SEE HER DIE

by Debra Webb

  Duncan shrugged, too cocky to be embarrassed. “I mean, she just doesn’t look like the type who screws around with some guy, then sticks him.”

  Still waters ran deep more often than not, Mac considered, but said, “Harrison’s murder was an emotional kill, an act of passion. You saw the video. Miss Young is certainly capable of the necessary emotion.”

  “Man, is she,” Duncan muttered wistfully.

  Mac clenched his jaw as the images he’d watched on that video quickly played in the private theater of his mind. Oh, yeah, Elizabeth Young was definitely passionate. His pulse quickened as his mind focused on one particularly vivid image of her nude body. Streaks of gold highlighted her lush brown mane as it glided over her skin with her rhythmic movements atop her lover. Small, firm breasts jutting forward, begging to be tasted. She might not have that high-class walk down pat, but she damn sure had the art of sex down to a science. His body reacted to the memory.

  He looked away, silently cursing himself. Elizabeth Young wasn’t just a suspect, she was the prime suspect in this high-profile murder investigation. He didn’t need a case of lust where she was concerned. The facts were all he needed. And he had several of those.

  Ned Harrison had scheduled a dinner appointment with Elizabeth Young at seven on Friday night. By nine he was dead. The homicide detectives had found the very private, definitely X-rated video of Harrison and Young hidden in his bedroom. There was no way to determine when it had been made. Other videos had been found as well. More than two dozen. Ned had been a busy man. Half or so of the videos featured extended sex sessions with former patients. The others involved current patients. All the videos except Elizabeth’s had been safely tucked away in his walk-in closet, right behind his wall of Armani and Prada suits. Each had been labeled with a name and date—all except Elizabeth’s.

  Mac didn’t know yet what made hers different but he would find out. That she could count on. It was an absolute miracle the NYPD detectives hadn’t given away that ace in the hole. At least they’d had sense enough to keep the videos to themselves when conducting their hasty interviews and spilling their guts to the media.

  As if that fiasco wasn’t enough, the so-called rush on the forensics report that should have been ready yesterday was stuck in a political bottleneck. He’d had to fight like hell to get jurisdiction over this case. It was Wednesday and he hadn’t been allowed to interview any witnesses or suspects. Hell, he hadn’t even gotten the detectives’ reports until this morning. He hated delays. He hated screw-ups even more. One brash detective had royally screwed up by pushing Miss Young until she went on the defensive—the absolute wrong thing to do. What did they teach these guys in detective school?

  Mac folded his arms over his chest and seethed.

  Now, five days after the man’s murder, he’d finally gotten the word to proceed as lead on the case. If he could just get his hands on the damned autopsy report he’d be in business.

  Yep, he hated delays, hated not knowing all the available facts. Simple things, like whether Harrison had sex before he died or if he’d been drinking or hitting his drug of choice. The only two things he did know at this point were the approximate time of death and the apparent cause of death. Brannigan, the shoot-first-ask-questions-later detective from the NYPD working on the homicide case supposedly in cooperation with Mac, was running down the history of the dagger. Was it a part of Harrison’s personal collection? Or had the killer brought it with her or him?

  Harrison owned an extensive collection of antique swords and daggers. Too bad one of his toys may have been used against him.

  Some hobby. Mac imagined the weapons gave the guy a sense of power. He wondered how powerful he’d felt when one was jammed deep between his ribs?

  Mac hadn’t liked Ned Harrison. He liked him even less now that he was dead. It blew Mac’s ongoing case all to hell. As a member of a special task force he’d been watching Harrison for months, hoping for a break in the illegal and deviant Internet activities of a group known as the Gentlemen’s Association. Harrison was the first of the group they’d been able to pinpoint and identify. Now he was dead, leaving Mac back at square one. The Bureau wasn’t very happy about that, which only added to the maelstrom of the past five days.

