Deadly Games

by Karen Rock

  Someone coughed in the ominous silence as the crowd digested Katherine’s dire warning.

  “I’m willing to take your questions.”

  “Can you give us some insight into the victims? What connects them?” asked a reporter once Katherine pointed his way.

  She peered down at her notes then lifted a somber face. “They appear to have no personal connection to one another. However, as stated previously, all victims were in their mid- to late twenties, blondes with petite builds who disappeared from the downtown metropolitan area when out with girlfriends.”

  Nash’s thoughts flew to Layla. She wasn’t a blonde, but other than her hair color, she fit the killer’s victim type. Petite. Out with girlfriends….

  “What types of forensic evidence have you gathered so far, and has that evidence assisted you in linking these crimes?” another reporter asked.

  “We cannot release unconfirmed information,” she stated firmly. “However, I will share that the evidence suggests the suspect has done this before, possibly in another state or city. His priors might include assault, abduction, and/or rape.”

  The reporters not recording the briefing hurriedly wrote down the information while waving with their free hands for Katherine’s attention. Nash marveled at Katherine’s composure amidst the chaos.

  She pointed at a stocky man in the front.

  “Do you have any leads that are particularly promising, or any people you’re homing in on at this point?”

  “We have an abundance of leads, and the investigation is ongoing,” she said crisply.

  “What information can you give us about the condition of the victims’ bodies? The way they were posed? We’re hearing dismemberment, mutilation, shaved heads, letters carved into their chests—”

  “We’re not going into those specifics today.” Katherine tucked a stray strand of her platinum hair, which was mostly back in a bun, behind her ear. Nash’s fingers flexed, recalling the softness as he’d sifted through her beautiful hair.

  “In your experience, is this the type of offender who would blend into the neighborhood? Could it be someone’s next-door neighbor?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. This could be your boss. Your friend. Even a family member.”

  Nash grabbed another towel from his gym bag and swiped it over the back of his dripping neck, his eyes glued to the screen. He’d read a book about “killers next door,” and never looked at his neighbors the same again. People got up to a lot of creepy shit behind closed doors.

  “What about past, similar cases? Can you draw a connection to previous female abductions? Missing persons?”

  “We’re considering that information as well, here and in the broader metro area. Everything’s being investigated. No stone unturned. One more question?”

  Katherine craned her long neck then pointed to a dark-suited woman standing off to the side.

  “Should the public be afraid?”

  Katherine’s features sharpened, her expression determined and undaunted. “We want the public to be engaged, and we want them to be aware. That’s why we’re asking for their help. Thank you for your time.” Her fleeting smile slid quickly from her face. She nodded and strode briskly from the podium.

  Nash stared at the babbling news anchors as they dissected Katherine’s press conference, his mind working furiously.

  Layla’s body hadn’t been found, but that didn’t rule out her abduction at the hands of the serial killer. She might still be alive, held wherever the deranged lowlife kept his victims.

  Nash’s jaw hardened. If so, the need to find her, already through the roof, just rocketed into the next galaxy.

  “Hey! Where are you going?” shouted Liam, when Nash grabbed his keys and sprinted to the exit. “You’re my ride.”

  “Call an Uber!” Nash shoved through the glass doors and raced to his Harley. Katherine had appealed to the public for any information relevant to her investigation, and Layla’s disappearance, his gut told him, was connected.

  Only he wouldn’t be calling any tip line.

  Layla’s missing person case had been overlooked for too long. If he phoned, he’d risk her information getting buried or put off while officers chased down other tips. Layla needed a voice. His voice. And he’d make sure law enforcement heard it.

  Because he’d deliver his information to Katherine personally.

  He leapt on his Harley, flipped on the engine, and zipped downtown to police headquarters. Fifteen minutes later, a city clerk, who was a frequent guest at Dallas Heat, did him a favor and pointed him to a closed office door. Just as Nash lifted his hand to knock, the door swung open and Katherine strode forward, colliding with him. The feel of her imprinted itself on his body. The tantalizing scent of clean cotton and lavender soap…

  Blue-violet eyes rose to his and widened as she jerked backward. “Nash?”

  “Hi, Katherine. Or should I say Agent Bowden?”

  He knew he hadn’t imagined their incredible chemistry the other night, but she seemed about as pleased to see him as she’d be to discover a rattler in her doorway. Well, hell. So, he wasn’t the man of her dreams. He was, however, the man charged with finding Layla, and for Layla’s sake, he’d push through this awkward moment.

  “Call me Katherine. What are you doing here?”

  She’d taken off her gray suit jacket, revealing a crisp white shirt tucked into a fitted skirt that hugged her taut, sexy curves. He curled his fingers into his palms to keep from reaching for the row of tiny buttons.

  “Nash?”

  Her voice snapped him from his steaming imagination.

  “I’m a bit busy with a new case. Is there a number I can phone you at later…?”

  He shook his head, knowing full well she wouldn’t call him. “I saw your press conference about the murdered women. You asked for information. I came straight from the gym to share something important with you, or I would’ve showered first.”

