Authors: Shannon Curtis
Acknowledgments
When it comes to writing a book, there are many hands involved. I’d like to thank my dearest crit gals—The Writer’s Coven: Jennifer, Paula, Margie, Deb, Coleen and Kitty (whose names I couldn’t fit into this story, but watch out for the next one!), for assuring me that my idea of a killing couple really could have merit—it was a delight including you in this story. Okay, and for Tim Tams. Mustn’t forget the Tim Tams.
I also want to thank clinical psychologist, Dr. John Barletta, for his amazing insight into the psyche of some of my characters. Your contribution was invaluable. So was your Sicilian sense of humour!
To my friends, Margaret Adam and Rowena Macpherson, for some classic lines I just had to use!
And to the team at Carina: Megan Records—for making what I write read even better; Angela James, for the opportunity of publishing it; Siobhan Clayton and the cover art team who are just so talented; and Angela Hill, for her sharp eyes on the prize.
And a very special thank you to @Pearl_828 for the villain names—you helped this writer through her writer’s block!
Thank you, one and all.
Contents
Prologue
Don’t let them see your fear.
Dr. Karl Kruger closed the door behind the couple who had just entered his consulting room. He pasted a confident, bright smile on his face.
Don’t let them see your fear.
He couldn’t help comparing his patients to watch dogs. Wary, guarded, with a controlled power that seemed a moment away from unleashing into violence. Especially the man. Adrian Heinemann’s lips smiled, but it was his eyes, those eyes that could change from warm and smiling to a cold deadpan stare between one blink and the next, that so unnerved the doctor.
He couldn’t quite rationalize his sense of unease. He was surrounded by everything that gave him comfort. That fueled his sense of peace and purpose. His certificates and awards hung on the walls, along with the photos of patients whose lives he’d changed with the slice of his scalpel. There was the desk he’d picked out himself, large enough to give just the perfect amount of stature to his wealthy clients, but still reasonable as to avoid seeming ostentatious. The curtained-off area hid the tools of his trade that had awarded him his wealth and reputation as one of the finest plastic surgeons in Chicago, if not the country.
Yet surrounded by all these things, he was afraid.
Don’t let them see your fear.
At least Kruger knew his daughter, Orla, had left for the day. He’d instructed her to leave early, insisting he would close up the surgery once this couple left. This couple, who had seemed so nice, so earnest and reasonable with their initial request, yet who had displayed a cold calculation with their facial selection and their post-operative care.
They’d passed his psych evaluation with flying colors. They’d made all the appropriate responses in order to be approved, despite his probing. He should have known, though. Should have seen past their pleasant façade, just as he’d seen underneath their skin and muscle as he’d carefully, meticulously rearranged their features so that they were now unrecognizable to their own mothers.
Any person who wanted a total facial reconstruction, when their own face was without injury or defect, obviously needed some form of therapy.
Or else they had something to hide
.
Dr. Kruger took his seat behind his desk, and gestured for his patients to take theirs.
“So, how are we feeling?”
He listened as they described what sounded like a perfect recovery. He examined their faint scars, gently prodded their faces for tone and elasticity over the newly modeled cheekbones, chin, and eyebrow ridge. The incisions he’d made in their upper and lower eyelids for the blepharoplasty were virtually invisible. The implants he’d inserted into the cheekbones were well placed, and the chin re-shaping had healed well. He’d trimmed excess fat from their neck and targeted facial area to improve overall contouring, and the rhinoplasty he’d performed on each patient had drastically changed their appearance, as he’d advised them it would. Each surgery had been performed with two objectives: maximize alteration in their appearance, and do so with minimal scarring. He’d succeeded on both counts, using the natural creases and folds or inside the nose and mouth for his incisions.
He wished he could take satisfaction in a job well done—and it was, of course. He wouldn’t work any other way, but...still. These patients unsettled him. He’d worked with many patients—burns victims, car crash survivors, those suffering with hideous deformities and conditions, as well as those with too much money and a dissatisfaction with their nose or cup size—yet never in his thirty-three years of practice had he ever considered a patient a freak.
