Deadly Games

by Karen Rock

  A female special agent.

  She wished like hell it didn’t bother her when they left her out, never inviting her to their after-work get-togethers, including her on lunch orders, or selecting her to join their investigation task forces.

  But it did.

  She scanned her emails with unseeing eyes, saying nothing. They wouldn’t haze her out of her job, wouldn’t make her crack, because without her career, what would she have?

  It’d taken her six years to earn her master’s in criminal psychology, nine years to claw her way to the top of a male-dominated field. She’d had the highest solve rate in the BAU before she’d transferred. She glanced down at her empty ring finger.

  Was it worth it?

  Her thoughts turned to her night with Nash, who, it’d turned out, really was a sex god.

  The printer in the corner started up with a rickety wheeze, and conversations resumed around her. She blew out a breath, then jumped when a door banged open and their tall, square-jawed chief stuck his head in.

  “Bowden. In my office,” he barked.

  Her peers’ speculative stares nipped at her heels as she hurried up the aisle to her superior’s office.

  “Got a call from DPD special crimes unit,” Chief O’Reilly began without preamble. He sat and stretched backward, setting his leather chair creaking.

  Katherine clasped her clammy hands. Since arriving in Dallas, she’d mostly worked on low-level domestics and serial robberies.

  Was she about to receive the kind of high-level assignment she’d trained for?

  Lived for?

  Sacrificed for?

  “They found a young woman’s body on an off-ramp from I45. Posed. The fifth in a recent string of similar vics. Same M.O.”

  Her nails dug into her palms. “Serial killer?”

  Chief O’Reilly shoved back gray strands straggling over his wrinkled brow. “That’s for you to determine.” He rattled off the body’s location. “Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Name your partner. We’re tied up right now with the drug cartel. Got other agents on the human trafficking sting…but I can reassign one of them. It’s your pick.”

  “No one, sir.” She’d rather work alone, with the Dallas Police Department at her beck and call, than tiptoe around another agent’s ego while solving the case.

  The chief’s eyes rolled up to her from beneath lowered brows. “How are you settling in out there?” he asked, shrewdly.

  “Fine, sir.”

  He eyed her for a long moment as she did her best not to squirm. “Wouldn’t hurt if you spent some time with the other agents. Let them get to know you. You didn’t come to the volleyball tournament this weekend.”

  No one told her about the volleyball tournament.

  She willed down the heat rising in her cheeks as she recalled her much more enjoyable athletic activities in Nash’s bed. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “Thirty-one percent of agents burn out within ten years, Bowden. They start making sloppy mistakes and either resign or get fired.” Chief O’Reilly shook out a handful of antacids, threw back his head, and tossed them in his mouth. He looked ragged around the edges, she noted, bags under his eyes and a coffee stain on his shirt. “I want to see you start socializing. Balance,” he mumbled as he chewed. “It’s the only way to stay in the game.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Her superior picked up his ringing phone and nodded at the door. “Dismissed.”

  Balance. Her mother had droned on about needing balance to save her marriage (turned out she was right), and vowed Katherine would die alone if she didn’t achieve it. (Okay—that last part was more Katherine’s fear.)

  She grabbed her keys, headed outside, and slid behind the wheel of her car. After she connected her phone, she cruised out of the parking lot into downtown traffic.

  Her phone buzzed. She risked a quick glance at the name and her shoulders lowered.

  She punched the “Answer Call” button on her car’s screen. “Hey, Megan.”

  “Hey, babe. Been trying to call you.”

  Katherine tapped her brakes when a motor scooter cut her off, swearing under her breath. “Sorry. Had errands and—”

  “You think I care about errands?” Megan’s whiskey laugh pealed through the speakers. “I want to know about your hot night with Nash.”

  Katherine flipped on the air conditioning, her body flushing warm at his name. No man had ever made her feel so desired. So empowered. It’d been a heady, unforgettable night. “It was hot all right.”

