Ignoring the other men and one woman who’d been in the observatory following the interrogation, Ian watched through the one-way glass as Helm cut off whatever the Special Agent had been about to say, with a slash of his hand through the air. “I’m Mister Talbot’s lawyer, Reginald Helm, and this interrogation is over. Either charge him or we’re leaving.”
Parrish wasn’t happy with that announcement, if his frown and furrowed brow were any indication. Ian realized with relief that they didn’t have enough evidence to formally arrest Talbot. Hopefully, that also meant Parrish was completely wrong about his analysis and had hauled in the wrong man.
As Parrish stood and gestured to the door, Helm snatched the bottle of water sitting on the table in front of Talbot, who had obviously taken a drink from it. “You want DNA, you get a court order,” Helm snapped at the fed, before facing the one-way mirror. “Ian, we’ll wait for you in the parking lot.”
When Talbot stood, Ian studied the man he considered a friend. There was no way the fifty-four year old was the killer, even though his tall, thin build, pointed nose, narrow eyes, and dark hair, which was graying at the temples, often gave him the look of a vampire when he was dressed in his club leathers. Today, the college professor was dressed comfortably in khakis and a green polo shirt.
Moments after the three men left the interrogation room, the door to the observatory swung open and Parrish stepped in. In addition to Ian and Watts, also present were TPD Detective Isaac Webb, Dr. Suki Ralston, an FBI Behavioral Analyst, commonly known as a profiler, and two other special agents who’d been assigned to the case. Biting his tongue, Ian waited for Parrish to speak, since he was very close to blowing his top.
The case’s lead agent propped himself against the wall with his shoulder and crossed his arms. He glared at Ian. “You had to bring the fucking lawyer with you, didn’t you?”
“Damn right,” he growled, “because you’ve got the wrong, fucking guy. If I thought Carl had a minute chance of being the killer, I would’ve dragged his ass in here myself.”
“He doesn’t have an alibi, or one he’s willing to share, for any of the kidnappings. As for the murders, we know the suspect is keeping them for anywhere between twenty-four to seventy-two hours, so he could have made the necessary appearances to throw everyone off his scent.”
Ian glanced at the petite, dark-haired beauty with soft, caramel colored skin at his side. Despite it being the weekend, she was dressed in a business suit, with a skirt and four-inch heels that showed off her shapely legs. If Ian wasn’t married and madly in love with his wife, he might have made a play for the woman—although he doubted she was a submissive. “What about you, doc? What’s your opinion?”
This was Dr. Ralston’s third trip down to Tampa from Quantico to update the profile on the UNSUB, or unknown suspect. She preferred to see the crime scenes herself, but since she was working on several cases, it wasn’t always possible for her to be there. From what Ian had heard, she was one of the best, holding a Ph.D. in Criminal Psychology. He’d been impressed with her initial and follow-up analysis of their killer, even if it hadn’t helped them catch the bastard yet.
Ralston’s gaze flashed to Parrish and then back to Ian. “I actually agree with you. I don’t believe Carl Talbot is our UNSUB. Not only is he older than I suspect the killer is, his occupation and background also don’t match my profile. However, that being said, behavioral analysis is not an absolute. It’s a tool and I’ve been wrong before.” A small smile formed on her attractive, exotic-looking face and her brown eyes twinkled. “Not often, mind you, but it has happened once or twice. Anyway, I will agree with Agent Parrish that any potential suspect, no matter how slight a chance of being our UNSUB, needs to be eliminated.”
Ian nodded his head then glanced at Parrish. “Okay. I don’t like it, but I understand. However, I hope you’re still looking for other suspects because there’s no way I’ll believe Talbot is our killer.”
“That’s because you like to beat on women as much as he does.”