Now he had two.
Dr. Kruger closed the file with a snap. “Well, I guess that’s it, then.” He walked over to the door.
Get out.
Just get out
. They were unnerving, creepy, with a hidden aggression he couldn’t see, but could feel, roiling beneath the surface. He was astounded that they’d managed to hide it from him for so long. He didn’t care, though. He just wanted them gone from his surgery. He smiled calmly, but his knuckles were white as they twisted the door knob.
“Let me know if you have any problems, as we discussed, but I’m satisfied with your progress. I think we’re done. You’ll probably need a follow-up consultation in about twelve months, but otherwise, you’re good to go.”
And stay gone.
Both of his patients rose from their seats and approached him. Tara smiled, but Adrian’s expression remained...intent.
Kruger’s smile dropped instantly as the taller man’s hands closed around his wrist, and pushed the door closed.
“Not quite yet,” Adrian said, and for once, his brittle smile did reach his eyes. Kruger frowned, looking from one to the other.
Relax.
This is a secure building.
What’s the worst they can do?
He consciously lowered his shoulders from their tense position near his ears.
“What’s the matter?”
Tara sidled up next to him, her smile for once not forced as Adrian locked the door.
“There’s no need to lock the door,” Kruger said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.
Don’t let them see your fear
. He shifted his arms a little, trying to get air to cool his suddenly sweaty armpits. “There’s nobody else here.” He’d meant to be reassuring, soothing, but he realized he may have exposed his vulnerability. He cast a quick glance at the phone on his desk. He could call building security, but the phone seemed like a whole world away from where he stood. “Please open the door.”
Adrian and Tara exchanged a quick look, before returning their attention back to him. They were planning something, Kruger realized. Something terrible.
“Look, any meds I have are in that cupboard.” He fished the keys out of the pocket of his white coat with shaking fingers. “Here, use this.” He held up the key for the cupboard, wishing he could control his nerves, and stop the keys from tinkling so loudly, so obviously.
Adrian shook his head. “We’re not addicts,” he said, his voice whisper quiet. “We don’t want your drugs.”
Kruger hesitated. The keys stopped jangling. Then what was this all about? His heart started to hammer.
Tara reached up and removed his spectacles. He was distracted briefly as Adrian’s grip on his wrist tightened, and he tried to tug it free. He glanced down at the woman next to him, and froze at the sight of the surgical scissors she’s swiped from his tray.
“We want your silence,” she said, as she plunged the scissors into his chest.
White-hot pain lanced through him.
“No!” he screamed in pain, in denial. In shock. He staggered back into the waiting arms of Adrian, who held his arms down as Tara pulled the scissors from his chest. He felt it, heard the sucking noise as his body tried to close around the intrusive blades as they were removed.
He tried to raise his arms, to block the next strike.
“No!”
The scissors jabbed into his chest, again and again. After the first two thrusts, Kruger felt no more pain, just stared dazedly as the blood-soaked instrument rose again and again. His knees disappeared, and he sagged heavily against the man restraining him. He tried to scream, tried to call for help...tried to tell her to stop, but only guttural grunts, like a pain-stricken animal, emerged from his throat as he coughed up blood.
His head was heavy. He couldn’t hold it up any more. He couldn’t see, only sense. Cold. It was so cold.
His head was pulled back. Dark. Dark and cold. His last thought was that he’d been right to fear them. He gained no comfort from being right.
Fortunately he was dead before the scissors plunged into his eye.
Chapter One
Riding in a car with a miffed Vicky Hastings was like wearing a new suit only to find your tailor had left a pin in the pants—generally comfortable, but with the occasional prick of annoyance. The sweet, heavenly silence was only ruined by the intermittent prod to his guilty conscience.
Ryan steered the Lexus through the late afternoon traffic. Vicky sat next to him, calm and serene, a complete contrast to the red-haired shrew who’d snapped at him in reception that morning. Apparently he’d said something to annoy her.
