The Hangman (Forgotten Files Book 3)

by Mary Burton

  Carson smiled. “Footage was sent to me. Like manna from heaven. I couldn’t pass on it. Which one of you pulled it off my site?”

  “Who sent it to you?” Novak asked.

  “A fan. I received a CD in the mail. Old-school, but effective. And I can put it back up.”

  “So you still have the CD?” Novak asked. “I’d like to see it.”

  “Again, I need you to get a warrant.”

  “I’ll get one,” Novak said.

  “Until you do, you both need to leave. I have work to do.”

  “I’m asking you to not upload the video again,” Novak said.

  “Freedom of speech,” Carson said.

  “When I came in here,” Julia said carefully, “it was strictly a fact-finding mission. But it’s growing more personal for you by the second. If I find out you’re hiding the identity of the killer, I’ll charge you as an accessory to murder.”

  “Is that a threat?” Carson asked.

  “Nope,” she said, smiling. “It’s a statement of fact.”

  He folded his arms. “And you two can count on one thing.”

  “What’s that?” Julia asked.

  “He’s going to kill again.”

  “Why do you say that?” Novak asked.

  “One death of a woman nobody cared about falls out of the news quickly. Two deaths, a little harder to ignore, and three—well, that’s a pattern no one can overlook.”

  Julia was quiet during the drive back to her place. Seeing Carson’s callous infatuation with death shouldn’t have troubled her so deeply, but it did. Lately she was all raw nerves. When Novak suggested he drive her home and she retrieve her car from the station in the morning, she’d agreed.

  When Novak parked, she reached for the door handle. “Keep me updated.”

  He turned toward her but made no move to stop her. “I’m an open book.”

  A smile formed on her lips. “Written in what ancient language?”

  White teeth flashed in the dark. “Pot calling the kettle black, Julia.”

  “No arguments here. Maybe keeping our personal secrets is best.”

  “Why do you say that?” His tone turned low, deep, serious.

  “The truth has a way of spoiling things, so I tend to avoid it.”

  “There’s no hope without truth. It’s ugly, but it’s better to know.”

  She shook her head as she shifted her gaze to a point in the distance. A part of her wanted to talk to him. Confess her fears. Bare her scars. But that part was overruled by too many well-seasoned barriers. “Be careful what you ask for.”

  This time he laid a hand on her shoulder. “What truth are you hiding, Julia?”

  For a second, she was quiet as she absorbed the heat of his touch. Here, alone with him, she thought maybe she could be more herself. Not be so on guard. But as she lowered the veil, she caught herself. “Nothing too interesting.”

  He was taking her in. “You’re interesting to me.”

  She arched a brow. “That’s because you want to get laid again.”

  He didn’t break contact. “Guilty as charged.”

  She liked his touch. It was steady. Nonthreatening. Gentle. “If you promise not to talk about feelings, you can come up.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. When she leaned into the kiss, his hand went to her waist. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  He’d made no promises about the long term. Neither had she. But that was good. Better that way. “Right.”

  He shut off the ignition and followed her up the back staircase to her apartment. Desire tingled in her as she tossed her keys aside and turned to face him. He didn’t rush toward her, though she sensed a simmering heat that hinted at how much he wanted her.

  She dropped her purse to the floor and shrugged off her jacket. “I’m not made of china, Novak.”

  He closed the distance between them and cupped her face in his hands as he kissed her again. There was nothing angry or punishing about his touch. He wanted her to want this. She threaded her fingers through his hair and pressed her breasts to his chest.

  “This is all I’ve been able to think about since the last time,” he said.

  “One-track mind.”

  He traced his hand along her neck, then outlined her collarbone. Each time he touched her, he was gentle, his desire securely in check. That restraint made her want him more.

  She unknotted his tie, pulled it free of his collar, and tossed it on the floor. She unbuttoned his shirt, smiling when she saw the white undershirt. “My, my, Mr. Clean.”

