by Kylie Brant
“Ever seen one of those silicone masks?” Kell gestured to his head. “High-end ones sculpted by artists can cost thousands of dollars, but they’re as good as anything you’d see from a Hollywood’s special-effects team. The silicone moves with the facial expressions, and I’m telling you, they look real. You can even have hair attached, eyebrows.” He turned to his boss, sitting across the table from Whitman. “Remember that armored car heist in Las Vegas last year?” He didn’t wait for the man’s nod before going on. “The two perps had masks made to look like a couple off-duty cops from that command area who had busted them years earlier. The witnesses all ID’d the cops as the culprits, and neither had an airtight alibi.”
“I remember.” In an aside to Whitman, Adam said, “Kell very likely saved those policemen from life terms in a federal penitentiary.”
“If the perp needed Hubbard’s thumb, he’d also need his face. If he had his face, he doesn’t need Hubbard. And don’t forget that message left for us on Hubbard’s machine. Did Hubbard make it under duress or to deliberately throw us off?” Kell was on the move again. He always thought best when he was moving. “It’ll be days before we get anything useful from the autopsy. But if Hubbard was in on the abduction, why would someone need his thumb? Even if his accomplice wanted to off him and keep the ransom for himself, let him do the heavy lifting first, right? He completes the abduction, hands over the girl, and bam, he’s out of the picture.”
“Maybe Hubbard was getting cold feet.” It was the first time Agent Pelton—Dirk—had spoken. “He gets his hands on the specs somehow, but when it came time for the actual crime, he goes soft. Doesn’t want to follow through. The accomplice turns to plan B.”
“Too much preparation had to be done up front,” Kell corrected him. “Those masks are works of art. Unless Hubbard went in and voluntarily had a life cast made of his face—and why would he?—then the other guy had it done from pictures. That’s what the Las Vegas perps did. Shot rolls of film of the policemen from different angles using high-powered cameras with zoom. Handed the pics over to the sculptor and got the masks. But that process took nearly a month.”
“There was substantial time and money invested in this,” mused Raiker. He was staring at the ceiling the way he did when he was concentrating fiercely. “First the patch on the video surveillance. My best cyber operative estimated that would run over fifty grand, and something that complicated might take months of work. Then weeks to make the mask. Add in finding a spot to stash the girl . . . hard to believe one person is responsible for all that.”
“I’m still not convinced Hubbard didn’t contribute to the crime,” Whitman muttered. “And you didn’t speak to everyone on his call logs. There’s still the number we couldn’t trace.”
Kell sent Adam a quick look. But as usual, his boss caught the fly ball neatly. “As a matter of fact, I was able to trace the number. It belongs to Hubbard’s girlfriend.”
“What?” Travis looked abashed at his outburst, but his emotion was reflected on the other CBI agents’ faces. Except for Whitman’s.
The assistant director gave Adam a grim smile. “I believe you failed to mention that.”
“Did I?” The two exchanged a long look. “How neglectful of me. Especially in light of the full disclosure you’ve been practicing.”
Uh-oh. Kell resisted the urge to grin like a fool. There were fireworks coming, and dammit it all, he knew he was going to miss them. Raiker would reserve his cutting assessment of the assistant director’s tactics for when the two of them were alone. But he’d never been more inclined to bug a room just to hear the outcome.
“My people should have been allowed the opportunity . . .”
“To screw up the woman’s life? I don’t think so.” Adam’s tone was final. “There were reasons, good reasons, to keep her identity secret. Her background checks out, and so did her story. As it’s looking less likely that Hubbard was even involved, it was the right decision.”
“But it wasn’t your decision to make—What is it?” Whitman barked, when the knock sounded at the conference room door.
The door eased open, revealing Trimball and Jonesy. “Sir, we have more results to report,” the woman said diffidently.
But Jonesy was already bursting into the room to hand the file folder he held to Adam. “It just came in a few minutes ago. We got a CODIS hit for the blood found on the bedsheet.”