Again
. She’d been silent ever since she’d given him her friend’s address. He couldn’t stand it. Vicky was anything but quiet. This was unnatural. He turned the car radio down.
“What is the problem?”
This time.
Vicky turned to him briefly, before returning her gaze to the passing scenery. She sighed. “You pissed me off.”
Ryan nodded. “I kind of got that. Why?”
She hesitated, as though she was picking her words carefully. Another un-Vicky-like moment.
“Why does it seem so ludicrous for me to play an active part in this particular investigation?”
Ryan countered her question with one of his own. “Why do you want to?”
She shrugged. “She’s a close friend, Ryan. What happened was...horrible. I know she wants answers, needs them. So do I. I want to get out from behind my desk and
do
things, important things. Starting with this case. It upset me that you don’t think I’m capable of that.”
He shot her a quick glance. “I don’t think you’re incapable of it, just that you’re not ready. Yet. What if you get into trouble? Or need to go undercover? Undercover is a whole new ball game, Vic. It’s dangerous. You have to lie your ass off, and you have to immerse yourself so much in the character that you believe the lie, too. You become that lie.”
“I can do it.” Her affirmation was admirable, if a little naive. “I can.”
Ryan snorted. “Vic, you don’t lie. I’ve known you for three years now, since you started at MSA. You don’t lie. You state what’s on your mind.”
Whether you wanted to hear it or not
. It was funny. She had the knack with clients: polite, professional. But once you were granted access to her inner friend circle, she would be totally honest and frank, mostly with a smile and chuckle. Sometimes not, like this morning. It was one of the reasons he liked talking to her. No prevarication, no duplicity, just straight up Vicky. She was such a contrast to all the deceit and betrayal he dealt with in his own undercover roles that he always enjoyed coming home to her—but he wasn’t going to tell her that. Christ, he’d never hear the end of it.
“I’m still not sure why your friend wants
you
to look into her father’s death. We can handle it.”
We
being the trained agents at MSA, not the operations-manager-slash-receptionist.
She twisted in the seat to face him. “Didn’t you ever have a friend that you would do anything for? One that you shared so much with, cared so much about, that you’d take a bullet for them? Run into a burning building for them? Jump off a bridge for them? You know. Anything.”
He kept his eyes on the road, determined not to laugh in her face. It was an interesting concept. He didn’t have many close friends except for his MSA family. He’d served in the Special Forces with the MSA core staff: Reese, Luke, Noah, and Drew. He knew they had his back, and he had theirs—but that was because they’d proven their willingness to risk their lives, time and time again. So, yes, he would risk his life for his MSA comrades. In a normal friend relationship, though, he didn’t have that blind, semi-suicidal loyalty that Vicky seemed to be talking about. He didn’t trust anyone else enough for that.
“I don’t know, Vic,” he said honestly.
She was silent for a moment, and he flicked her a glance. She wore a surprised expression, tinged with a faint emotion that he could only guess was hurt, but he couldn’t figure out why his words would hurt. He was being honest with her.
She turned to stare out of the windshield. “Well, that’s what Orla is to me. If she needed me to jump off a bridge, I would. And I think she’d do the same.”
“You
think
.” Ryan pounced on the word. “But you don’t know for sure.”
Vicky frowned, but there was an upward tilt to her lips, as though something puzzled her and amused her at the same time. “There are no absolutes in friendship, Ryan. Sometimes you have to have a little faith.”
Ryan arched an eyebrow. It seemed a little risky, to him.
Faith
. He’d seen trust and faith turn into a terrifying prison of dependence and depraved dysfunction. Vicky could keep her damned faith. He wanted proof positive before he committed to jumping off any damn bridges.
“You could start by letting me drive home,” she suggested, her tone hopeful.
Why? So that he could be stuck in the car as her
passenger?
He cringed at the thought of letting her take control of his wheel. “Not a chance. How did you meet Orla, anyway?” he asked. In what universe would the daughter of a prominent plastic surgeon possibly have something in common with the natural, girl-next-door Vicky?
