All the Pretty Faces (14 page)

“What’s wrong?”

“A beer sounds good, but I’m on duty. I’ll hold off.”

Josie battled disappointment. If he had a beer, he might relax. Might drop the business attitude long enough for them to have a real moment together. But she’d be foolish to invite more when Dane didn’t want it. “Suit yourself,” Josie said as she heated water in a pot.

He retrieved the wine and a glass from the counter and poured her a glass while she chopped onion and garlic and sautéed it in a pan. She added basil and oregano, dumped in a container of cherry tomatoes, then popped the lid on the pan so they would burst.

“You cook a lot?”

Josie shrugged, deciding to go with the small talk. They both needed a reprieve from the intensity of the case. “My mom and I enjoy cooking together. It’s one of my favorite memories as a kid.”

Pain flashed in his eyes.

“Did I say something wrong?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s nice you’re close to her.”

“Did your mother cook?”

Another pained look. “Yeah. Peach pie was her specialty.”

Perplexed at why that seemed to bother him, Josie sipped her wine and added parsley to the sauce. She dumped the pasta into the boiling water, then pulled out Parmesan cheese and began to grate it. “Tell me more about your family.”

His sharp intake of breath made her look up. “Dane?”

He rolled his hands into fists. “My father died when I was a teenager. My mother was devastated, so I became the man of the house.”

“Why do I sense there’s more to the story?”

Dane must have changed his mind—he took a beer from the fridge, opened it, and took a long pull. “Ten years ago, my sister was killed. My mother blames me.” He ran a hand through his hair, walked over and looked out the window, his back to her. “Hell, I blame me.”

Josie stirred the sauce, determined not to push him, but sensing he needed to talk. “Why?”

“Because I was supposed to protect Betsy. She was my kid sister, and I let her down.”

Josie left the pasta sauce simmering and rubbed his shoulder. “I’m sure you did everything you could to protect her.”

He shook his head, then turned to her, his look tormented. “If I had, she would still be here. She would have gotten her degree, maybe been married and had a family by now.” His voice cracked. “She loved kids.”

Josie’s chest clenched. She had suffered herself, but she had survived. She still had a chance to have a family. “What a terrible loss. What happened?”

He dropped his head forward, his shoulders shaking with emotions. “She was visiting UT and went to a college party. The police don’t know what happened, but she was found later. Stabbed to death.”

Josie ran a hand over his back. “I’m so sorry, Dane.”

“Bastard left her in an alley and just went on about his life like she was nothing. But she was a wonderful girl. She was my funny, annoying, lively little sister. She wanted to save the world, for God’s sake.”

“It sounds like you loved her a lot,” Josie said softly.

He nodded. “She loved me, too, but I failed her.”

The guilt in his voice made Josie want to pull him in her arms, but he was so stiff she didn’t dare.

“Did the police catch who did it?” she asked.

“No.” He shook his head, his breathing raspy. “College kids were partying. No one saw anything. Or if they did, they didn’t remember.”

“Just like Charity at that party.”

He nodded again.

So this case triggered his own bad memories. She rubbed slow circles on his back, massaging the tension from his shoulders, then stepped around to face him. He jerked his head sideways, but she cupped his jaw in her hands. “That’s what drives you, isn’t it? You didn’t get justice for her, so now you have to get it for others.”

“That’s the reason I joined law enforcement.” Emotions darkened his expression. “I will find her killer one day,” he said. “I won’t stop until I do. It’s what I live for.”

A wave of sadness washed over Josie. She understood his grief and drive. Although he should have more in his life, someone to care for him, love him.

He looked down at the floor, his shoulders rigid. He was hurting. She desperately wanted to soothe his pain.

Forgetting all the reasons she shouldn’t get involved with him, she whispered his name. “Dane—”

He clenched his jaw, eyes glittering with rage and something else . . .

Need.

She parted her lips on a sigh, sensing he didn’t want words or food—he wanted something else.

Unable to resist, she stroked his cheek, stood on tiptoe, and pressed her lips to his. He stiffened, and for a second she thought she’d made a mistake, that she’d misread him.

