Authors: Toni Anderson
It was her own fault.
“I won’t kill you if you don’t
make a sound…”
Only the child had remained silent. But she wasn’t a child
any longer. A shiver ran through his flesh as he remembered the scars. Perfect
silver marks against pale white skin.
His.
The same way this pathetic creature
was his.
Blood soaked the mattress. It
spattered him too. He stepped out of his coveralls and stuffed them in a black
garbage bag that he’d incinerate. The knife handle was solid in his hand.
Weighty. Familiar. Latex gloves made his palms sweat. A necessary evil. Duct
tape quieted her screams. Another concession to the neighbors.
Killing in the city was more
difficult than killing in the great outdoors, but even though he missed the
thrill of the noise they made when he cut them, he had no intention of getting
caught. Once he’d finished what he’d started all those years ago, once he’d
completed the circle, he’d move on. He’d change his identity and stop for a
while. Experiment with other ways to calm the bloodlust.
The scars on his chest itched. He
couldn’t stop forever. God knew he’d tried.
Memories of violence ricocheted
inside his head like a hammer smashing a steel drum. The tightness in his chest
made breathing difficult.
Only boys and women scream. It’s time to be a man.
He opened his eyes wide so he could see his power, not remember his
weakness. He was a man now, not a child. It was his turn to dominate and
control.
He started to shake. It was too
soon to have done this again, but the rush was too hot, too intense to fight
for long. The drums grew louder. He craved the domination, despised the
weakness.
He looked down at the girl’s bloody
perfection and breathed deep, trying to calm the fierce contractions of his
heart.
He
was the last thing she’d seen on this earth and the knowledge
filled him with power that no one could ever take away. He eyed the area of
flesh he’d skinned. She’d had a tattoo marring her body. She was his canvas.
His work, and she’d been tainted by graffiti. Not a masterpiece, not even
close. But she’d served her purpose and now it was time to get out. He picked
up the garbage and stroked her face one last time. Maybe once he killed the
child he could move on from the past. He’d destroy it all if he had to.
***
A Queen Anne desk
and matching chair were positioned before the window overlooking Gramercy Park.
Light streamed through the sheer drapes, casting a soft almost spiritual glow
over the room. Marsh squinted against the brightness. Josephine wasn’t talking
to him. He forced himself to relax his jaw, hoping to alleviate the headache
that drilled his temples. It had been a long night on a hard couch, staring up
at a dull ceiling while trying not to think about the woman in the next room.
Fresh peonies and gardenia sat in a
fat crystal globe adding an overpowering scent to the picture-perfect room. A
Degas
sketch hung over the Adam’s fireplace. Elegant. Expensive. The décor reminded
him of a thousand other sitting rooms of a thousand other society matrons whom
he’d visited over the years, including his own mother’s.
Leaning against a damask-covered
settee he tried to picture Pru Duvall in this setting and failed. Somehow the
image didn’t jive. Despite her Southern hauteur and classy pedigree, the hard
edge of her personality made her more suited for chrome, marble and splintered
glass.
With his expensive suit and highly
polished Italian shoes, god help him, he fit right in. Adjusting the strap on
his holster allowed him at least the illusion he was something more than
society dead weight. The memory of a sulking Josephine sipping coffee and
staring silently out of her loft window flashed through his mind. They came
from totally different worlds but he didn’t care. He’d almost lost her a few
days ago. Tragedy had brought them together but this time he was determined to
work things out. Somehow.
So how the hell did I manage to
screw up last night so badly?
Pru strode in, followed by the aide
he’d seen at the opening. Marsh stood as Dancer straightened from where he’d
been examining a
Meissen
snake-handle-vase.
Marsh flicked an uneasy gaze at his
agent.
Please, don’t bug a US Senator and his wife
.
“Marshall Hayes.” The crackle in
Pru’s voice was husky. “You turn up in the most unexpected places. If I didn’t
know better I’d think you’d taken a fancy to me.”
Inside Marsh recoiled, but quashed
it. Maybe Josephine was right, maybe Pru was looking for a little extracurricular
bedroom action and though he’d rather suck battery acid, he sent her a smooth
smile. “A woman as lovely as you must have many admirers.”
