by Debra Webb
Elizabeth almost choked on a cherry tomato. “Yeah, right,” she muttered when she’d stopped coughing. “I don’t think MacBride is seducible.” She remembered vividly his steely gaze and precisely controlled responses. He wasn’t the kind of man a simple girl like her could get to... even if she wanted to.
“Oh, honey, that’s the country girl in you talking,” Gloria scolded, the words and the tone so very Gloria. “They’re all seducible. Trust me.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Elizabeth refused to analyze the warm glow that accompanied the ridiculous suggestion. Gloria had no business putting ideas like that in her head. An affair with another man she couldn’t trust was the last thing she needed. Especially since this one suspected her of murder.
And had seen her naked having sex with another man.
Elizabeth blushed to the roots of her hair. How would she ever face MacBride this afternoon? She had to find a way to keep him from getting to her.
Chapter Four
“I’ll have to see your ID, sir,” the guard posted in the entry hall of the penthouse announced as Mac stepped off the elevator.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t flashed his ID in the lobby before he boarded the only elevator in the building that went all the way to the top floor. Rather than informing the rookie of that, Mac fished in his pocket for his badge and showed it again.
The rookie cop, whose badge read Ledbetter, flushed. “Sorry, sir, but a reporter managed to get inside last night before the homicide detectives got here and we’ve all been instructed to double-check IDs.”
“No problem.” Mac ducked beneath the police tape that marked the penthouse apartment off-limits to anyone other than authorized NYPD personnel. He hadn’t needed Officer Ledbetter to tell him the perimeter had been breached sometime shortly after the discovery of the body. The morning’s headlines had shouted that loud and clear. It only made bad matters worse that the breach had occurred before the arrival of the crime-scene techs. No telling what the eager reporter had contaminated in his haste to get the story.
Mac paused long enough in the doorway to slip on gloves and paper shoe covers. As he prepped for entering the crime scene, he noted the handles of the elegant double doors separating the posh Upper Eastside penthouse from the entry hall were sooty with fingerprint powder. It would take days if not weeks for the techs to sort through all the prints lifted from a place this size. The socialite who owned the place had a reputation for hosting grand parties. Most of Manhattan’s upper crust likely waltzed through these doors at one time or another.
The whish-whish of paper shoe covers echoed from farther down the hall. Mac surveyed his surroundings as he made his way in the direction of the sound. A grand dining room and great room flanked the hall on either side a few feet beyond the main doors. A small powder room and guest bedroom lay on the right beyond the formal rooms, then the hall took a slight turn to the left and opened up into an extravagantly appointed sitting area that bordered a massive master suite.
This was where the murder had taken place.
Mac paused, his gaze landing on the spray of blood fanned across the wall above the headboard. No matter how many crime scenes he’d examined in his ten-year career, the initial sight of spilled blood always shook him.
The victim would already be in the capable hands of the medical examiner, but telltale signs of the final battle for life she’d waged were clear to all who entered.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, which displayed a magnificent Manhattan view, brilliant sunlight poured into the room, gleaming on the plush, sand-colored carpet. Despite the two techs working vigorously, collecting everything from fibers on the carpeted floor to dust on the glittering chandelier, the room felt vast and empty. The stark white walls framing the space were marred only by the blood that had trickled down like garish streamers toward the rumpled bed.
Judging by the blood spatter pattern the victim had been dragged from the bed for the final affront levied by the intruder. The tousled condition of the silk and satin covers indicated she hadn’t been in bed alone. He thought about the undamaged doors, handles and lock assembly he’d viewed while slipping on his gloves and shoe covers and decided that intruder wasn’t the right word. Whoever had done this had been allowed in by the victim. Since the front doors were the only means of entry and windows were not a likely avenue since they were on the thirtieth floor, he had to assume the victim knew her killer.
The bloody tracks on the carpet suggested the unknown subject had left his victim dying and walked, naked and bloody, to the en suite for a shower before leaving.
“Agent MacBride?”
Mac turned toward the familiar voice coming from the doorway behind him and bit back a curse. Detective Brannigan. The last person he wanted to see. He hoped like hell the guy wasn’t the lead on this homicide too. He enjoyed giving Mac a hard time entirely too much. Mac got it. No one liked having another agency horn in on a case, even if the order to play nice came from the top brass. The detective needn’t worry, Mac had no desire to get in NYPD’s way on these homicides. His goal was to find the link to the Gentlemen’s Association.
“Officer Ledbetter told me you were here.” Brannigan glanced at the bloody wall as he moved into the room. “I’m lead on this investigation. What interest do you have in this case?”
Damn.
Brannigan resented like hell that the Harrison case had been taken from him. He wasn’t going to be happy about Mac’s presence here, period.
“Vanessa Bumbalough was one of Harrison’s patients. She also attended his funeral.” Mac surveyed the enormous room once more. The techs had paused in their work to listen to the exchange.
“That’s correct,” Brannigan said. The fury that burned in his eyes belied his even tone. “But I can’t see how those details tie into her murder.”