  It was certainly possible Harrison’s death was a well planned and executed hit designed to look like a crime of passion. The head of the Gentlemen’s Association may have learned that Harrison had been compromised. But Mac couldn’t see how anyone could know the feds were onto Harrison. Mac had been too careful. It made more sense that it was just what it appeared to be. But before he scrapped Harrison as a lead and moved on, leaving the final mop-up details to the local homicide detectives, Mac intended to be sure there was nothing else to be garnered about this secretive Association from Harrison’s life or his death.

  Mac had collected every speck of information about the man his past offered. Harrison had risen above his humble foster child beginnings. Both he and his only sibling, a twin brother, had done well for themselves. His brother’s death four years ago had left Harrison alone in the world since he’d opted not to marry and have a family of his own. But men like Harrison were too selfish to give enough of themselves to have any sort of real family.

  “Our lady is on the move,” Duncan warned.

  Mac hauled his attention back to the present, his gaze seeking Elizabeth Young. She was working her way to the end of the row, muttering excuse-me’s to those seated between her and the aisle.

  Just where the hell was she going? Heads turned as she dashed down the aisle, past Mac and into the vestibule.

  He glanced at Duncan, giving him an unspoken command to stay put. Mac slipped quietly into the large entry hall. Young pushed up her glasses and swiped her eyes, then wrapped her arms around her middle but not before he saw the tremor in her hands. Had her heinous deed finally pinged her conscience? Or maybe she was just now realizing everything the cops had openly accused her of.

  Without making a sound, he stepped closer and offered her the crisply starched handkerchief from his coat pocket. He never could tolerate a weeping female. “Are you all right?”

  Elizabeth stared at the white handkerchief for several seconds before she reluctantly accepted it. “Thank you,” she murmured without looking at him. “I’m okay.”

  Another step disappeared between them. “Did you know him well?”

  Her head shot up. She looked straight into his eyes, then blinked. “What?”

  “Dr. Harrison,” he offered, coming closer still. Close enough to watch the pupils of her eyes dilate when she realized she was alone with a stranger who was suddenly in her personal space. “I mean,” he explained carefully, keeping his voice low, gentle, “you’re so upset. I thought perhaps you were family or maybe his girlfriend.”

  Her fingers clenched the white cotton. She didn’t even breathe—at least, not that Mac could see. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, frightened but too shocked to react. Her scent filled his senses. Not perfume. Soap or shampoo. Something soft and sweet, yet intensely appealing.

  She shook her head finally, the movement strained. “No. I’m... a former patient.”

  Mac shrugged. “I suppose losing your therapist can be overwhelming.”

  Her gaze narrowed at the hint of sarcasm in his voice. Dammit. He hadn’t meant to let it slip out. She looked him up and down for the first time. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  He smiled, the one the ladies always told him they liked. All confidence and charm. If Miss Young liked it, she showed no outward indication. “Collin MacBride.” He offered his hand but she ignored it.

  Clearly suspicious, she pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “Were you one of his patients, too?”

  Smart lady. She watched closely for signs of deception. Elizabeth Young might look like the naive librarian who needed to get laid, but she hadn’t fallen off the turnip truck just yesterday.

  “No,” he confesse
d. “Just a friend.”

  She shoved the handkerchief back at him without having used it. “Thank you, Mr. MacBride, but I should get back.”

  “Wait.” He stopped her before she could escape. She hesitated at the entryway to the nave and turned back to him. He cranked up the wattage of his smile. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  Something flickered in those amber eyes, fear, anger, both maybe. “No,” she said, her voice tight. “I didn’t.”

  She left him staring after her. However smart she thought she was, whatever cover-up skills she’d learned since the last time she’d stabbed a man in the chest, it wouldn’t be enough. Mac would not give up until he knew everything she’d seen, said and done where Ned Harrison was concerned.

  His smile widened. She had until tomorrow morning and then she was his.

  Chapter Two

  She’d had more than enough time for the shock to fade and the reality of Harrison’s death to steep into her conscience. That was assuming Elizabeth Young had a conscience. Considering the bout of tears she’d suffered at the funeral, Mac was relatively certain she still had one. Duncan had been right in that respect. Mac really didn’t see her as a coldblooded killer. But jealousy could drive people to do things they normally wouldn’t. Or maybe she’d found out what Harrison was doing with his videoed sessions. That would piss anybody off.