  He pulled his shirt and undershirt from his waistband but let her shrug the shirt from his shoulders. He traced a finger down her chest to the V of her sweater. He cupped her breast, and her mouth went dry.

  “Where can I put my weapon?” Novak asked.

  “No pun intended.” She nodded toward a dresser by the door. “I put mine in the top drawer.” She unclipped her weapon and opened the drawer.

  He laid his beside hers along with his badge, phone, and cuffs. She closed the drawer and locked it. Quickly he pulled her into his arms, and she stiffened. Not a flinch, but a tensing.

  He kissed her, his hands on her hips. Again, she sensed he controlled his desire. She tugged off his undershirt, smiling as she thought that Mr. Clean had a hot body.

  He grabbed her hand and led her toward her bedroom. “Not so fast this time.”

  She followed, wanting to feel the desire and get lost in an orgasm. She was in a rush. He wasn’t. “I thought you liked it that way.”

  “I like it this way, too.” In her room he kissed her before reaching for the hem of her sweater and pulling it over her head. Gently, he traced the edge of her bra and then unfastened the snap between her breasts. He slid off the bra and lightly kissed her breasts. She pulled in a breath as she reached for the buckle of his pants and undid it. The zipper slid down, and she pushed her hand into his pants and cupped his hard erection.

  He groaned as he pulled her hand away. “Taking our time, remember?”

  “We can do that later.”

  He shook his head. “I want to enjoy you.” He unfastened her belt, and the buckle slipped free of its sheath. The sharp tip glinted. “Surprise, surprise.”

  “Never a dull moment.”

  He tossed the buckle aside and slid the denim down over her slender hips. She stepped out of the pants and pushed them aside. She stood naked before him, exposed, a state that did slightly unsettle her. The last few times it had been dark, hurried, and with enough desire to crowd out fear.

  Now, he wanted to go slow? Fine. He’d suffer.

  She wrapped her arms around him, savoring the way the hairs on his chest teased her nipples. She shoved off his pants and heard them fall to the floor. He stepped out of them as she pulled him toward the rumpled sheets of her bed. He sat, and she crouched in front of him and slowly ran her hand along the inside of his naked thighs. She tugged off one sock, then leaned forward and kissed the inside of his leg before kissing the tip of his erection. He sucked in a breath, burying his hands in her long hair and gripping it in a tight fist. She pulled back and removed the second sock.

  “You said slow,” she said.

  “Taking off socks will never be the same.”

  She licked the inside of the other leg and ran her tongue hungrily along his erection. When he groaned, she did it again before she pushed him back on the bed, straddling him. She brushed against his erection but only enough to tease. They were going slow after all, as he wanted.

  She licked his nipple and then kissed him on the lips, skimming her hand over his flat belly.

  He placed his hands on her bare hips. “You’re going to make me regret slow.”

  “Your choice, not mine.”

  With a grumble, he rolled her on her back. “Next time, we will go slower. Right now, I can’t get enough of you.”

  For an instant, she lost the sense of control and tensed. Cold fear threatened to extinguish the fire. He hesitated.
Strong fingers caressed her clitoris in small circles as he kissed her on the lips. Round and round he went, coaxing the sparks into a flame. She relaxed back into the pillows and groaned.

  He nudged his knee between her legs. “Open for me.”

  She didn’t hesitate and spread her legs. He pressed his erection just inside her. She was wet and tight, but having him close still tugged at bad memories. Closing her eyes, she ran her hands over his back, grabbing his buttocks and trying to hang on to her desire. Her throat tightened with tension as the beauty of this moment slipped away.

  He thrust fully inside her now, kissing her on the lips. “Don’t go anywhere. Stay with me. Open your eyes.”

  She gripped his shoulders and opened her eyes. She met his gaze, dark with longing but with no traces of anger.

  “It’s you and me,” he said. “No past. Only right now.”

  She nodded, hating the tears that welled in her eyes and spilled over the side of her cheeks.