That he was going to shove her away.

A heartbeat later, he slid his arms around her, murmured a low sound of hunger in his throat, and fused his mouth with hers, dragging her so close to him that his sex hardened against her belly.

His need for her sparked her courage, and she deepened the kiss and tugged at his shirt. She wanted to feel his bare skin against her fingers, wanted to be in his arms and languishing in his touch so they could both forget about the horror of the murder in this town and the ones in their past.

Dane couldn’t help himself. Josie’s comforting touch softened the ache in his chest.

Talking about his family stirred up anguish. Worse, sharing his feelings with someone made him feel raw all over.

He’d never talked about Betsy or his mother or his damn guilt with anyone. Well, except Cal, and he’d been ass drunk when he’d spilled his guts to him.

Regretting his admission, he started to pull away. Josie threaded her fingers in his hair and traced her tongue around the outside of his mouth, and he tightened his grip instead.

She felt like heaven in his arms, a sweet, blissful relief from the gruesome murder and grisly atmosphere in this town.

Her fingers stroked his hair, her breasts brushing against his chest in a sensual torture. His cock hardened, begging to be inside her. He trailed kisses down her neck and throat while one hand cupped her breast.

She moaned softly. The sound of her pleasure spiked his own. He wanted more.

Heart pounding with need, he removed his holster and gun and laid it on the table.

Fusing his mouth with hers, he kissed her again, his lips forging a path down her neck to her cleavage. Emboldened by her moan, he teased her nipple through her blouse, his breath catching as it stiffened beneath his fingers.

He wanted his mouth on the pebbled nub. Wanted to suckle her until she cried out his name and begged him to take her to bed.

Wanted to be naked and inside her.

Her phone buzzed, jarring him back to reality.

She ignored it and yanked at his shirt. He reached for his buttons, but her phone buzzed again. He glanced down on the table as a text appeared.

A photo.

Dammit to hell. “Josie,” he whispered against her neck.

She moaned again and kissed his neck. “What?”

He hated more than anything to pull away from her. God, he wanted her. He needed her. He had to have her.

But the case came first.

The photograph made his stomach seize. A woman’s tangled hair, naked body, blood, the broken compact. He set Josie away from him and grabbed the phone from the table.

Josie’s eyes widened as he tilted the picture for her to see. She clutched his arm. “Oh God, Dane.”

He nodded grimly.

Another woman—dead.

Posed.

Naked.

Just like Charity Snow.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Josie staggered backward at the sight of the picture. A second ago, she’d been blissfully in Dane’s arms, pleasure replacing the horror.

She couldn’t forget, though, not with another girl dead.

Remembering that the killer had been inside her home before, she raced into her bedroom.

Nausea washed over her.

Another Mitzi doll was lying on her bed, its face carved and bloodstained just like the other doll.

Footsteps echoed behind her, then Dane’s voice. “Shit, he’s been here again.”

Josie’s legs buckled; Dane steadied her with his hand, then enlarged the photograph. “Looks like she’s lying by some bushes. Maybe next to a building.” He murmured a low sound. “There’s a trash can.”

Josie pushed past her revulsion. They needed answers, not for her to be a basket case. She zeroed in on the details in the picture—the leaves on that bush, the gray color of the building. “I think that’s at the community center.”

Dane frowned. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, the knot in her stomach growing. “We have to go.”

She flipped off the gas logs and the stove while he retrieved his gun, strapped on his holster, then punched a number on his phone.

“Sheriff Kimball, it’s Agent Hamrick. There’s been another murder. I think the body is somewhere around the community center. Meet me there.”

Josie grabbed her purse, and seconds later they hurried outside and jumped in his SUV, the kiss between them almost forgotten as he sped toward town.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Josie said, fighting the fear. She was being haunted by the dead and the living. The dead from the previous cases had never left her alone, and now two more women’s faces were screaming at her for answers. Worse, there could be other victims to come. Victims who needed saving. “Why would he take the chance on getting caught by leaving that doll in my house?”