Mac thought about the condition of the room. The overturned bedside table, the twisted bedcovers, the blood. Then he considered the rest of what he’d seen in the grand penthouse—immaculate, every little thing in place. The victim had known the unsub, no question. In the lull the techs turned their attention back to the task of collecting any evidence they’d missed on their first sweep, which would have taken place late last night shortly after the discovery of the body.
“Were there any witnesses?” Mac asked rather than responding to Brannigan’s comment regarding the victim’s connection, or lack thereof, with Harrison.
The middle-aged detective shook his head. “No one saw or heard anything. The doorman insists no one other than residents entered the building yesterday. He checked the log.”
“I assume there was more than one doorman during the twenty-four hours prior to the body’s discovery.”
Brannigan shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “There were four and we interviewed all of ‘em. Doormen and anyone else who worked on the premises in the last forty-eight hours.”
“The other residents?” Mac knew he was pushing his luck now. Brannigan was more than a little ticked off.
“We’re working on that right now. It takes time to cover this many apartments.”
“Of course.”
“We’re also talking to the people she worked with,” Brannigan went on as if he felt the need to prove himself. “With all the hoopla surrounding her splash onto the fashion scene, it could’ve been a competitor.”
Mac looked around the room again. “Maybe.”
In a tone just shy of seething, Brannigan said, “And maybe it was a jealous lover. We’re still looking for the guy who accompanied her to Harrison’s funeral. From what we’ve learned, she recently dumped her longtime lover for him. We haven’t located the jilted lover, either, but we will.”
Mac nodded, affirming the detective’s conclusions. “That would be the most logical avenue to follow.”
Brannigan shifted his considerable bulk from one foot to the other. “I suppose you want details about the murder.”
Mac lifted a skeptical eyebrow. �
�Are there any that weren’t in the newspaper this morning?”
Brannigan’s hostile retort snagged the attention of everyone in the room. He glared at the techs, who immediately returned to the task at hand. “We got that little mystery solved,” he grumbled, a bit more courteously. “One of our new guys has a cousin who’s a reporter. That won’t happen again.”
Vanessa Bumbalough had been found in a skimpy negligee, tied to her bed and with her throat slashed. All that information had been in the paper.
“There was one thing,” Brannigan said after a moment and with obvious reluctance.
Mac waited, trying not to let his exasperation show. Brannigan would give him the details in his own time and Mac would drum up as much patience as necessary. One way or another he was bringing the Gentlemen’s Association down. Ned Harrison and anyone related to his life and death could prove relevant to that end.
“The reporter didn’t get a chance to see this,” Brannigan explained smugly, “before he was ousted.”
“What would this be?” Mac asked when the detective hesitated for the dramatic effect.
“The victim was gagged—with a pair of panties.”
Mac went on alert. Harrison had a pair of panties shoved into his mouth to silence him. Frustration and no small amount of anger twisted Mac’s gut. “With the vic’s link to Harrison you didn’t feel the need to pass this information along before now?” Hell, he wouldn’t even be here if he hadn’t read this morning’s paper.
“The size and brand suggest they belonged to the vic. There’s a whole drawer full just like’em,” Brannigan said, ignoring his question. He rocked back on his heels, seemingly pleased that Mac was pissed. “The killer shoved them so far back in her throat she’d have choked to death even if he hadn’t slit her throat.”
“What makes you think the killer is male?” There was more. Mac could feel it. Brannigan’s whole demeanor was far too cocky. It was fairly obvious the victim, like Harrison, had engaged in sexual activity prior to her death. Had the ME confirmed?
The detective shrugged nonchalantly. “The ME mentioned he thought the victim had been sexually assaulted but wouldn’t confirm. She had sex, we just don’t know if it was consensual.”
When Mac had gleaned all he could from the scene and tolerated all of Brannigan’s gloating he could stomach, he made his way back to the elevator and down to the lobby. He checked his cell as he settled behind the wheel of his sedan. He still had time to drop by the morgue and take a look at the body before the meeting with Elizabeth Young.
If, as Brannigan suggested, Bumbalough had been sexually assaulted, he wanted to know details. Had she first consented, then changed her mind? Or was the act a flat-out rape from the get-go? If she hadn’t resisted, that would lend credence to the idea that she knew her attacker.
One thing was certain, if the victim’s killer was male and there was a connection to Harrison’s murder that could very well let Elizabeth Young off the hook.
Mac guided his sedan into the flow of traffic and thought about that scenario for a moment. Maybe it wouldn’t let her off the hook. Maybe she and the killer were a team. Of course, connecting Harrison’s murder with this one, even though the victim was one of his patients and had attended his funeral, was a stretch. Except for the panties.
Could be coincidence. But Mac’s instincts were humming. He had a feeling the two were connected. He mentally ran through the similarities. The victims had been restrained, both had been gagged with panties, and now there was the possibility that both had participated in sexual activity prior to death.
Coincidences? Maybe.
Too soon to tell. But he would find out. Because whether Brannigan liked it or not, Mac wouldn’t let it go until he knew for certain whether the two cases were connected.