Tilting her head courteously, she
seemed to accept his compliment at face value, or accept the society dance the
way they’d both been raised. Her baby-pink sweater was cashmere, her A-line
skirt mauve-colored tweed. Everything screamed conservatism, except for the
scalpel-edged glint in her eyes.
Turning her head, she faced Dancer
with another predatory smile. “And who are you?”
With his floppy red hair and
freckles, Steve Dancer looked more like a Catholic schoolboy than an FBI
Special Agent. Something that usually worked to his advantage. Right now Pru
Duvall looked like she dined on Catholic schoolboys for breakfast.
He walked over and shook her hand.
“Special Agent Dancer. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Duvall.” Marsh had a sudden
vision of Huckleberry Finn being made into a fashion accessory by Cruella De
Vil.
“And this is Geoffrey Parker,
Brook’s PA.” She wiggled her fingertips in the aide’s direction and he nodded
briefly, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. “I’ve stolen him for the
morning.”
The perfect society hostess, Pru
rang for coffee and made herself comfortable on the loveseat opposite. Never mind
they were here to interview her for something as tawdry as art fraud and theft.
Marsh waited for the coffee to
arrive before he got down to business. He set down his dainty porcelain cup on
its dinky saucer and felt like a bumbling giant. Dancer looked as uncomfortable
with his, holding it protectively like a quarterback shielded a ball.
“Mrs. Duvall, Pru. I need to ask
you about a painting you sold to Total Mastery Galleries last spring—it was on
show at the same gallery opening you attended the other evening.”
She waved her hand in a way that
suggested talking trade was crude. “I have a business manager who handles all
that. Geoffrey can give you his card.”
“Your business manager will need to
answer some pretty serious questions, Pru. Possibly criminal.” Marsh watched
her pupils dilate.
“Why?” Geoffrey ventured, trying to
diffuse a potentially volatile situation.
Marsh drew out a photograph of the
painting from his jacket pocket. Slipped it onto the table. “Do you recognize
it?”
She shook her head.
Despite his many years being a
lawman he couldn’t read her. “Blue Steel Trading Corporation sold the picture
for a fraction its actual worth, about six months ago.” He didn’t mention that
the painting was a suspected Vermeer and worth much more.
De Hooch
was
valuable enough. And regardless, it was stolen.
Pru picked up her own coffee and
sipped delicately. “What does my having an incompetent business manager have to
do with the FBI?”
“The painting was actually stolen
in February nineteen-ninety from Admiral Chambers.” Marsh watched for a
reaction.
“That old coot?” The light in her
eyes was cold, but she laughed. “He probably lost it in a poker game after
drinking too much and forgot about it the next day.”
Marsh had figured Brook and Pru
Duvall might know the admiral, though laughter wasn’t the reaction he’d
expected.
“Be that as it may, he reported it
stolen and your company sold it to Total Mastery Galleries this year. We need
to know where it’s been the last decade and, more importantly, where you obtained
the painting.”
The lines around Pru’s eyes creased
infinitesimally. More power to plastic surgery. “Like I said, Marshall.” Her
fingers gripped her cup lightly, tendons straining beneath her pale skin. “My
business manager handles all that.”
Geoffrey cleared his throat, but
Marsh ignored him.
“Are you telling me you have no
knowledge of this painting?” He tapped his fingers on the photo she hadn’t even
glanced at.
Pru picked it up and made a big
show of focusing, as if she needed glasses. Marsh bet his badge her sight was
20:20, laser-quality.
“I don’t pay much attention to
art.” She raised a brow and looked straight at him as if daring him to
disagree.
“Can you tell me why you were at
the gallery opening on Friday night then?” Picking up his ridiculous cup of
coffee, he finished it in one gulp.
“We received an invitation. We
went.”
“So you don’t actually know the
Faradays?”
Something altered in the light of
her eyes. Leaning forward she held his gaze. “Have I done something illegal,
Special
Agent in Charge
Hayes? Because if you are hinting at indiscretion on my
part I’ll call my lawyer.”