  Her eyes wandered over his chest before she gave a jerky nod that made him wonder what she’d been envisioning. “So, you’re not here because of…” She laced her fingers and rocked back in her low heels, her discomfort palpable.

  “No, though I’d appreciate knowing why you walked out without saying goodbye.”

  She peered over his shoulder at the noisy group of detectives in the open area behind him, then angled her head backward, indicating he should follow her inside what resembled a war room.

  A long table, filled with papers, protein bar wrappers, and mostly empty Styrofoam cups of coffee, dominated the space. Pictures of victims, sticky notes covered in handwriting, and a map of Dallas with pins stuck along the I45 route covered a large corkboard that ran the length of one wall.

  Pulling the door shut behind him, she turned and fidgeted with her shoulder holster’s strap. “I-I didn’t think there was more to say.”

  His mouth twitched. “How about ‘the earth moved’? ‘Mountains fell’? …or, you know, just goodbye?”

  She rolled her eyes, a reluctant smile forming. It transformed her face and stole his breath. “Sorry. I don’t usually do one-night stands.” When her gaze dropped to his mouth and lingered, all blood, all thought, rushed to his groin. “I wasn’t sure…”

  “Sure of?”

  “If you’d want me around in the morning. You don’t strike me as the committing type, and I’m too busy for anything serious, so…” She gestured around the cluttered conference room.

  “Right.” He cleared his throat and ignored the regret surging in his gut. No sense sharing his wish to explore a potential relationship with her when she’d made her feelings on the subject clear. “At least we know where we stand.”

  “Good,” she said, sounding anything but pleased. “You mentioned information?”

  A knock sounded on the door; a uniformed officer stuck his head in. “You wanted to
see me, ma’am?”

  Katherine drew herself up straighter, if that was possible: her earlier discomfort now replaced with crisp professionalism. In the blink of an eye, she’d transformed from Katherine to Agent Bowden.

  “Would you advise Missing Persons to contact me immediately if anyone reports as missing a young woman, blond and petite, last seen out in the downtown area with girlfriends?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” She strode around one side of table and snapped closed thick folders.

  “During the press conference, you mentioned expecting another kidnapping,” Nash said once the officer shut the door behind him.

  “The unsub’s pattern suggests he’ll strike again if he hasn’t already. We have to grab him before that happens.”

  “Unsub?”

  She pulled out a chair and sat. “Unknown subject.”

  Nash nodded. “What did you mean when you said the killer was escalating?”

  “Killing, for these guys, is like drug abuse: the more they use the drug, the less effective the drug will be, the sooner they’ll need a new fix. In other words, the perp will have a shorter cooling-off period every time he kills. As the pleasure and the reminiscence of the pleasure fades more quickly, the need to kill again will appear sooner, as we see in Becca’s case. Before her, he had a fairly stable two-week pattern between kidnapping and killing, except for one longer cooling-off period.”

  “A cooling-off period?” he asked, drawn to her more than ever as he watched her animated face. She was clearly in her element and her confidence was a major turn on.

  “All serial murderers go through a ʻcooling off’ phase between kills. During this time, the killer returns to his or her regular life—goes home to the spouse and kids, resumes the job at the auto shop: they cool off before planning and executing the next crime. Sometimes other factors can extend that period, like becoming incarcerated, feeling like the police are growing close to catching them, or some other unspecified reason.” Red stained her cheeks when she met his eyes. “Anyway, you mentioned information…. What do you have for me?”

  “It’s a who, not a what.”

  She leaned forward as he seated himself opposite her. “Go on.”

  “I’m representing the family of Layla Pierce, a missing twenty-six-year-old who disappeared from the downtown area.”

  Her long eyelashes, as golden as her hair, blinked at him. “You’re representing her?”

  He met her confused stare head-on. “I moonlight as a private investigator.”

  “Ohhh.” Her eyes traveled over him again, sizing him up as a professional, not as a lover, and the assessment squared his jaw. It reminded him of the way she’d looked at him the night they met—as a person, not a piece of meat. “Tell me about Layla. Why do you think she’s related to my case?”

  “She disappeared after going out with girlfriends in a club near your other abductions.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Two months.”

  “Was her disappearance reported to the police?”

  “Yes, but the case has gone cold.”

  “What’s her date of birth?” Katherine tapped on a laptop’s keyboard. “Social Security number?”

  Nash rattled off the information from memory. His family had teased him, growing up, about his knack for remembering details he’d seen only once. It was a strange gift, one he had no use for as a dancer, but right now it came in handy.

  “What’s your relationship to her?” Katherine’s eyes scrolled over her screen.

  “Her mother was a former client; she approached me for help.”

  “And what was the case you investigated for Layla’s mother, if I might ask?”

  “Cheating spouse. I provided evidence in her divorce trial.”

  Katherine’s eyes lifted to his. The expression in them brought back the shouted comment from Katherine’s friend at Dallas Heat—her recent divorce from a cheating spouse.

  What man would be unfaithful to an accomplished, intelligent beauty like Katherine?