“I met her years ago, through work. Hey, we need to turn in here. This is her street.”
An answer that gave no real information. Ryan frowned, but followed her direction without comment. They were in a wealthy neighborhood, one where magnificent mansions sat behind high stone fences, and big nasty dogs patrolled expansive grounds. He’d seen Vicky’s apartment, had helped her move all her junk in, and couldn’t help again wondering how two women from different circles, different jobs, could possibly have forged such a strong bond.
Dark iron gates with an elaborate
K
enscrolled in the center where the two gates joined provided a decorative yet formidable barrier to the property. Ryan pulled the car to a stop at the intercom by the gate and pressed the buzzer. They waited for a few moments. The late winter afternoon sun cast long shadows, and they sat in dappled gloom.
“She knows we’re coming, right?”
“Yes, Ryan, she does.”
He pressed the buzzer again. No response. “So why isn’t anyone letting us in?”
“Orla lives here now with just a housekeeper. There isn’t an army of servants at her beck and call. It probably takes her some time to get to the intercom.”
Ryan put the car into park and got out. He walked up to the gate and peered through. “Hello? Anyone there?” he called.
All he could see were well-manicured lawns interrupted with a stately tree-bordered drive that bore the promise of spring, but now stood lonely and naked, limbs scraggling toward the sky. He couldn’t see the house from this point. No woman strolled leisurely down the drive to greet them. No groundsman came to see what all the fuss was about. No big nasty dogs, either.
“Does she have any dogs?” He’d had enough encounters with guard dogs to know he didn’t want to encounter one.
Vicky got out of the car and approached the gates. “I think she has one, but she’s more of a pet than a guard dog.”
“That’s what they all
seem
like...” he muttered.
“Maybe she’s off somewhere making funeral arrangements for her father, talking to caterers, or the church. Florists, maybe...” Vicky eyed the gates doubtfully.
“Can you call her?”
Vicky nodded, and retrieved her cell phone from her pocket. She made one call, and waited for it to be answered. After a moment she shook her head. “Her home phone is going to answering machine. Let me try her cell.”
She made the call, and Ryan watched her pensive expression. She was worried. He glanced up the drive. Orla had worked as the receptionist in her father’s inner-city surgery, up until his murder a few nights ago.
He’d read the file. As soon as Vicky had declared she would be taking Orla’s statement personally, he’d read it cover to cover. The victim, Dr. Kruger, had urged his daughter to leave early on the Monday night, and she’d found his body the next morning on her return to work. Orla knew of the mysterious couple who held the last appointment with Dr. Kruger. She’d greeted them in the reception as she’d left. A couple who had destroyed any record of their treatment. He was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. He listened with detachment as Vicky left a message on Orla’s voicemail service.
He strode up to the wrought iron gate, shook it gently to test it, then proceeded to climb up the scroll work.
“Ryan, what are you doing?” Vicky hissed as she hurried up to the gate.
“Why are you whispering?” He glanced briefly over his shoulder to catch Vicky checking up and down the road.
“Because you’re breaking and entering,” she whispered as she stepped closer.
He shook his head as he swung one leg over the top of the gate, then the other. “I’m not breaking anything. Just entering.” He dropped to the ground and grinned at Vicky through the gate. She took a step forward, then shook her head and folded her arms. She turned back to the car. Paused. Glanced over her shoulder at him. He grinned at her from the other side of the gate. Vicky was the most cautious person he knew, which is why she was so good as Operations Support—and why she’d make a lousy field operative. Not enough crazy in her.
As though reading his thoughts, Vicky shoved the cell phone into her trouser pocket and strode up to the gate. Placing one heeled shoe on an ornate iron curl, she proceeded to climb.
“Sure you want to do that? Wouldn’t want to ruin those fancy pants.” Ryan couldn’t help his teasing tone.
“Shut up.”
His grin pulled tighter as she clambered over the gate. She levered herself over and dropped to the ground. He caught her to steady her. “You’re a damn monkey, Miss Hastings.”