~*~
Elizabeth stood outside the building at Twenty-Six Federal Plaza and took a deep breath. She had to do this. Had to be calm and collected, as well as strong. She’d left work early this afternoon and gone home long enough to change into the one and only suit she owned. A black pencil skirt and matching single-breasted jacket. It was the lone remaining ensemble from her days with Brian and the firm. Everything else she’d burned in a bonfire one night after too much wine with Gloria. She’d learned very quickly that even in a not-so-up-scale neighborhood people called the police when they saw suspicious activity.
She’d almost gotten arrested for the act of liberation. Ultimately the cop had felt sorry for her since she’d just been dumped and lost her job on the same day. So he’d ushered her and Gloria back into her apartment and made them swear they would sleep it off before undertaking any other activities. The next morning she’d awakened with the kind of headache one got from drinking too much wine and with a closet that was considerably emptier. She suddenly wished she could go back to that night, or at least the morning after. That was the morning she’d made the decision to go see the shrink Gloria had recommended for the panic attacks she’d suffered with for nearly a year. That decision had led her to this place.
Elizabeth braced herself for the worst and entered the intimidating building.
After consulting a directory she crossed the cavernous lobby and hesitated at the security checkpoint.
“I’ll need a picture ID, ma’am,” the guard informed her brusquely. “Place your purse here.” He indicated the small conveyor belt that reminded her of the larger ones at airports.
She dug out her driver’s license and held it up for his inspection then handed over her bag for inspection. “I have a five o’clock appointment with Agent Collin MacBride.”
The guard checked his list and then nodded for her to pass through the metal detector. On the other side he returned her purse. Elizabeth thanked him and tucked away her license. Once at the elevator she smoothed a hand over her jacket and pressed the call button. The doors slid open immediately and the moment she selected the proper floor the doors closed and she was whisked upward.
The blue-carpeted reception area on the twenty-seventh floor was sparsely furnished and unembellished except for the enormous FBI seal decorating the far wall. The seal boasted of pride and demanded respect and managed to undo every scrap of bravado Elizabeth had mustered.
She moistened her lips and held on to the shoulder strap of her purse. Might as well get this over with. She marched up to the receptionist’s desk. “Hello, I’m—”
“Miss Young?”
The voice jerked her around as efficiently as if its owner had grabbed her by the arm and pulled.
“I’m Agent Luke Duncan,” the man said “We’ve been waiting for you. If you’ll come this way please.”
Blood roaring in her ears, Elizabeth allowed Agent Duncan to direct her down a long corridor to the sixth office on the right. He opened the door and stood back for her to enter ahead of him.
Elizabeth studied his face for a moment before she did so, but she found no comfort, no assurance that all would come out right. She was on her own here. She should have listened to Gloria and called that attorney. But she couldn’t afford a fancy New York City attorney. If she could get this matter straightened out without having to go into hock for a retainer, she would.
Forcing one foot in front of the other, she walked into the office and Duncan closed the door behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and wasn’t surprised to find that he hadn’t followed her inside.
Agent MacBride was not behind his desk, nor was he anywhere in the office. Thankful for the reprieve, Elizabeth used the time to learn what she could about the man. Graduated from Columbia University. She read each and every one of the accolades hanging on his walls. Plaque after plaque lauding his dedication and heroics. Certificate after certificate praising his work. There were numerous pictures of him receiving commendations. But there wasn’t the first sign of family or loved ones. No pictures on the desk or wall of anyone other than those related to work. Nothing.
Like the man, the office was elegant. She wondered if all FBI agents
had mahogany desks and credenzas, expensive leather upholstered chairs and a view looking out over the city he served and protected. Somehow she doubted it. These luxuries were probably his personal belongings. They matched his thousand-dollar suits and Italian-made shoes.
She wondered what kind of house he lived in and just how much an FBI agent was paid. Not this much, she’d bet. Collin MacBride was exactly what she’d suspected—a rich guy with a need to prove his worth. She surveyed the many plaques and pictures that attested to his accomplishments. Just what she needed. A refined greyhound with the simpleminded tenacity of a pit bull.
The door opened and she turned as Agent MacBride entered his office. The air felt suddenly charged, and the room instantly seemed to shrink to half its size. Fear coiled around her chest, tightening until she could scarcely breathe.
“Miss Young, I apologize for keeping you waiting.” He skirted his desk and gestured to one of the chairs waiting on her side.
She sat, tried to moisten her lips, but her mouth was too dry to make a difference. The pounding in her chest was almost deafening. She forced herself to focus on the man as he opened a file on his desk and appeared to review the contents.
He was tall and just as handsome and well dressed as she remembered. A thin swirl of heat chased away some of the chill she’d experienced from the moment she entered the building. A frown nagged at her forehead as she tried to analyze the ridiculous reaction. She was going to have to lay off the power drinks. Like caffeine was the reason for her hot flashes in this guy’s presence. Before she admitted the surge of heat for what it was, he spoke again.
“Have you thought about our earlier visit?” he asked in that smooth voice that spoke of breeding and an Ivy League education.
Had she thought about it? Fury seared away all other emotion. What did he think? “Actually,” she said, not bothering to keep the outrage out of her tone and lying through her teeth, “I haven’t had time to think about anything but work. Was there something in particular I should have thought about?”