  A damn fool.

  Her gaze zoomed back to her laptop. “Seems like Layla’s got a few priors. Drug possession. Assault. Solicitation—though that was dismissed.”

  He flinched, wondering how much lower he’d sink in Katherine’s estimation if she knew of his priors. “Yes. But her mother swears Layla’s turned over a new leaf and was clean. Says she’d been attending NA meetings.”

  “Yet she was out at a club the night she disappeared,” Katherine mused.

  Nash drummed his fingers on his thighs, bristling at the judgment. “Fair enough. But her friends stated she didn’t drink.”

  “Uh-huh,” Katherine muttered, her fingers sweeping over the keyboard again. “Layla’s a brunette.”

  “Yes,” Nash confirmed. “But she’s also petite, like your killer’s targets.”

  “Five feet, one inch tall, one hundred pounds, brown eyes,” she spoke aloud as she evaluated what he guessed was Layla’s driver’s license. A few more clicks on her laptop, then Katherine’s fingers stilled. “Says here the police were called to her residence for a couple of wellness checks in the past three years. Has she disappeared before?”

  He sensed a methodical mind at work as Katherine formulated a picture of Layla’s life. Beneath the table, their feet vied for the same real estate, occasionally bumping or brushing one against one another. He felt edgy from those small touches, twitchy from the desire to lay his hand in the center of her flat, taut stomach then slide it up to cup her full breasts. With an effort, he recalled her question. Better to focus on Katherine’s brain than the lure of her body.

  “Never for this long, according to her mother. Layla wouldn’t let her family worry like this.”

  Katherine lowered her laptop screen and tapped her index finger on its molded plastic top, giving him her undivided attention. “How do you know?”

  “She’s Choctaw. Responsibility to family is part of our culture.”

  The effect of her probing eyes was unnerving and, he’d admit it, arousing, as she absorbed that part of his background. It seemed like she saw more of him than when he’d covered her naked body with his own. “Still, she’s not a match for my victim type, and has a history of drug abuse and disappearances. Are there any witnesses to her being taken against her will?”

  Nash shook his head, determination firing his insides. “Layla is one of your victims. He may be still have her.”

  “That doesn’t fit his M.O. He tortures them for a couple of weeks, sick games to achieve the ultimate power gratification—death. When he’s finished, he poses their bodies in highly visible spots to garner attention and humiliate them. Why would he keep Layla?”

  Nash released a fast breath. “Maybe her body hasn’t been found yet.”

  “It’s possible, but unlikely. This guy likes a spotlight on what he’s done. I highly doubt Layla is one of my victims.”

  Nash pressed his lips together. Despite Katherine’s logical arguments, his gut told him Layla’s disappearance was connected to the serial killer. “When a reporter asked if you could draw a connection to previous female abductions, you said everything’s being investigated. No stone unturned.”

  She whistled. “You have quite a memory.”

  “Will you look into Layla’s disappearance? You have access to her missing person case, information that might help me. And I have the inside track with her family. Additional information I’ve compiled about her disappearance. We could work together.”

  She reached across the table and laid a warm hand on his arm. “I’ll check on the status of her case, if that’ll help.”

  From anyone else, the gesture would have been harmless enough. But the tug of sensual interest hadn’t abated the slightest after their night together. In fact, if anything, it was hotter than ever. “I’d appre
ciate it.”

  He stood along with Katherine and followed her to the door, the sweet curve of her ass drawing his eye.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do,” she said.

  I.

  Not we.

  She had no intention of including him in her case. Stupid to think she might. Her dismissive words rammed straight to the part of him that questioned whether his dancing job was work, if his life had real purpose.

  “Talk to you soon,” he said after they exchanged contact information, and she trotted down the hall, her endless legs carrying her fast and far away…to a place he sensed he’d never reach.

  He grabbed his keys from his pocket and strode outside, stopping when the sunlight’s glare temporarily blinded him.

  Blinking up at the sky, he made a solemn vow.

  This was the last time anyone would dismiss him…not him and not Layla.

  Chapter Six

  “From here on out, I’d like a heavy police presence in Dallas’s downtown social scene, the killer’s preferred hunting grounds,” Katherine said, winding up her daily update with the detectives and uniforms assigned to her case. Many male officers regarded her with narrow eyes or arms folded across their chests, looking none too pleased to have an FBI officer stomping on their turf, giving the orders. And a female one at that. “We need to prevent him from striking again, and uniforms on every corner will be a deterrent. Also, keep your ears open for incoming reports of missing young women matching the victimology I discussed and the killer’s M.O.”

  Captain Harris nodded along with the group. “You got it.”

  “If this guy is who we think he is,” Katherine added, “we’re talking terror like Dallas hasn’t seen since Juan Chavez.”

  One of the detectives whistled and several began chattering about the loathsome name. Juan Chavez, a.k.a. the Thrill Killer, murdered eleven people in a five-month span in Dallas County in 1995. She couldn’t let her serial killer come close to such a horrifying number and needed him behind bars, fast.