  It was eight a.m. and Mac had opted to leave Duncan back at Twenty-Six Federal Plaza to work on yanking Detective Brannigan’s chain regarding the origin of the murder weapon. Truth was, Mac preferred questioning a suspect alone the first go-around.

  He’d arrived at Elizabeth Young’s small Leonia apartment at seven sharp. On the Jersey side of the Hudson, the apartment was actually the attic-turned-living-space portion of an older home owned by an elderly woman who lived alone. According to the landlady, who acted as a sort of answering service, Miss Young had already left for the job site this morning. Another step in the wrong direction for Mac. The most effective interviews were conducted on the suspect’s home turf where they were the most comfortable.

  Who’d have thought she’d be up and at ‘em so damned early?

  Mac checked the street and number he’d jotted down. Almost there. He drove past some of the city’s finest cast-iron architecture with the ornate facades and over sized windows until he reached the SoHo address the landlady had given him. He parked in a nearby alley and walked to the entrance of the four-story building. Scaffolding and indications of ongoing plaster repair cluttered the would-be lobby. An ancient warehouse turned residential lofts, eight in number and with price tags, no doubt, to match the upscale address.

  He boarded the old-style freight elevator and set it into motion. Despite being in a state of refurbishment, the building, and location were a far cry from Elizabeth Young’s current home address.

  He’d read all about her poignant Cinderella story. Her defense attorney would use that saga to sway sympathy from the jury when the time came. Small-town girl falls in love with big-city boy and follows her heart in hopes of making her dreams come true. Then, as dreams have a way of doing, they’d crashed down around her. The love of her life had turned out to be a lying, cheating, smooth-talking womanizer.

  Poor Elizabeth had suddenly found herself on her own in the big, bad city.

  The elevator came to a stop, groaning loudly in protest. Somehow, Mac thought with a twinge of respect that annoyed the hell out of him, she’d managed to land on her feet. She’d found an affordable, yet tolerable place with reasonable rent, and she’d fallen back on the trade she’d learned from her father—painting. Not the artsy kind, but the plain old, elbow-grease-required, refurbishing sort.

  In the past eight months she’d built a solid reputation and enough business to merit hiring a helper. Mac walked down the corridor toward the open door on the right. There were two large lofts on each floor, one on either side of the centrally located elevator and corridor. Since the other door was closed, it made sense to go for the open one first.

  Her helper would be around here somewhere. She’d picked herself a real winner there, too. Mac wondered if she had any idea the con artist she’d hired had a rap sheet as long as his arm. But then, her own rap sheet was nothing to scoff at—which was something else they had to discuss. According to Detective Brannigan, the lady didn’t like to talk about her past. Mac felt fairly certain she wouldn’t care for any of his questions, especially after the report he’d read this morning.

  The preliminary report from the medical examiner confirmed that Harrison had sex prior to his death. The only substantial clue as to the identity of the person with whom he’d had sex was a single pubic hair that didn’t belong to the deceased. Well, that and a few healthy scratches on his neck that were only a couple of hours old at the time of death. DNA testing was already under way. All they needed was a comparison sample to try for a match.

  Miss Young wasn’t going to like that part either.

  Mac paused in the open doorway and surveyed the scene before him. Keith Beaumont, better known as Boomer to his friends, stood on a ladder using long brush strokes of white paint as he edged the wall around the expansive windows. According to his file, he was just over six feet tall and a wiry hundred and forty pounds. His twenty-second birthday had come and gone a month ago, but his crime-ridden teenage years had left their mark on his thin face. A white scar, which stood out despite his fair complexion, stretched downward from his hairline through his right eyebrow, leaving a permanent part. He’d buzzed his blond hair to the point of baldness. A number of nasty-looking tattoos adorned any visible flesh below his neck. The tattered jeans and black tee-shirt completed the untrustworthy picture.