Ian roared and lunged at the arrogant man who’d stepped through the open door, but Webb, Watts, and Parrish quickly got between them and held the retired SEAL back, preventing him from killing SAC Stonewall. The prick never knew when to keep his damn trap shut. Ian fought against the hands restraining him while glaring at the smirking agent. “You fucking bastard! You know nothing about me or the fucking lifestyle! Nothing happens in my club that’s not safe, sane, and consensual!” It was the mantra of the BDSM community, and Ian made sure it was followed to the letter in The Covenant.
With a hand on Ian’s chest, Parrish shoved him back. “Easy, Sawyer. Calm the fuck down. I can’t have you hitting a federal agent.” He then turned around and punched Stonewall in the jaw, sending the balding, overweight man flying back onto his ass. Glaring at the local SAC, the pissed off Dom opened and closed what had to be an aching fist, which now had two split knuckles from the impact. “I, however, have no trouble putting the ignorant asshole in his place since, technically, he doesn’t outrank me.”
Sputtering and holding his sore jaw, Stonewall struggled to get to his feet. “You’re out of here, Parrish! I don’t care what I fucking have to do—you’re out of my jurisdiction today! And I’m filing assault charges!”
The special agent rolled his eyes and waved the other man off. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell it to the director. He hates your guts as much as I do.”
Stonewall’s red face was probably the result of a combination of pain, embarrassment, and high blood pressure as he stormed down the hallway. When Parrish faced the others in the room, the three other agents failed at hiding their grins—Stonewall was their direct supervisor and there was no love lost between the agents and their superior.
Ian snorted and crossed his arms over his massive chest. “Damn. Even though I’m still pissed at you, that made my day—hell, probably my week, but don’t tell my pregnant wife that. And while I still want to deck the asshole myself, I don’t feel like doing five years in the slammer.”
Ten minutes later, Ian and Watts left the building and met the other two men in the parking lot. Ian eyed Carl. “You okay?”
“Never better.” The man’s eye roll belied his response.
“Want to tell me who your alibi is? You know, the one you don’t want to expose?” Ian wasn’t stupid. If Carl had someone who could provide him with an alibi, but he wouldn’t divulge who it was, that meant the person was a closeted submissive with a very public persona. The last thing the Dom would do was out someone in the lifestyle unless it was a dire necessity.
Crossing his arms, Carl shook his head. “No, I don’t. And don’t ask me again, Ian. I hope that dickhead agent is looking at someone else besides me for killing those women, because I sure as hell didn’t do it.”
Before anyone could respond, Watts’s agency pager went off and he glanced at the text message. “Shit.” Pulling his keys out of his pocket, he handed them to Ian. “Got a reported hostage situation at the federal courthouse. Take the truck back to your place and I’ll pick it up when I can.”
As the HRT negotiator ran back into the building to get his gear, Ian pushed the door unlock button on the key fob. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. You coming back with us for the barbecue or do you want me to drop you off at your place?” he asked Carl. “I assume they didn’t let you drive here.”
“No, they didn’t.” He arched an eyebrow which only further enhanced his vampire look. Give him fangs, pale his skin a few shades, and put him in his club leathers, and he’d give Bela Lugosi a run for his money. “Sure you want a serial killer suspect at the party?”
Ian slapped the man on the back. “No, but I do want my friend there.”
Smiling, the Dom carefully cut out another newspaper article about his latest masterpiece. To announce he was the artist killing submissives would be the end of his work. No. That couldn’t be allowed. There were too many more women who deserved to be turned into pieces of art. But after
he left this world, they would discover all the evidence he was leaving behind, and then everyone would know his name. He would be infamous. For generations, they’d hear all about how he held this city in his hands, sending waves of fear throughout the submissives who were always looking over their shoulders, wondering who he was, and if they would be his next victim.