Marsh had wondered when the big
guns would be drawn. Seemed they’d reached Pru Duvall’s very low tolerance for
the US justice system. And she hadn’t answered the question. Although given her
impatient nature maybe that wasn’t such a surprise.
Geoffrey moved toward Pru. “I’ll
get you the contact information you need, Agent Hayes.”
Interview over
.
Marsh tilted his head. His smile
was sweet as honey. “I’m sure your business manager can clear up any
misunderstanding.” He stood. “I certainly don’t want to cause trouble for Brook
so close to the race for nomination.” His smile was flat.
Dancer hid a guffaw behind a cough
and drew Pru’s attention. She stared at him the way a cat scoped out a mouse.
“That’s a bad cough you’ve got
there, Agent Dancer,” she purred. “I hope it doesn’t turn into something
nasty.”
Dancer sobered quickly. “I’m always
extra careful with my health, Mrs. Duvall.”
“Good.” The reply was accompanied
by another icy smile. Prudence Duvall was hiding something and he was going to
find out exactly what it was. As they left he eyed the
Meissen
vase.
Marsh hoped Dancer had bugged the witch.
Chapter
Eight
_______________
J
osie combined work with a
pilgrimage. The Statue of Liberty loomed overhead, three hundred and five feet,
two-hundred and twenty-five tons of American pride. Designed by the French.
Celebrating independence from the British.
And didn’t that say it all.
Oil pastels made her hands greasy.
Her sketchbook rested against a mini-easel Elizabeth had bought her a couple of
Christmases ago, expensive as hell, and not something Josie would ever have
indulged in.
Her mood plunged. The scent of
brine was thick in the air, but when she closed her eyes for a split second she
was back in Montana and Andrew DeLattio had her crowded into the back of his
van, his hand up her shirt as he taunted Elizabeth on her cell phone. She
missed her best friend. Thanked god Andrew DeLattio had gotten his head blown
off before he could hurt her again.
A shudder of revulsion snaked down
her spine. He was dead, dammit, and the Blade Hunter was going to join him in
hell.
A gull screamed overhead and broke
her reverie.
Vince lay twenty feet away
stretched out on the grass. He looked asleep, but she figured ex-Navy SEAL war
heroes could look asleep without actually being asleep. Took years of training,
but no one ever said being a SEAL was easy.
The sun felt hot on her cheek. She
picked up a pale blue pastel, squinted at it then switched it for a darker
shade instead. The sky was a brilliant ultra-marine. Pristine and perfect and
peaceful.
A deception as every New Yorker
knew.
Her mouth turned down at terrible
memories that had changed her and her city forever.
They said that what didn’t kill you
made you stronger but if that were true she wouldn’t be such a coward about
everything that really mattered.
Concentrating on the only thing she
knew how to do well, she started shading in some of the background, having
blocked out the statue and pedestal with broad strokes. There was something
vibrant about the way the green of the statue shimmered against that bright
blue sky and she wanted to capture it. Photographs helped, but she knew from
experience they wouldn’t reproduce the colors exactly. Nor would pastel but she
had her paints too. Using combinations of all three media she hoped to do the
lady justice.
As a native, she’d been
commissioned by the Tourist Board to do a series of NYC paintings. It was good
reliable work in a career that rarely had good reliable work.
The first two paintings had been of
the Chrysler Building and the Empire State. One, a close up of the art deco
detailing; the other a monument to a more ascetic architectural period. Rubbing
the bridge of her nose she sighed. It was hard to draw skyscrapers in this
city—too much associated pain. She looked over her right shoulder at the place
where so many people had perished and her throat closed.
Bracing her shoulders, she raised
her chin. She wouldn’t be a coward because one man wanted to hurt her. People
from this city were stronger than that. They weren’t easily cowed, especially
when they had a hulking bodyguard at their beck and call.
Sleek gulls buzzed overhead. Determinedly
she rubbed the pastel over the paper, getting on with her life. They’d catch
this bastard and Marshall Hayes would get the hell back to Boston.
