The table could seat six, but the two end chairs had been removed to make more room to walk around the periphery. The wall to the right had an oversized magnetic whiteboard with photos of the victims and crime scenes, plus handwritten notes. Lucy saw that her time line had been printed out and someone had made notes along the margin.
Suzanne gestured toward a chair. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said. She slid over Lucy’s laptop.
Feeling like she was onstage, Lucy booted up her computer and retrieved her report. Suzanne handed Lucy the end of a long cord. “This printer is ancient, no wireless.”
Lucy plugged it in and sent her document to print four copies. Suzanne retrieved and distributed them.
Detective Panetta and Suzanne read in silence. Lucy, antsy, walked over to the magnetic board.
Four victims, one missing teenager. If Wade Barnett was the killer and had had consensual sex with the victims, why kill them?
They were all killed near a large party. That told Lucy the killer was bold, arrogant, confident that he wouldn’t be caught. Yet the murders themselves were intimate. Unhurried. Almost patient.
“Ms. Kincaid,” the detective said, “those photos can be hard to take.”
“I worked at the morgue for a year,” she said. “I’ve seen worse.”
She reviewed an autopsy report. It concluded that the murder weapon had been a plastic bag.
“Was the plastic bag used to suffocate the victims recovered at any of the crime scenes?” Lucy asked almost without realizing that she’d spoken.
When no one said anything, Lucy looked at an irritated Suzanne. The Fed didn’t hide her emotions. “We’re trying to keep information from the press, and it hasn’t helped that someone leaked the information about the missing shoe.”
“I’m not going to talk to the press. I’m just curious. Why would the killer take the plastic bag? It would be more efficient to leave it with the body, or not even remove it from her face. The killer wasn’t concerned about getting caught. When you cut off someone’s air supply, it takes three to seven minutes to render them unconscious, and another minute or two before they’re brain-dead. Why not just tie the plastic bag around the victim’s head and leave her? Get away from the scene as soon as possible—there were hundreds of people in the area; someone could easily have spotted the attack. Yet the killer stayed with the victim long enough to ensure that she was dead, then removed the plastic bag and left with it.” She looked at the one bare foot on the last victim. “I wonder if he put the shoe in the plastic bag? Why?”
Suzanne cleared her throat. “We’ve sent a copy of the reports to Quantico for a profile of the killer.”
“You don’t have enough here to create a viable profile,” Lucy said.
“With all due respect, Ms. Kincaid, our Behavioral Science Unit knows what they’re doing.”
“Of course they do, but not knowing if the victims were sexually assaulted is a crucial piece of the puzzle.”
“Maybe the guy can’t perform,” Panetta said. “Blamed the girl.”
“That’s a crime of anger and passion,” Lucy said. “If he attempted sex and couldn’t finish, he’d most likely have hit her first, strangled her, beaten her, or stabbed her. Statistically, sex-related crimes have violent deaths. This isn’t violent. It’s premeditated—the killer brought the plastic bag and took it with him. Why? It’s almost like …” Something was eluding her and she wished she could spend more time with the files.
Lucy asked, “Who goes to these parties?”
Panetta said, “Mostly the under-thirty crowd, a lot of college students blowing off steam on the weekends. Teenagers. Some are headbangers; most are into the alternative music scene; some parties are exclusive to the Yuppie types—work on Wall Street during the day, and party at night. Instead of pot and mesc and beer they snort coke and drink gin.”
“Wade Barnett has a history of playing in the party scene,” Lucy said. “If Wade Barnett is the killer—”
Suzanne cut her off and leaned forward. “Whoa, stop right there. Now you’re jumping to conclusions.”
“He knew the first and fourth victims. He’s the most viable suspect.”
“If Barnett is a suspect, he’s my suspect. Last I checked, I still have a badge and you don’t. Understand?”
Lucy nodded and turned back to the crime board. Suzanne was right. She’d overstepped.
Lucy tapped an index card on the board with Wade Barnett’s name on it. “You already had him on your suspect list, didn’t you?”
