and Kate? Don’t.”

  Lucy had become desensitized by the violence in the world around her. She’d experienced pain and humiliation, she’d killed a human being, and she was immersed in an online world where sex predators were the norm, where they constantly hunted for victims. She didn’t want to take murder in stride, even the death of a convicted rapist.

  “I don’t want to take anyone’s death lightly,” she said.

  “I understand.” Maybe he did. “I’ll look a little deeper.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Want to go for breakfast?”

  Sean. She glanced at her watch. It was already after ten. “I have plans,” she said.

  “Oh, maybe a rain check then—” Something over her shoulder caught Cody’s attention and he straightened into his alpha cop stance.

  She looked behind her and saw Sean walking toward them. Her heart quickened when he caught her eye and smiled.

  “You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone,” Cody said, his voice hard, as if she were cheating on him.

  “I’m not,” she said automatically.

  “You were with him last night.”

  Cody didn’t believe her. She wasn’t sure if she believed herself, either. “I mean, it’s not serious.” Yet. “We’re just …” Why did she have to explain anything to her ex-boyfriend?

  Sean came up to them, putting his hand on Lucy’s back. “Officer Lorenzo,” he said in greeting.

  “Rogan.” He said to Lucy, “I’ll call you if I learn anything.” Then he left.

  “Did I say something?” Sean asked.

  Lucy shook her head. “He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Over a year. Sorry—I don’t know why he’s acting so strange.”

  Sean raised his eyebrow. “You really don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “He’s still in love with you.”

  She shook her head and looked toward where Cody had walked out, but he was gone. “I don’t think so.” Was he? No, she didn’t think so. Maybe.

  “Luce, I’m a guy, I can tell.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Tell me he doesn’t have a chance of getting you back.”

  She let Sean’s words sink in, her eyes widening. “He doesn’t.”

  “Good.” He kissed her again. “You look tired.”

  “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “Hungry?”

  “I could eat.”

  “You’ll need the energy for what I have planned.”

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a surprise.” He took her hand. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re going to burn out,” Noah said to Kate when he walked into the computer room at Quantico at noon on Sunday.

  She shot him a glare that might be described as the evil eye. “You’re here.”

  “It’s my case.”

  “It’s my family.”

  Noah wasn’t going to win this battle. “Abigail spoke to the regional vice-president at the rental company, faxed him the administrative subpoena, and he said he would give us the GPS logs tomorrow morning if possible—it’s a holiday, but he’s working on it.”

  “Good.”

  Kate was back staring at the computer. “I have something, too. I have a list of every email address in Morton’s address book. I still haven’t recovered the messages themselves, but I’m getting closer.”

  “How do we match those up to real people?”

  “Some are easy—names attached to the emails. Some are harder, but I know some tricks.”

  “What about going to the ISP?”

  She glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “So you’re not as technically incompetent as you act.”

  “I know the basics.”

  “Internet service providers are less likely to turn over any private customer information without a warrant—they’re not as friendly as the rental company. So we need probable cause, such as an email exchange that is obviously criminal in nature, or that we can show is criminal based on other evidence. Here’s a list of everyone I’ve found so far—I highlighted those who are in Morton’s file as being a known associate.”

  “I’ll pull addresses and see who’s local,” Noah said, feeling the familiar excitement in his gut telling him this was a turning point in the investigation.

  “I have dozens I haven
’t identified yet. The second list are those I have names for but aren’t on Morton’s associate list. That’s a little longer. My guess, those are the people who sent in disks for his porn site.”

  “Why are they doing it? Morton didn’t have money to pay them.”

  “Some people send in for free—those are usually amateurs who do the up-skirt videos or home movies. Some people have a deal with the site to be paid per view, so when someone watches the video they get paid. Trask had recorded more than half of his own material—he used prostitutes, drug addicts, anyone who’d do anything for a couple hundred dollars. But he’d make tens of thousands of dollars off the recording.”

  Noah shook his head. “And that’s all legal.”

  “Most of it is, and he worked damn hard to keep Trask Enterprises off the radar. But Adam Scott was a sick bastard, and he couldn’t help himself—he killed women for pleasure, and that’s what tripped him up. It was when he started killing online that we could finally pursue him.” Kate rubbed her temples. “Sometimes, the system is fucked,” she mumbled.

  Noah didn’t exactly disagree with her but still thought their system was the best in the world. In his ten years in the Air Force, most of it in the Ravens security force, he’d been in dozens of countries and had seen the worst governments and justice systems in existence.

  Noah sat at an extra terminal and pulled up the names Kate had identified. “There are only two who are local—both with criminal records. And one is already dead.”

  Noah looked at Andrew “Ace” Shuman, who’d been in and out of prison most of his life. Prostitution, racketeering, assault. According to Morton’s file, Shuman had been a bodyguard. His official title with Trask Enterprises was “Head of Security.” He’d been out of prison for three years and seemed to have kept his nose clean, but as Noah knew, most were criminals for life: career criminals—few changed their stripes, they just got better at hiding.

  “I’ll talk to Shuman,” Noah said. “He knew Ralston and Morton.”

  “Shuman is a piece of work, and dangerous,” Kate said. “I had a couple of run-ins with him, but couldn’t nail him for anything substantive. He was in prison before Trask went into hiding—assault, I think. I tried to get him to turn on Trask, and he wouldn’t.”