  “Yeah?” prompted Megan, sighing when Katherine didn’t elaborate. “How was it? Come on, give me something. You, like, lived all of our fantasies.”

  “Okay, okay,” Katherine laughed. “We had sex.”

  …on the couch, in his bed, later, in his shower…. Nash was an incredible lover. Some people claimed good-looking men could be lazy in bed, used to women lavishing them with attention. But Nash had pursued and wooed her, seducing her and setting her ablaze before giving her ultimate satisfaction.

  “My brother said he heard a car pull out around six. Now spill the tea, sister. How was it?”

  “Amazing. I think I went a little crazy.” Katherine caught her twinkling eye in the side mirror as she switched lanes for a turn—an unfamiliar expression.

  Happy.

  “Crazy’s good,” Megan proclaimed through what sounded like an exhaled stream of smoke. “That’s what you needed. What else?”

  “I plead the Fifth.”

  Megan groaned. “You’re killing me. Seriously. So, when are you going to see him again?”

  Katherine turned down a side street packed with illegally parked cars. “Never.” She firmly ignored the pang of regret. Nash was gorgeous. Funny. Caring.

  Exactly the kind of man any woman would fall for. Except her. She’d tried her hand at relationships and failed miserably. From now on, she’d stick to what she did best. Work.

  “What?” Megan practically squawked. “You mean he didn’t ask for your number? What an asshole. Next time I go to Dallas Heat, he’s only getting dollar bills from me.”

  “No—no…I left before he woke up.” A dog barked at Katherine’s sedan as she passed its stoop, the neighborhood growing rougher by the mile. Where was the I45 exit?

  Silence descended, broken only by Megan’s sharp intake of air. “You should have stayed and gone with the flow. Seen where it went. Had some fun.”

  “I can’t.” Last night with Nash was incredible, but it could only be a one-night stand. She wasn’t the party girl she’d once been—not ever again. Nash had turned her inside-out, and she’d rediscovered a wild side she hadn’t seen in a long time. The reminder of her old self scared her a little; the endless search for gratification that’d ended in bloody, violent tragedy.

  Besides, leaving without waking him was the safest way to avoid an awkward morning-after conversation. She’d been afraid it was just a one-night stand for him, and she’d faced enough rejection for a lifetime. Hearing Nash stumble through a “hope-you-had-a-good-time-see-you-around” speech would have sunk the confidence she’d gained back last night. No thanks. She left on her own steam, head high. No door had hit her ass on the way out, thank you very much.

  “Why not?” Megan asked.

  Katherine passed a basketball court where shoving, sweating teenagers, who should be in school, played a pick-up game. “I just got divorced.”

  “You’ve been separated for months.” Three quick puffs, then Megan said, “Plus you were married to a cheating scumbag.”

  “Exactly. And Nash’s job is all about turning other women on. Not the kind of rebound I need after a two-timing husband.”

  “Nash isn’t a player,” Megan insisted. “Trust me. Lots of women have tried to hit that fine ass.”

 
For some reason, the careless comment irked Katherine. Why did she object to hearing Nash referred to that way? He was super-fine…but there was more to him than good looks. “Either way, I have a new job to focus on.”

  A long exhale. “Now we get to the truth. Finally.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Katherine checked for oncoming traffic and veered left, closing in on the I45 exit.

  “You use your job to keep from having close relationships.”

  The accusation smacked Katherine square on the chin.

  “No I don’t,” she automatically denied.

  Yes, you do.

  “Who were your friends in Quantico?” Megan asked.

  Katherine opened her mouth, then shut it, braking slightly to avoid a darting squirrel.

  “See,” Megan said after the brief silence. “And you’ve been back in Dallas for months without reaching out to any of our old friends.”

  Katherine squeezed the ache building between her brows. “I’ve been busy. New apartment, new job…”

  “Right. Always busy. Like in college when you wouldn’t speak to any of us anymore, not after—”

  “Don’t,” Katherine breathed, her head beginning to pound.