“I think you were right before, he wants you to write his story.” He raked a hand over his jaw. “I’m still wondering why he’s choosing the dolls.”

Chill bumps skated up her spine. If he escalated, he might come in when she was home next time. She didn’t want to be there when that happened.

And he
was
escalating. This wasn’t a single murder.

“The doll represents little girls’ desires to look like her,” Josie said. “Maybe he resents that for some reason.”

“He resents beautiful women,” Dane said. “It has to be because they reject him.”

“Perhaps he’s scarred himself. That’s the reason he scars his victims.”

“That makes sense.”

Josie lapsed into silence as he drove, her mind filled with questions about the victim. Was she another actress?

How had the killer lured her into his trap?

Judging from the theory that he wanted to expose women as fake, was he a fake himself? Did he have scars that he’d covered?

Her pulse quickened. Perhaps that was part of it—he hid his own scars, but one woman had exposed him and rejected him because of them. Now he wanted to get revenge and do the same to others.

Dane parked at the community center, the winds blowing, another storm imminent.

Two murders within a three-day period, both with the same MO. An MO that had the markings of a serial killer.

That made his job more difficult. Instead of a personal connection to each victim, a serial killer chose various targets, usually with some commonality that reminded him of one person he wanted to destroy.

Personal crimes tended to be more crimes of passion or opportunity. Often the murder weapon belonged to the victim or killer. The crime scene might be messy, and the killer usually made mistakes.

Yet a serial killer was a planner. He was methodical, organized, and although he eventually made a mistake, he’d usually practiced and perfected his crime. He’d studied enough to know how to cover his tracks and avoid detection.

He took pleasure in the actual kill.

The rustle of leaves brought Dane out of his thoughts. He scanned the perimeter in case the unsub was lurking around. The place was dark tonight, the quadrangle quiet, the film crew and actors gone for the day.

Dane pulled up the photo again and pointed to a cluster of oaks and a series of red tips along the brick wall. Josie had to be right about it being around back. The front was lined with azaleas. “This is the area we’re looking for. Stay behind me and keep your eyes open,” Dane told Josie. “Sometimes killers like to stick around and watch the police work.”

A siren wailed, and lights flashed, then the sheriff’s police car rolled to a stop in the parking lot. Sheriff Kimball rushed to meet them.

Dane showed the photograph to the sheriff. “It looks like the dump site is in back, but the killer could still be around. Take the right side of the building, and we’ll go left.”

Kimball agreed, and they separated. Dane lit the way with his flashlight. Cigarette butts and a discarded disposable coffee cup littered the ground. Neither would be from the killer, though—this unsub was too meticulous to leave evidence. The way he’d carved the talon marks and cleaned the body to eliminate DNA proved that.

A screeching noise echoed from above. Vultures swarmed near the back corner.

He pointed to the rear of the building. “She’s back there.”

Josie inched along behind him as they crept toward the bushes. Leaves and twigs crackled, the scent of death wafting toward him. As he neared the corner, he spotted a foot protruding from the bushes.

“Stay back,” he said. “This could be gruesome.”

Josie’s loud exhale punctuated the air. “Don’t worry about me, Dane. Let’s just do this.”

He admired her bravado, and forged forward, his gut tightening when they reached the body.

She had been posed just like Charity.

He skimmed his light over her, anger churning at the sight of her naked body and the carving on her face.

He yanked on gloves, took a photo, and then swept a strand of hair from her cheek. The woman’s face was desecrated, the talon marks stark and brutal looking.

And there was a sharp, deep gouge where he’d removed the piece of bone.

Sorrow filled Josie. The poor woman looked to be about her age. Young with dreams ahead of her and hopes for a career—and maybe love and a family.

Sheriff Kimball rushed up, then phoned for the CSI team. “Yes, the southwest corner of the community center. MO appears to be the same as the other victim.”

Josie surveyed the ground and bushes in search of a clue, but didn’t see anything helpful. No purse or wallet, no cell phone, no clothing. Nothing.