“We interviewed him. His name came up in the investigation. We’re following up on things he said, and we’ll follow up on what you uncovered.”
Suzanne stood up and stretched. “It’s late. I appreciate your insight. I’ll be in touch if I hear anything about your missing teenager.”
Sean leaned back in his chair, making no sign of leaving. “You should listen to Lucy. She has a master’s in criminal psychology.”
Lucy blushed. She didn’t want Sean pushing this. “Agent Madeaux is right,” Lucy said.
Suzanne sighed. “Let me sleep on it, okay? It’s been a long couple days. If you think of anything else that might be helpful for me to know, give me a ring.”
“Thank you,” Lucy said. “You might want to ask Dr. Vigo to look at this case. I’m sure he’ll take it, though he doesn’t run the department anymore. I, um, think there’s a complexity here that is uncommon.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Just, I don’t know, I can’t really explain it without knowing more about each crime scene and victim. If you have any questions about my report, call me. I’m happy to help.”
Sean said, “I need my pistol back.”
Suzanne said, “You understand that you’re not allowed to bring a firearm into the City of New York. Will you be leaving tomorrow?”
“We’ll be leaving when we find Kirsten.”
The silence made Lucy uncomfortable. Sean didn’t always play nice with law enforcement.
Suzanne picked up the phone and pressed three buttons. “This is Agent Madeaux. Would you please retrieve Mr. Rogan’s weapon and escort him and Ms. Kincaid to their vehicle? Thank you.”
Once Rogan and Kincaid were gone, Suzanne stared at the whiteboard trying to see what Lucy Kincaid had seen.
“What are we missing?” she asked Panetta.
“Are we missing something?” he countered. “Lucy Kincaid writes a terrific report, and someday the kid will make a great cop, but she’s still a twenty-five-year-old FBI recruit. She has no practical experience in criminal investigations.”
“I don’t know if that’s true. Noah Armstrong—the agent down in Washington—said something that had me thinking he’s worked with her in the past. I’ll pull her file tomorrow and see what’s up.”
You don’t have enough here to create a viable profile.
That was what Quantico had told Suzanne at the beginning. Except they had more now than two weeks ago. And there was more here than they’d had in other cases where the profile had been right on the money.
Cops had been solving crimes for years, long before psychological criminal profiling became an official FBI squad, back in the seventies. Good cops didn’t need a shrink to tell them that someone was a sociopath or had a drunk for a father or that rape was a crime of anger. Most crimes were solved with lots of legwork, logic, and common sense.
Suzanne had watched Lucy closely while she looked at the board. She wondered why she had been so interested in the autopsy report. Suzanne had read Jessica Bell’s report, the one posted on the board, and nothing had stood out. It read just like the other three—except the coroner stated that intercourse in the immediate time prior to death was inconclusive. He speculated—not on the report—that the victim didn’t have sex, consensual or otherwise, the night she died.
Maybe Panetta was onto something, that the guy couldn’t get it up. If there was no sexual assault, did that really change the profile much? Maybe Suzan
ne should take Lucy’s suggestion and call Dr. Vigo. That was going around protocol—her boss wouldn’t like it. But over the years she’d done a lot of things her boss hadn’t liked.
She said to Panetta, “Are you planning on taking off tomorrow?”
“It is Saturday.” He sighed. “I guess not.”
“We need to reinterview Wade Barnett. Formally this time. And each victim was killed on a Saturday; it’s the only other commonality. Let’s see if we can keep him in prison overnight.”
“He’ll lawyer up.”
“Fine. He said he didn’t know any of the victims, yet we have a witness who connects him with Jessica Bell, and a photo that puts him with Alanna Andrews. Lying to a federal officer is a crime. I can get a warrant on that fact alone.”
Panetta shook his head. “I always thought there was something wrong in that you can lie to street cops but not federal agents.”