Whitman looked nonplussed. “We never submitted the CODIS paperwork.”
“I did it.” All eyes turned to Jonesy. He looked a little uneasy at the attention. “Burke told me to this morning, but I never got to it until later this afternoon, after we finished some of the comparison data.”
Trimball sidled around the table to hand an identical folder to the assistant director. He took it, but his eyes were on Kell. And the look in them wasn’t forgiving.
Recognizing it, Raiker snapped, “All my labs are recognized and CODIS-participating.” He flipped open the file. “Now if we could spend less time engaged in a pissing contest and more on reviewing the facts of the case . . .” His voice trailed off abruptly as he read. Kell headed toward him to view the contents of the folder for himself.
“Vincent Dodge,” he read aloud over Raiker’s shoulder. A sense of incredulity seized him. This wasn’t just some match to a random unsolved crime: they had a name. “So he’s in the system?” Damn, but they might have just caught their first break in the case, and it even came with a criminal record on file.
“He’s in the system.” Raiker shot a look at Whitman, who gave a short headshake to indicate that the name wasn’t familiar to him. “He did wet work for the Giovanni family in New Jersey in the late nineties. Beat a murder rap when the witnesses on one of his hits all turned up dead.”
“Maybe it’s a mistake,” Pelton said doubtfully. “Unless . . .” His head swiveled toward the assistant director. “Does Mulder have any enemies that are connected? Anyone on the threat list?”
Adam was already shaking his head. “Dodge is a free-lancer now. Was living in South America the last I heard of him. But he’d know all about masks, and other ways to alter his appearance, or else he’d be caught on the facial-recognition software so popular in some countries.”
A feeling of foreboding settled in Kell’s chest. “A free-lancer?”
Adam’s face was grim. “That’s right. For over a decade Vincent Dodge has been working as a hired assassin.”
It didn’t make sense. Kell lay on the bed, tossing an apple in the air, only to reach out and snag it with the other hand. Why bother with an assassin for a kidnapping case? There were plenty of scumbags out there willing to do worse, for a lesser fee.
Maybe it had to do with association. Whoever planned the abduction knew Dodge. Had a relationship with him and that’s what led to his inclusion. He pondered the thought.
Whitman and Raiker were already at work putting in the necessary requests to get a list of Dodge’s known associates. But if the man worked from outside the United States, that list wasn’t likely to be recent.
Scowling, he lent a spin to the apple on the next toss. He’d almost suspect the man’s DNA had been planted on the sheets to throw them off course. But imagining the perp of this case having access to Dodge’s blood was a bit of a stretch, even for Kell, who was usually all too willing to ride a hunch.
The man’s history didn’t bode well for finding the girl alive.
A greasy tangle of nerves knotted in his stomach at the idea. If it were Kell, the kid would be kept alive as an ace in the hole. Things went wrong in these operations all the time. Ransoms sometimes weren’t paid, especially without proof of life.
But an assassin on the scene meant she wouldn’t live long.
A renewed sense of urgency filled him. He should go to work. Maybe go over the newest information from Coplink and the Denver crime blotters that Temple had sent. Look for anything that might connect to the dumping of the body or other happenings in the vicinity. They cou
ldn’t count on Dodge being dumb enough to keep the girl in the same vicinity where he’d dumped the body, but there’d be a team of law enforcement at the site tomorrow morning, regardless, looking for anything that might tie Hubbard’s body to his killer.
Kell planned to be elsewhere. With Raiker back, he had more leeway in his assignment. At least if his boss’s mood had improved by then.
That thought led, inevitably, back to Macy. He scowled up at the ceiling. She hadn’t returned by the time they’d all been banished from the conference room to leave Raiker and Whitman alone. It was after midnight and the two men must still be holed up in conference because he hadn’t heard Adam go to his room.
It was damn certain Kell wasn’t going to get any sleep—he was too wired for that. He should forget about warning Macy about Raiker’s mood and get to work. He straightened, intent on doing just that, when the door opened quietly.
“Macy,” he hissed.