  “After Summer disappeared. There. I said it.”

  Katherine screeched to a halt, three-quarters of her car beneath a red light and jamming the intersection. Several cars honked and swerved around her as she backed up. The on-ramp to I45 loomed ahead. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You ran away from us, Katherine. You weren’t the only one hurting.”

  “But I was there when it happened. Her adrenaline spiked as she zoomed up the exit, closing in on the crime scene.

  A line of police cruisers, blue and white lights flashing on the side of the road, caught her eye.

  “I’ve got to go. Can I call you later?” Katherine flicked on her blinker and pulled over onto the shoulder. Her tires crunched on gravel as she approached the cordoned-off area.

  Megan’s sigh was so loud Katherine practically felt it through the vents. “Fine. But call me, okay? Don’t forget. We need to get you out again.”

  Katherine eased her foot off the brakes, noting the white-suited CSI team already on scene, a couple of detectives huddled over what she assumed was the victim. Uniforms waved their hands at the descending press, blocking access as they formed a line around the yellow tape. “Promise,” she vowed.

  Once she captured whoever was preying on innocent Dallas women, that is…

  Summer couldn’t rest in peace and neither could Katherine.

  But every monster Katherine took down made breathing, living, just a little bit easier.

  Chapter Five

  “We begin our noon broadcast on Daily Roundup Dallas with breaking news of the discovery of a young woman’s body, found just off I45, the fifth in just the last seven months.”

  Nash’s eyes zoomed to the gym’s nearest flat-screen as he curled a fifty-pound dumbbell. Sweat dripped from his forehead and trickled down his bare chest. His heart, already laboring as he neared the finish of his two-hour workout, picked up speed.

  Could it be Layla?

  After interviewing her friends, as well as the staff at the downtown Dallas club they’d visited last, he’d gleaned precious few details for his case. A computer search revealed no secret online boyfriends or planned meet-ups. Layla’s cell phone records held no unusual numbers or calls, and her ex-boyfriend was currently serving time for a robbery conviction. According to friends and family, Layla, who’d give anyone the shirt off her back, didn’t have any enemies.

  “It appears Dallas Police Chief Desmond Harris is about to update us. Let’s listen in.”

  Nash placed the dumbbell on the holding rack with a metallic clang, grabbed a towel, and wiped his slick face while the newscaster droned.

  The screen switched to a podium with the Dallas police department’s logo. An African-American man with a shaved head, wearing black-framed glasses and a police uniform, stepped to the podium’s mic. Sunlight glinted on the silver stars marching down his collar and the medals and badge pinned to his chest.

  Admiration and envy filled Nash. What he’d give to wear a uniform that didn’t rip off with one pull. His lips hitched up in one corner.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the police chief began, speaking to the gaggle of reporters crowding the podium. “Yesterday, at five a.m., a passing motorist called 911 to report a body alongside an exit ramp off I45. Officers responded and confirmed the remains of a young woman who we’ve since identified as Becca Waterson, a twenty-five-year-old mother of one who disappeared while out with friends in downtown Dallas two weeks ago, on June thirtieth. She was last seen leaving a popular nightspot, Le Tabou, alone at three a.m.”

  Nash released a held breath, but his body remained tense. The victim wasn’t Layla, but the coincidences between the disappearances—another young woman last seen out with friends—struck him.

  “We’re appealing to the public for any help they can provide regarding Becca’s disappearance and murder. Text ‘DPD’ plus your tip to 274637 (crimes) or call 214-671-4TIP.”

  “We’ve heard her body was posed similarly to other women found on or just off I45,” shouted a reporter. “Can you confirm this is the work of a serial killer?”

  The chief held up his hand and leaned into the mic. “We’ve reached out to the FBI for their help and resources. I’m going to direct further questions to Special Agent Katherine Bowden, formerly with the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, who’s recently joined the Dallas FBI’s Violent Crimes unit. We’re fortunate to benefit from her expertise going forward; Agent Bowden is one of the top profilers in the country.”