Not every submissive was lucky enough to be chosen, to be added to the list of women who had begged him for death. In the beginning, he hadn’t been choosy—he’d admit that now. But over time, he realized the stronger ones—those who put up a fight—were the most satisfying when he finally broke them. After Masterpiece #4, Naomi Nguyen, he’d started videotaping his time with them, savoring every crack of the whip, every scream of pain, every plea for him to end their suffering. Little did they know, in his world, they didn’t have a safeword. Nothing they could say would make him stop until he decided it was time. He made the rules.
Carefully placing the article in a photo album next to the others, he adjusted his headphones as he listened to the playback of Masterpiece #6 cursing his soul. Unfortunately for her, his soul had been cursed long before he’d ever met her. Closing the album, he set it on the shelf in his living room, and then studied the photographs on the coffee table. Each one was of a submissive who had caught his eye. It was amazing how much info about themselves people put on social media. Hmm. Which lucky submissive would become Masterpiece #10?
Part II
C
HAPTER 7
Standing in line to order his caffeine-fix, a petite brunette in front of Logan caught his attention when she glanced over her shoulder at him with assessing, brown eyes, as if sensing someone larger loomed behind her. She studied him for a moment before facing forward again. He hadn’t intended to get in her personal space, but it was crowded in the small shop, and if he moved back, he’d step on one of the two little kids standing behind him with their mother.
In her late twenties, he guessed, the brunette was about six inches shorter than him, with a curvy but toned frame, and short, brown hair that stopped just below her shoulders. A snug, pale-blue T-shirt stretched across her back, and his gaze shifted lower to her scrumptious, denim-covered backside. The jeans were faded in all the right places and fit her like a glove. When she stepped closer to the counter, he loved how the globes of her ass swayed with the movement, and wished he had the right to run his hands over them.
Damn! He shifted his own hips and forced himself to look away. At least he didn’t have to worry anymore about the temporary impotence which the doctors had said was a result of his PTSD. That had lasted about six months, and he’d almost taken out a billboard ad to celebrate his first hard-on after returning to the states. Unfortunately, he hadn’t used it or any of the ones that followed—at least not with a woman. He was afraid of things not working right if he got involved with someone, even though he had no trouble jacking off. He was also terrified of what might happen after having sex with a woman. His sleep usually resulted in a lot of swinging of fists and kicking of feet when the nightmares plagued him. There had actually been a few times he’d fallen off the bed onto the floor fighting an invisible enemy.
“Excuse me, sir? You’re next.”
Shaking his head to clear it, Logan stepped toward the counter, where the barista was waiting for him, and realized, with a hint of disappointment, the woman he’d been fantasizing about was already on her way out the door. Oh, well. It didn’t matter, since he wasn’t the horn-dog he’d been years before and hitting on her was out of the question. At least it was for now . . . he had more important things on his mind than getting laid. There was a mandatory meeting at the office this morning and the main topic was going to be the teams’ assignments, including the Kink Killer case. Maybe when things calmed down a little, he’d consider hooking up with a woman. Not anything long term, just the occasional roll in the sack with no strings attached.
Logan placed and paid for his order of a plain, black coffee, and then stepped to the other end of the counter to wait for it. When a pretty blonde handed the brew to him, with a huge, inviting smile, he thanked her then headed for the door. Compared to the woman who’d caught his eye a few minutes earlier, the coed behind the counter was barely out of her teens, which was far too young for him. Checking his watch as he exited the shop, he noted he had fifteen minutes to make the five-minute drive to the TS compound.
When he stepped outside, the morning sun had risen further and he lifted his face, enjoying the heat for a moment. It had been two days since his team had returned from their final training mission in the Rockies, and Logan finally felt warm again. After the freezing temperatures they’d endured, in addition to everything else they’d gone through, he didn’t want to see another snowflake for at least a year.
Striding to his car, he slowed when he saw three punks in their early twenties surrounding the woman from the coffee line, and she didn’t look happy about it. They had the typical thug-life look to them: baggy clothes, with the waistband of their jeans hanging three-quarters of the way down their asses, white wife-beaters on their thin torsos, and $150 Jordan sneakers on their feet. Logan placed his coffee on the hood of his truck and stepped closer to the group.