He had to give the woman credit. She had some vertical. She jumped at least a foot at the sound of his voice. “Shut the door and turn off the light.” She’d flipped the switch on as she’d come in, but the lamp on the bedside table was turned on and suffused part of the room in a soft light.
“Get out now.” She flipped the light switch off. “I mean it, Burke. I’m not in the mood.”
“Raiker’s looking for you.” Although he was having trouble identifying the expression she was wearing, he recognized the wariness that slid over it easily enough. “Unless you’re in the mood to face him tonight, shut the damn door.”
She closed it gently behind her. “Did he mention why?” Her tone was guarded.
“No.” And he saw no reason to tell her that wondering that very thing had been eating him alive for the last few hours. Kell watched her carefully. “But he was well and truly pissed when he asked about you, so I’m thinking you’ll want to give him some more time to cool off.”
“Good plan.” She crossed the room to hang up her coat. “Thanks for the warning. Good-bye.”
The dismissal in her voice was lost on him. He was too busy trying to identify what else he heard there. Tension. That was evident enough. It was reflected in the rigid line of her back and shoulders. Her tone was brittle. Her movements so tightly controlled they looked slightly awkward, as if she were afraid she’d spring apart in a thousand pieces.
Whatever the hell was bothering her, it damn well didn’t have anything to do with testimony she’d given in Chicago today.
“You missed some big breaks today.” She was taking clothes out of her dresser drawer. “Remember that body I told you about? Turns out it was . . .” His voice trailed off as she went to the bathroom with pajamas in hand. Closed the door.
“Hubbard’s,” he finished. What the hell? The sound of the shower turning on stunned him as much as if she’d done a striptease right in front of him. Well, maybe not quite that much, and it really wasn’t a good time for his mind to go there at any rate, but Macy was modest to a fault. The lights had stayed firmly off the one night they’d spent together.
But that had only heightened the sensation of taste and touch. He’d mapped every inch of her body with his hands. With his mouth. The memory was seared on his mind like a brand.
And the next morning, when he’d awakened to her cool little dismissal of their lapse, she’d been completely dressed. Coolly composed.
Under normal circumstances there was no way she’d be standing naked in the next room, knowing he was still out here.
She hadn’t even ordered him out again.
That fact, coupled with her appearance, had concern mounting. And there was no way in hell he was leaving without finding out what was wrong.
He preferred to think of it as helpful rather than pushy. He couldn’t offer any suggestions for stemming Raiker’s anger if he didn’t have all the facts and she should be grateful for his assistance. No one had been on the receiving end of the boss’s temper more than Kell had over the years.
Fifteen minutes later he was rethinking that decision. Because when the door finally opened and she exited the bathroom, all the logical arguments he’d practiced fell completely out of his brain. He wouldn’t have been able to utter them anyway because he was having a hard enough time just keeping his tongue in his mouth.
Her hair was still dry, a cloud of midnight curls, recently brushed, rioting over her shoulders to contrast starkly with the pajamas. As nightwear went, they weren’t sexy. He told himself that over and over and tried to make himself believe it. The simple white top and pants were plain white cotton, cut much like a set of long johns. Except of course for the inch of lace at the hems of the sleeves and pant legs, and marching down the vee of the top.
He didn’t need the beaded nipples pressing against the soft fabric to remind him of the weight and feel of her breasts in his hands. Of the velvety softness of her nipples in his mouth. Then even that memory was shoved aside by the expression on her face.
“What are you doing here?”
Something was very wrong. His gut clenched reflexively. Keeping his voice low and soothing he said, “I’ve been here. We talked, just now, remember?”
The shower hadn’t done its job because the tension was back. And the blank mask that settled over her face had nerves scrambling in his chest. “I need to be alone. I have to . . . I can’t . . .” A deep shuddering breath shook her. “Just once, Kell.” Her voice was a whisper. “Just once. Do what I ask. Please.”