  “I can stop,” he whispered.

  “No. Don’t.”

  He moved inside of her and began to rub her center. Slowly, desire flashed and urgency returned. She tipped her hips toward him and ground into his palm as he slid in and out at a steady rhythm. Heat flared. Her body built toward the sweet release she realized she now needed from him. And then in a blink, an explosion washed over her, and she gripped his back. He shoved deeper into her, and they both came.

  When he collapsed against her, his heart thumped quick and hard, matching her own beat for beat. Absently, she traced her hand over his back, now slick with sweat.

  “Not bad, old soul.”

  He grinned against the hollow of her neck. “Like to think I have moves.”

  “You do.”

  He rose up on his elbows and pushed back her hair from her face. “You okay?”

  “More than okay.”

  “You tensed again.”

  She’d shared her body, but feelings were a whole different matter.

  “You can talk to me.”

  She tried to wriggle free and thought he might hold her too close, but he rolled on his side and let her put distance between them. She didn’t go as far this time, choosing to stay on her back, inches from him.

  He traced circles around the delicate lines of a scroll tattoo inked above her hip bone. “When did you get this?”

  She smiled. “Spring break. Junior year of college. Made sense at the time.”

  “Sexy.” His fingers moved over her flat belly to a scar by her left breast. “What happened?”

  “Part of my adventures in Virginia Beach with Benny.”

  “You can talk to me about it.”

  Instead of answering, she rolled to her side and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She searched the floor for her shirt. Now that the desire had burned itself out, her skin cooled and she was feeling too exposed. When she moved to stand, he grabbed her wrist. Not an unbreakable hold, but firm enough to let her know he wanted her to stay. Because she had a choice, she stayed.

  “You’re always running,” he said. “I can feel your heart racing.”

  A sigh leaked over her lips. “Cindy says I’ve been on the move since I was a small kid.”

  “Where are you running to now?”

  “To get my shirt. I’m cold.”

  “Not away from the question?”

  “That, too.”

  He released his grip, shifted his weight under the covers, and held up the blanket for her.

  Novak didn’t push, but waited. Always steady, coaxing.

  She dropped the shirt and slid under the covers beside him. He touched his body close to her, banding his arm around her waist. His erection hardened and pressed against her buttocks.

  She chuckled. “So soon?”

  “The tattoo did it for me.”

  He pushed against her ass, and his hand slid, trying to coax her forward a fraction so he could enter. She moved for him, opening easily and surrendering to the pleasure. After a while, they collapsed against each other, and she nestled close to him. For the first time in a long time, she drifted off peacefully to sleep.

  When her cell phone rang, Julia jolted awake. She was aware of two things. The sun had not risen, and she wasn’t alone in her bed. She glanced over at Novak, who lay on his back, his hands draped over his eyes.

  “Not my ringtone,” he said.

  Novak. In her bed. Shit. She scrambled out of bed and found her cell in the pocket of her pants. She fished it out. Dakota Sharp. Great.

  She cleared her throat. “Vargas.”

  “Vacation ends as of Monday,” he said.

  She searched the room for her digital clock and read the display. 6:01. “This could have waited until later, but Sharp works all the time.”

  “Didn’t want you filling up your dance card for Monday.”

  “Sure. Fine.”

  “Any word on the Hangman murders?”

  “Not yet. But there are a couple of new leads.”

  “Any connections to the Ortega case?” Sharp asked.

  “Several. Hopefully I’ll have plenty to share by Monday.”

  “Right.”

  Novak rose up out of bed and moved toward her. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her ass.

  She inhaled and tried to wiggle away, but he held her tight.

  “If you don’t have hard leads on the Hangman case by Monday, turn the case over to Novak. He’s a solid detective.”

  She cleared her throat. “Solid, understood.”

  When she hung up, Novak took the phone from her hand and tossed it on the pile of clothes on the floor. “Duty calls?”