“Two older brothers,” Vicky said breathlessly. “Lots of climbing practice.”
His hand rested on her hips, and he was surprised by the impulse to slide his arms around her. He jerked his hands back.
“Er, okay, you know this place. Lead the way.” He made a rolling motion with his arm, and she walked by him up the drive. Her hips swung gently with each stride, and he found his gaze following the movement, until he realized what he was doing.
This is Vicky
,
for Chrissakes
. Pain-in-the-butt, confidante Vicky. He shouldn’t be enjoying her hips. Of all the women in the world, Vicky was definitely out of bounds. He hurried up to walk by her side.
It took them a few minutes to walk up the drive, the gravel crunching in the icy mud underfoot. Ryan kept an eye out for any rabid dog that took its guard duties too seriously, but heard and saw nothing.
Nothing
. His unease grew with each step.
“Why don’t you go back and wait by the car,” he said to Vicky when they rounded the last bend and the house came into view. As mansions go, it was modest, with white colonial-style pillars, red brick and white trim, it looked like the quintessential American home. On steroids.
“What? And have a stranger walking the grounds scare my friend? I’m coming with you.”
Ryan sighed. “Okay, but just stay behind me, all right?”
Vicky rolled her eyes. “Sure.”
He took a step onto the lawn. She frowned. “Where are you going?”
“I was going to look around the back.”
“Why don’t we just knock on the front door?”
Ryan hesitated. Because he wasn’t used to announcing his presence. Because he wasn’t used to walking up to the front door of any place and just knocking to gain entrance. He skulked in the shadows. He lied and tricked his way to get what he wanted. He deceived, he hid. Sometimes he brazened it out. He didn’t knock and greet. He had to remind himself he wasn’t undercover. They were here to interview a new client and he was operating on gut instinct, reverting to what felt natural. This didn’t feel natural. Vicky was probably right, though. If nothing was wrong, he’d look a little sheepish trying to explain to Orla Kruger why he was prowling around the property.
“Fine.”
Vicky went up to the front door and knocked on it. They waited. No response. She knocked again and then rang the doorbell. No response.
“I guess she’s really not home, then,” Vicky said slowly. She was scanning the front of the house. “It’s unusual for Orla to skip an appointment like this, without a phone call or anything.”
Ryan watched as her gaze became assessing. “Let’s go around the back,” he suggested. “Maybe she’s out there and can’t hear us.”
They walked along the wide, wraparound verandah toward the rear of the two-story home. Ryan found himself on a patio with a view over well-maintained terraced gardens. He walked up to the French doors and cupped his hands up to the glass, peering inside.
“Can you see her?”
“No.” He scanned the room inside. It looked like some sort of jungle, with potted plants everywhere. Who the hell planted a jungle inside? It provided loads of cover for an intruder. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a dark pouch. He could see Vicky’s reflection in the glass as she came up beside him. He unzipped the pouch and withdrew two lock-picking tools.
“Ryan! What are you doing?” This time her whisper was fierce. She glanced hurriedly around the area.
“I’m just making sure everything is all right,” Ryan answered in a whisper. If he couldn’t dupe his way past a barrier, or blast through it, he tinkered, toyed, and maneuvered until he achieved his goal. Breaking the rules came as naturally to him as breathing.
Do what you’ve got to do
,
to get the job done
. That was his mantra. He shifted a little. He just wasn’t used to doing it in front of Vicky.
He crouched down so that his eyes were on level with the lock. “Here, hold this.” He handed her the pouch as she made a sound of protest. His tongue between his teeth, he carefully jiggled the tools inside the lock until he felt the tumbler catch.
“Come on, sweetheart, open for me,” he murmured. A twist, a push, and he was rewarded with a faint click. He smiled in satisfaction as he rose to his feet.
“Ryan! We can’t! It’s breaking and entering.”
He shot her an innocent look as he opened the door. “Again, I haven’t broken anything. Just entering.”