SEVENTEEN
Earlier, Sean had made reservations at the Park Central Hotel in midtown, near both Central Park and Times Square. Lucy was tired and didn’t talk as he drove them, wrapped up in the case notes she’d read and trying to figure out what was so strange about the crime scenes. Sean had his hands full maneuvering the car through the hordes of people in the theater district.
She appreciated Sean’s faith in her, but truly didn’t want him to continue pushing her credentials. It made her uneasy, and reminded her that her credentials weren’t good enough for the FBI. She needed to put that behind her and decide what was next.
It was after eleven at night when they finally checked into their room. Lucy walked in and saw a table set with covered dishes and wine. She dropped her bag, walked over, and lifted the covers from the plates. There were sandwiches, cheese and crackers, and chocolate mousse stored on ice. There was even a bottle of chardonnay in a wine bucket.
“You ordered all this?” she asked.
“I knew you wouldn’t want to sit at a restaurant after the day we’ve had, and we missed dinner. It’s just sandwiches and stuff, but I for one can’t sleep if I’m hungry.”
All her frustrations disappeared. Sean truly thought of everything—she would have thought about food after she went to bed and would have slept on an empty stomach.
“Hey, Luce, what’s wrong? You were so quiet in the car.”
She shook her head and smiled. “I was upset with you. Now, it doesn’t seem important.”
“It is important, because it mattered to you. What did I do?”
“It’s nothing—I just—I’m not going to be in the FBI. You made it hard for me to explain that, so now I feel like I am lying to Agent Madeaux. After all your praise about my test scores and my master’s, I couldn’t very well say, ‘Oh, but I wasn’t accepted after all.’ ”
“Noah didn’t tell her—”
“Noah doesn’t know. No one does, except you.”
Sean cleared his throat. “I, uh, meant to tell you earlier, but then there wasn’t a good time, and I convinced myself that I’d wait until he had answers.”
“You told Noah?”
“No. I talked to Hans Vigo.”
Lucy sat heavily on the edge of the bed, feeling hollow again, not wanting to believe Sean had discussed the matter with Hans. “Why?”
He sat next to her and made her look at him. “Because something’s not right about your application denial, and Hans is the best person to find out what happened.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that. I don’t want anybody’s help. If I can’t get in on my own, I don’t want to be an agent.”
“Hans is not going to get you in, but you will want to appeal this decision.”
“Don’t tell me what I want!”
“Lucy, you need to know what this is all about.”
“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to know.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it changes nothing. And it will simply confirm what I already do know: that my past will never go away. I don’t want to be told that I’m damaged or emotionally unstable.”
“You are neither, Lucy,” Sean said emphatically. “Don’t even say it.”
“It doesn’t matter if I am or not. That’s how people see me.”
“No they don’t. Hans said—” He stopped.
Lucy looked him in the eye, trying to keep her face calm, but her heart was pounding. She didn’t like people manipulating her, even if they did it for all the right reasons.
Sean simply said, “You may be considered too controversial.”
Lucy started laughing. “Controversial?”
“Am I missing something?”
She smiled and put a hand to her mouth to hold back another laugh. “I guess I had never considered that. I’ve been sure since I got the letter that they thought I was damaged goods.”
“No one sees you as a victim, Lucy.”
She continued. “Or that I killed my rapist and showed no remorse.”
Sean frowned. “I don’t understand.”
But she didn’t elaborate. “Or maybe they thought I was flighty because I had three vastly different internships over three years, but no real job. For about five minutes I cast blame on Kate, because if anyone was controversial in the FBI during the last decade, it was my sister-in-law.
“But Sean, why doesn’t matter. I can find a hundred reasons to justify the panel’s decision. It’s still binding.”
“You should appeal.”
“I didn’t think you really wanted me to be an FBI agent.”
Sean wanted to explain himself, but didn’t know how he could without sounding sappy or stupid. “You’re right that I’m not a big fan of the FBI, but there are a few good agents out there. I’d much rather you come work for me, because you’re good.”
Lucy shook her head. “Sean, I’m not working for you and Patrick.”