  Despite his steaming body, Nash’s blood ran cold. Had Layla crossed paths with a monster? It seemed farfetched, but without any real leads, he needed to consider all possibilities. He unscrewed the top of his sports drink and chugged a third of the cool fluid in one gulp, his unwavering gaze on the television.

  The chief backed away as questions exploded around him like grenades. A tall, lithe blonde, dressed in a tailored gray suit, stepped up to the podium and placed a binder on it. Her poised and commanding bearing quieted the reporters within seconds. Direct, violet-blue eyes stared down the crowd.

  Nash’s sports drink bottle tumbled from frozen fingers.

  Katherine…

  His passionate lover, the woman he still smelled on his pillow, dreamed of until he woke, thought of while he worked, ate, showered…now filled the TV screen.

  Suddenly everything made sense. Her compelling strength. Her dignity. Her confidence. It came from her intelligence, her professionalism, her achievements, not the size of her chest or the long, silky length of her legs—which were also incredible, but beside the point: she was law enforcement. No. More than that. She was part of the FBI’s elite BAU responsible for tracking down the country’s most notorious serial killers.

  A wolf whistle sounded behind Nash, and Liam, another dancer from the club, joined him by the flat-screen. “I’d let her cuff me.”

  “Shut it, Liam,” Nash growled, not liking his coworker ogling Katherine, a rush of possessiveness swamping him. She’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with Nash, so he had no right to that feeling. Yet it seized him anyway.

  No wonder she hadn’t lingered after they’d made love. She was important. Somebody. While he’d been a random hookup. A stripper. Not someone a woman like her would take seriously.

  “Geez. Touchy.” Liam scooped up Nash’s bottle and tossed it out with his own.

  “Thank you, Captain Harris.” The firm flow of her voice coming through the TV speakers made Nash’s body tighten. He heard it again in his ear, urging him on as he’d made love to her. “And my thanks as well to the Dallas Police Department, who’ve been extremely cooperative as I undertake this
investigation.

  “We’re currently working with the assumption that Becca Waterson’s murder, and the deaths of Vivienne Tourneau, Jennifer Grendel, Mackenzie Payne, and Shelby Miller, whose bodies were also found along the I45 corridor over the past seven months, are the work of a serial killer operating in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.”

  Voices rose, peppering her with questions. Yet Katherine didn’t flinch as she waited them out, taking fire as though she was used to walking through its flames. Relished it, even.

  Once the reporters subsided, Katherine glanced up and straight into the camera. Nash’s body heated as he stared back at her, recalling her warm, hazy eyes, sated and blurry as she’d snuggled against him, her hair fanning across his chest like silk. Now they were steely, a hint of gray shading them.

  “This appears to be the work of one killer, a sadist and long-term abductor who’s highly controlled, organized, and intelligent.”

  She paused and the reporters seemed to collectively hold their breath, hanging on her every word.

  “His need to be in charge and in control suggests his preferred job allows him this sort of autonomy. He may be an architect, an accountant, a CEO, professional organizer, pilot, business consultant, surgeon, or even a military officer,” she continued, her specific insights impressing Nash. “He plans his crimes meticulously and displays extreme control over his victims, suggesting he’s middle-aged, in his thirties or forties. Because his victims are Caucasian, statistically it’s likely that he, too, is white. Witnesses have reported several of the victims were last seen getting into a vintage black Corvette with a white racing stripe on the hood and Texas plates, partial plate number 3BG, suggesting our suspect is a car collector or enthusiast.”

  She stopped a moment to give the scribbling reporters time to record the killer’s profile.

  “He chooses a new victim every two to three weeks. However, the time between Becca’s disappearance and her body’s discovery was only ten days, which means the serial killer’s behavior is escalating. Time is of the essence. He may already have identified his next victim and be preparing to take her, if he hasn’t done so already.”