The poor woman’s eyes were staring wide open in death, her arms twisted, both legs angled awkwardly. Identical to the way the first victim had been left.

Why contort her body like that? Because it was an unnatural position just as makeup and implants were unnatural?

Leaves had blown down in the wind, and crumbled pieces dotted her hair and body, stuck in the blood soaking her chest.

What had the killer done to her before he’d ended her life?

Dane snapped photographs with his phone. “I’m going to send one to the lab to see if they can run it through the DMV databases and get an ID.”

“How long do you think she’s been dead?” Kimball asked.

Dane shrugged. “ME will have to give us TOD. Judging from rigor, I’d say she died last night or early this morning.”

Josie wiped perspiration from her forehead. “Where did he keep her until he dumped her body?”

“Good question.” Dane turned in a circle as if looking for an abandoned place the killer could have used, but there were no empty warehouses or apartments or houses around.

Kimball began to search the area while Dane knelt beside the body. He gently lifted the girl’s hand, examined her nails, then sniffed her skin.

“He cleaned her with the same kind of strong soap he used on the first victim.”

Josie had moved closer. “Did he rape them?”

“I don’t know.” Dane paused, wishing they had evidence one way or the other. “There were signs that Charity had sex, but the ME said it didn’t appear forced. She could have hooked up with someone before the killer got her.”

“Maybe the kidnapper held her against her will, and she thought if she slept with him, he wouldn’t hurt her.” She’d never understood that kind of desperation until she’d been abducted herself. Although the thought of sleeping with Billy had revolted her. When she’d seen Johnny’s photograph and thought she and Billy were related, shock had seized her. She would have fought Billy to the death if he’d tried to get physical with her.

Thankfully, rape hadn’t been on Billy’s mind. He’d wanted a wife—a
pure
wife—and wouldn’t have touched her until after the wedding ceremony.

Tears burned the backs of her eyes as she imagined this woman’s frantic attempts to save her own life.

“That’s possible,” Dane said darkly. “Or perhaps this guy is charming and seduced her, then turned on her afterward. The poor girl probably never saw it coming.”

Josie’s chest squeezed. “That could be true, too.” She considered their suspects. “Eddie Easton fits that profile. He could easily lure the women to go with him. He can be charming. His father is a sculptor, so he knows his way around a scalpel. He has also volunteered with raptors.”

She hesitated. “Doyle Yonkers and Porter McCray would have a harder time attracting women.”

“True. Yonkers cremates animals for a living. He could be a psychopath,” Dane suggested. “He has some history of violence and killing animals. And we can’t forget that he showed up both times you were nearly hurt.”

Josie fidgeted at the reminder. “If he killed these two women, why not cremate them instead of leaving them for you to find?”

Dane worked his mouth side to side. “Maybe because it’s about you—he wants to impress you with his MO like the Bride Killer did.”

“I suppose you could be right. Sometimes serial killers actually want to get caught.”

Another siren wailed, and seconds later, the CSU’s van pulled up. Lieutenant Ward exited the van along with his crew.

“We should warn the women in town that a serial killer is loose,” Josie said.

“No. Technically it takes three murders to constitute a serial killer.” Dane scowled. “Creating panic won’t help.”

“The women in town have a right to know, Dane. Maybe we can save a life or catch him if they’re on the alert.”

“First let me identify this victim and notify her family. We don’t want anything leaking before they’re informed.” His gaze met hers. “I also don’t want the details of the MO revealed.”

An image of the mutilated doll on her bed flashed back. “Of course I won’t say anything. I intend to help you lock up this sicko.”

Maybe she’d talk to the producer about putting production on hold until they had the man in custody.

The town was swarming with beautiful women—caked in stage makeup and desperate for any chance to stand out. If the film went away, so would the killer’s hunting pool.

Dane spent the next couple of hours overseeing the crime scene investigators. Josie handled herself well, patiently waiting, asking appropriate questions, yet staying out of the way.

“Tomorrow we’ll canvass the film crew and actors again to see if anyone saw anything. Maybe someone will come forward with information.”