“Your name’s already on the door,” he said, hopeful.
She smiled and continued to shake her head.
“I thought it was a long shot. But seriously, you should appeal because you want it. You shouldn’t have to settle for anything less than your dream.”
Lucy threw her arms around Sean in a rare initiation of physical affection. It startled him, and they fell backward onto the bed. She kissed him. “You win.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist. “I like my prize.”
“I’ll think more about appealing. But if Hans calls you back, I want to talk to him. I understand why you called him. You have an overwhelming need to fix things.”
“I can’t stand unfairness.”
“Life isn’t fair.”
“That’s why when I can do something, I do it. I never intended to go behind your back, but I’d never seen you so defeated. It broke my heart.”
Lucy put her hand on Sean’s chest, her touch making his pulse quicken. He loved this woman so much, but she would bolt if he told her. He knew she loved him, too; she just hadn’t admitted it to him, or to herself.
One day at a time, Sean.
Lucy would give her all to save the innocent. But in her quest for justice, would she keep anything for herself?
Maybe that’s where he came in. When she had nothing left, she could fill up on him. Sean wanted so desperately for Lucy to see that she needed him, not because he was a big, strong male and she was a weak female who needed a man—far from it. She needed him because he could be her anchor; he needed her because she gave him purpose and meaning he’d never had before.
He held her face in his hands. “You give to everyone, and you need to take sometimes. Take from me. Anything you need, anything you want, is yours.”
She kissed him. It wasn’t the tentative kiss he’d learned to expect from her. He didn’t need to coax out her hidden passions; this kiss was bold and seductive. A full-body kiss, her chest pressed against his, one of her legs between his, her hands on his head, his face, her touch setting him on fire.
She planted her knees on the bed and sat up, pulling off her sweater,
revealing her round breasts barely contained in a sexy, black lace demi-cup bra.
He pulled off his T-shirt and stretched up to kiss her between her breasts. She smelled both spicy and flowery, and he breathed in her skin, intoxicated. His hands moved over her smooth back. He unclasped her bra with one hand, then slowly eased it down.
She was gorgeous. And all his.
Lucy gasped when the cool air hit her breasts, and then Sean’s mouth claimed one and his hand sought out the other. She closed her eyes, her body responding to the conflicting sensations—wet and dry; soft and rough; hot and hotter.
Sean was passionate in everything he did—from driving to work to play. He did nothing halfway, and that included making love. His intensity and physical awareness—of both his own body and hers—was exhilarating and irresistible. But also terrifying. She’d never been so completely explored, as if Sean needed to memorize every cell in her body.
Sean rose from the bed, and she wrapped her arms around his neck to keep from sliding to the floor. He kissed her, his mouth hot and greedy, as if she were his lifeline. He turned them around and dropped her to the bed, her legs hanging off the edge. “You’re beautiful.”
He smiled and knelt on the floor. He kissed her stomach while he slowly unzipped her jeans. Then he rolled them off her hips and pulled them down to the floor while his mouth followed, placing kisses one by one down the outside of her thigh. He kissed her feet, and Lucy was startled at the jolt of lust she felt when he licked her ankles. It was the anticipation, his slow-moving mouth, his hands moving up and down her legs, never stopping.
She hadn’t realized until that moment that she’d missed him. They’d had ten days alone, almost like a honeymoon, and then the last month had spent little time together. And even when they had been together, they had not been alone. This intimacy was new to her, this need for physical contact. She hadn’t known this was what she’d been missing, but she’d never before craved a man the way she did Sean.
As if sensing the shift inside her, from romance to passion, Sean kissed the inside of her thighs, her legs spreading on their own. His hands reached under her and held her butt, his fingers kneading. She was capable of no conscious thought, eager to explore Sean as he explored her. Her hands fisted in the comforter when Sean blew kisses over the flesh he’d just licked. When his tongue flickered over her sweet spot, she drew in her breath. She couldn’t exhale, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
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