  Mac couldn’t imagine what Elizabeth saw in the kid, unless it was a kindred spirit. And there was no time like the present to ask. His gaze slid across the empty room to her location facing the wall farthest from him. She rolled on the paint in a sort of zigzag pattern, carefully covering the newly re-plastered surface with a fresh coat of pristine white paint. Her hair was secured high on the back of her head in a long ponytail. She wore baggy overalls and a plain white tee-shirt. A red shop cloth, stained with a bit of white paint, hung from her right rear pocket.

  The image was incredibly innocent looking. Another image, one from the video, abruptly appeared before his eyes. He blinked, shattering the picture that had burned into his brain, but not before it had its usual effect. Even with her head thrown back in ecstasy, she looked somehow vulnerable, innocent and every damned muscle in his body reacted.

  A muscle pulsed in his jaw. Looks could be deceiving. He was halfway across the room before she sensed someone’s presence and turned around.

  “Miss Young, I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

  Her surprise immediately turned to annoyance. There was a tiny splatter of paint on the lower edge of one lens of her glasses. Boomer turned to check out their visitor. To his credit he kept his mouth shut. Mac hoped he stayed smart that way.

  Elizabeth braced for trouble. She remembered this guy from the funeral. What was his name? Something MacBride. Tall, good-looking, charming. He’d offered her his handkerchief. She remembered he’d smelled just as good as he looked. The earthy scent had been subtle but impossible to ignore. What was he doing here? And why was her heart suddenly pounding so hard?

  New York City was full of handsome guys. But this was the first time one had tracked her down. She squared her shoulders and ignored her silly reaction. Nerves, that was all it could be. She’d had a hell of a week. Maybe the guy needed a painter. If so, he’d come to the right place.

  “We met at the funeral,” he offered, apparently taking her silence as a sign that she didn’t recognize him. “Collin MacBride.”

  He extended one broad hand and smiled that charming smile that was a perfect complement to his polished appearance. The navy suit was obviously tailored just for him, the white shirt crisply starched, and the tie was a rich blue that brought out the color of his eyes. The blac
k leather shoes suggested Italian craftsmanship. Those high dollar soft soles explained how he’d sneaked up on her.

  Get it together, Elizabeth. She passed the paint roller and handle to her left hand, swiped her right on the leg of her overalls before accepting his. He was probably just an insurance salesman. Didn’t those guys always hang out at funerals?

  The zing of electricity that passed between them as their palms touched startled her all over again. She snatched her hand back and instantly went on the defensive. “Do you make a habit of looking up all the women you hit on at funerals, Mr. MacBride?”

  One side of that full mouth hitched up a little higher. “Only on occasion, Miss Young.”

  She resisted the urge to rub her still-sizzling palm against her leg. He was looking at her—no, not just looking—studying her. Who was this guy? When she could bear the scrutiny of those piercing blue eyes no longer, she spoke up, “So what’s the occasion?”

  He reached into his interior coat pocket and pulled out a black leather case. Her frown deepened with growing confusion and then she knew. He was a cop. Damn. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Just what she needed, more questions she couldn’t answer about an event she seriously wanted to forget.

  He displayed his credentials for her inspection, then tucked them back into his pocket. “Agent MacBride,” he clarified for her benefit in case she hadn’t read the fine print on his Federal Bureau of Investigation ID. “I’m looking into the murder of Dr. Ned Harrison. Your landlady said you’d be here.”

  A draining sensation made her sway before she could recapture her balance. “I’ve already answered the police’s questions. I don’t know anything else.” Dammit, why did her voice have to sound so shaky?

  The paint roller felt suddenly too heavy to hold. She swiveled stiffly and placed it in the pan. Her thoughts raced around in her head like a competitor at the Daytona 500 as she straightened. She’d have to talk to Mrs. Polk about giving out her whereabouts to strangers. She doubted that would have stopped this man. One flash of his official ID and Mrs. Polk had no recourse but to answer whatever he asked. What did he want with Elizabeth? She’d told the police everything she knew. There was nothing else that needed telling. Not if she could help it anyway.