If the last word hadn’t done the trick, the suspicion that tears were responsible for turning her eyes bright and glossy should have. There was little Kellan Burke wouldn’t do to avoid dealing with a crying woman.
But the tears never materialized. She just stood there, statuelike, oozing a vulnerability that normally would have had him looking for the nearest exit.
He was as surprised as she was when he rolled from the bed to snap off the lamp. And then strode over to her, scooping her off her feet from where she’d seemed rooted.
“Don’t . . .”
“Quiet,” he said gruffly as he crossed to the bed and pulled the covers back. He laid her gently down and tucked the bedclothes tightly around her. When he rounded the bed, banging his shin painfully on the bedpost in the process, he’d never know what kept him from continuing out the door and back to his own room.
Instead he climbed into the other side of the bed and rolled over to snake an arm around her waist. Pull her closer so her back was pressed against him like a couple spooning.
“I need to be alone.” Her whisper wasn’t as fierce as it should have been. And told him that, as much as he might regret it, he was doing exactly what he should.
“Baby, that’s the last thing you need. Go to sleep.”
But even after her breathing slowed and a measure of the tension had seeped from her body, he knew she didn’t sleep. Doubted he would either. Neither of them spoke. And they both ignored the soft knock that sounded at her door an hour later. Listened soundlessly until Adam had crossed the hall to enter his own room.
The lack of rest didn’t bother him. As Kell lay there awake, he figured there were far worse ways to spend the midnight hours than with Macy Reid in his arms.
In the end, though, she slept. They both did. He came awake before dawn, aware that she was trembling violently against him, her breathing labored. He skated a hand over her stomach, soothing. Could feel the skin beneath the pajama top quivering beneath his touch. “Nightmare?” His face pressed to her hair, he could feel her nod.
A sense of helplessness filled him. “Mace, where’d you go yesterday? After Chicago?”
For a time he thought she wouldn’t answer. When she did, her voice was barely audible. “Terre Haute.”
He frowned in the darkness, his mind searching for the thread of familiarity. “Castillo is confined there.”
“He told Adam he had more information, details that would help the case that he’d give only to me.” The words were so thready he had to lean closer t
o hear. “We both agreed he was lying. Trying to arrange a meet and using the case as a lever.”
He tended to agree. “So why go?”
She was quiet for a long time. “Because in the end, I couldn’t be sure what was stopping me, disbelief or fear. And I decided long ago I wasn’t going to let fear rule my life.”
The pieces still weren’t coming together for him. “That case? The one you worked that involved Castillo . . .”
Her breath streamed out in a long sigh. “I didn’t work a case. Castillo was working with the men who kidnapped my stepfather and me when I was eight.”
Kell stilled, the news hitting him with the force of a vicious right jab. And then comprehension crowded in, making bile rise in his throat. He remembered what Castillo was. What he’d been imprisoned for.
“Ian was stationed in the British embassy in Bogotá. We’d been there eight months when we were walking home from the park one Saturday. An enclosed jeep pulled to a stop beside us and men with rifles poured out of it.
“We were blindfolded, but I could hear them fighting with Ian, hitting him until he was slumped over me, quiet. I still don’t know where they took us. A sort of barn, I think, far out into the country. We were kept separated and there were more children there, all of us kept in individual cages, bound and gagged. They took turns guarding us and I remember the first night when Castillo went on duty. He had kind eyes, I thought. Maybe he liked little kids.”
Her voice went flat. “And I was right. He especially liked little girls.”
His chest was too tight. It was a struggle to haul oxygen into his lungs. “He raped you?”
“He’d choose a different child every night. Only the girls. There were eight of us held there. Three boys. It was like a game with him. He’d walk up and down between our cages, talking about our various . . . attributes. Stop in front of one door. Move slowly to the other. And afterward . . . each time afterward, he’d stop by my cage. I’d be curled up in a ball, trying not to see, to hear anything. But I’d always hear him. ‘I’m saving you for last, my little English rose.’ I spent all my time certain my turn would be next. Hating myself for being glad it wasn’t. That it never came.”