“Come on, sweet thing,” one of them tried to cajole her. “Me and the boys’ll show you a good time. A few lines and you’ll be begging for it, baby.”
Yeah, that was fucking original, asshole. Unimaginative flattery like that will get you nowhere.
Before the woman could answer, Logan growled and moved in front of her, pushing the thugs back with just his mere size. After all his workouts, his muscles were back to where they’d been before his capture, and his shoulders were broader than the three dickheads’ put together. He also stood at least three inches above the tallest. “It doesn’t look like the lady is interested in you, your lines, or your good time, so take a hike.”
At least one of them was too stupid to take Logan’s advice and pulled out a switchblade. The moment the retired Marine heard the snick, he went on the offensive. His hand snapped out, snatched the idiot’s wrist, and twisted until the open blade fell harmlessly to the pavement and a scream of pain filled the air. One of the other punks abandoned his buddies and took off running, but the third asshole lunged forward to help his friend, who was now kneeling on the asphalt, begging to be released. Keeping a firm grip on the wrist he was inches away from breaking, Logan sidestepped the second attack and kicked the guy in the knee, dropping him to the ground next to his buddy. Another howl of agony joined the first.
With an eye on the now disabled assailants, Logan glanced at the woman to make sure she was okay. What he hadn’t expect to see was her arms crossed over her chest, her right hip cocked to the side, and the pissed-off glare on her face that wasn’t directed at either of the men who’d been harassing her. Instead, her anger was aimed at him. What the fuck?
“If you’re okay, can you call the cops?” Logan asked, unsure what her problem was.
Lifting the hem of her shirt about two inches, she flashed a silver shield clipped to her belt. “I am a cop, and I didn’t need your help, thank you.” The last two words were said in a sarcastic tone, which he could have let slide, but then she had to add, “Now, unless you want to end up in a cell next to them, I suggest you leave.”
Logan couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d hit him with a two-by-four. Well, fuck this shit. Letting go of dirtbag number one, he took a step back and brushed his hands together. “Sorry I came to your defense like my parents taught me to. Next time, I’ll ask if a woman is a cop or if she needs help first before I jump in with my Superman routine. Have a nice day.” Yeah, his sarcastic tone matched hers, but he didn’t care.
Striding back to his truck without a backward glance, Logan grabbed his coffee off the hood, climbed in, and started the engine. Once he put it in drive, he finally looked over at the woman, who had told the punks to get lost as Logan had walked away. She was glaring at him as he pulled out of
the parking space before giving her a snappy salute on his way to the exit.
Dakota glared at the back of the blue pickup truck as it drove past her. Why did every freaking alpha male think every woman needed to be saved? She’d been about to put those punks in their place when the good-looking Lone Ranger had rode in to save all of humanity. Well, at least this little corner of it. Then he’d fucking saluted her. Maybe if you’d been a little less sarcastic, he wouldn’t have been so insulted. Shit. Oh well, too late to fix it, now.
In a way, she felt bad about how she’d gone off on him, but her morning had already sucked and was possibly going to go downhill from there. The federal agent she’d been partnered with for the past few months had been a nice enough guy, but he sucked at being a Dom. Cameron Davis couldn't cut it, and it was obvious to the members of the club they'd been assigned to that the man didn't belong in the lifestyle. She'd been torn between keeping her mouth shut and not rocking the boat, and reporting it to SAC Parrish. The two hadn’t played in public and had used the private play rooms for appearances only. The only things that had occurred behind closed doors had been a comparison of notes, conversations about the weather, and reading books they’d both stuck in Davis’s alleged toy bag. Before going back out into the crowd, they messed their hair and clothes, then did some pushups to get sweaty and give a freshly-fucked flush to their faces.
A Dead Man's Pulse: Trident Security Omega Team Book 1 Page 7