  She tipped her head back so her hair fell away from her face. “Sharp reminding me I’m back on the job as of Monday. Time is running out for me and this case.”

  Novak kissed the hollow of her neck before his lips moved to the exposed side of her left breast. “You have some time to spare, don’t you?”

  She relaxed into his touch, knowing none of this was smart. Hard to climb out if she fell in too deep. “Maybe a little.”

  “Good. Now we can try even slower.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Saturday, November 4, 8:30 a.m.

  Andrews received an early-morning call from Dr. Kincaid. She had Jim Vargas’s autopsy files in her office, was working today, and would be on hand to answer questions. He told her he’d see her in two hours. He pushed away from his computer screen, showered, and dressed and was on the road in fifteen minutes.

  He’d not formally met Dr. Addison Kincaid but was aware of research she was privately doing on a cold case that was of great interest to him. Her work was the reason he’d pitched the idea of a cold case team to Shield Security’s founder, Joshua Shield, who had been more than willing to chase killers who’d gotten away with murder. He hoped Dr. Kincaid would come to value the work he was doing now and trust him with her case before he had to force the issue soon.

  When he arrived at her office, he found her sitting at her desk, her head bowed over graphic images of a body midautopsy. He cleared his throat, and she looked up, dark-rimmed glasses accentuating green eyes.

  “Garrett Andrews,” he said.

  She rose and came around her desk. “I didn’t hear you. I get lost in thought.”

  And he moved quietly. He shook her hand, knowing the scars on his palm grated her smooth skin. “Thank you for getting the files so quickly, Dr. Kincaid.”

  “Certainly.” She adjusted glasses that framed her face nicely. “I had a chance to look at the autopsy report.”

  “Any conclusions?”

  She turned toward the desk, pulled a file from a neat stack at the corner, and crossed to a small conference table. Extending her hand, she invited him to sit. As she moved past him, a subtle perfume drifted around him.

  She opened her file to an explicit picture of Detective Jim Vargas lying on the autopsy table. His face was intact, his eyes closed, his mouth agape. However, in the center of his chest
was a bullet wound.

  “When we see close-range shots to the head or in the mouth, it’s often an indication of suicide, not homicide,” she said.

  “You’ve seen gunshots to the chest in a suicide?”

  “Not as often, but yes.”

  “Were there scratches or bruising to suggest any kind of struggle?”

  “No. I looked at all the pictures and read the medical examiner’s notes. No other signs of fresh injuries, though X-rays detected several broken bones that had healed and an old cut that had been sewn up. Crime-scene photos suggest he was sitting in a chair that was at his kitchen table.”

  “Gunpowder residue on his hands?”

  “Yes. There was gunpowder residue on his hands and chest, which is consistent with him holding the gun close to his chest. The investigators theorized that he placed the gun’s muzzle to his chest using both hands and fired. He was wearing a T-shirt at the time of the shooting.”

  “Really?”

  She flipped a page to another picture that showed a close-up of the wound. “Although he was wearing a T-shirt, there is still gunpowder stippling in the entrance wound as well as on the garment.”

  “Again, consistent with suicide?” Andrews asked.

  “It proves that the gun barrel was less than a quarter inch from his body.”

  “Not pressed against his skin?”

  “That’s correct. Again, consistent in a suicide.”

  “Angle of the shot?”

  “Slightly downward. The bullet traveled through the chest, including the heart, exiting the body. Death was immediate.”

  “Suicides are slightly upward, so the bullet misses the rib cage, hits the heart and possibly the aorta, correct?”

  “Yes, typically.” She showed him another image featuring Vargas’s body turned on his side so that the medical examiner could document the exit wound. “The bullet was a nine-millimeter jacketed hollow point, a nasty one. It’s meant to expand upon impact to decrease penetration and disrupt more tissue. The medical examiner noted the forensic team dug the slug out of the kitchen wall.”

  “No signs of a struggle.”

  “None was found by the patrol officers,” she said.