The oil pastel snapped beneath her
finger. “Dammit.”
Concentrating on the statue, she
picked up the pale green and a dark leaf-green that was almost black for deeper
shadows, holding both in the same hand as she sketched in details. Grabbed
cadmium-yellow and white, and with a couple of strokes gave Liberty her fire.
To get the sharp edge she needed
for the spikes of the diadem, she pulled out her little penknife and sharpened
the edge of an iced green.
“You have a permit for that?”
She jumped a half-inch off her
seat. Marsh squeezed a hand on her shoulder and blasted a hole through her
determination to keep things between them strictly professional.
Lines cut deeply around his mouth,
sunlight molding his stubborn jaw. She rolled her shoulder away from his touch,
didn’t like the fact she was so happy to see him. “You gonna arrest me if I
don’t?”
“I do still have those handcuffs.”
Heat flooded her cheeks as unbidden
memories rose. A whiplash of heat coiled low in her body, a touch-light to
passion. The brightness of his gaze made her blink, his eyes more green today
than brown—clear, complex, changeable. She knew he wanted to protect her, but
those deep hazel eyes also promised something else. Soul scorching sex.
What single unattached woman in her
right mind wouldn’t want to have sex with a rich handsome federal agent who’d
promised to protect them from a monster? It didn’t make her a slut. It finally
made her ordinary.
Taking off his charcoal-colored
jacket he slumped on the bench beside her, his knees brushing hers. He stared
at the sketch with a thoughtful expression, but said nothing, his frown
intensifying with his silence. It took every ounce of control not to ask him
what he thought. But her work had always been her own, not influenced by the
opinions of others or the contrary moods of the market.
A bit like her.
The rumble in her stomach told her
it was lunchtime. Unable to work with him watching, she packed away her pastels
and placed the sketch in her portfolio. She looked around for Vince, but he’d
taken off.
“You on duty?” she asked with a
sinking heart.
Why else would he be here?
“He went for a walk.” The lines
beside his eyes deepened as he squinted up at the statue. “I came to let you
know I probably won’t be at your apartment tonight.”
Her fingers curled.
Dammit
,
she wasn’t completely helpless. “I can go stay with Pete for the night—you
remember Pete? My ex-roomie?”
A red line burned across Marsh’s
cheeks. “There are some people you never forget—Pete and his lover definitely
fall into that category.” He closed his eyes and a shudder rippled across his
shoulders.
Neither he nor Pete would say what
had passed between them. “You don’t like gay people?”
Marsh threw his head back and
laughed deep and loud. His throat was pale bronze against the pure blue sky,
his Adam’s apple clearly defined. Josie grinned. She didn’t remember the last
time she’d heard him let loose with a laugh and despite trying to hold onto her
irritation, she liked it.
“Gay doesn’t bother me one bit.”
Then he shifted to face her, his thigh brushing hers as she held his gaze. “In
fact, finding out your roomie was gay and not your live-in lover made my
freaking day.”
She swallowed. “Oh.”
His smile told her he’d revealed
more than he wanted to and changed the subject. “Vince said he’d stay over at
your apartment, until I got back,” Marsh told her, “which could even be late
tonight but will probably be tomorrow.”
“Okay.” There was a serial killer
who had a blade with her name on it and, despite appearances, she wasn’t
stupid. In truth she was unbearably beholden to them both and one day soon she
needed to be brave enough to tell them that.
Bending down she finished packing
her stuff into her knapsack. She had enough detail and color information to
carry on the work at home. And she couldn’t concentrate with Marsh so close.
That bothered her because normally nothing distracted her.
Spotting the urn at the bottom of
her bag she paused. She’d planned to scatter Marion’s ashes to the four winds
today. But she couldn’t do it. As much as she tried, as much as she’d promised
herself, she still couldn’t let go of the past.
Pain welled up, but she didn’t want
Marsh to sense anything was wrong. The fact that Marion was dead had a lot to
do with him and she hadn’t even begun to deal with her feelings over that yet.
Maybe that was the reason she’d
run so hard from him?
Punished them both for being alive when Marion was so
horribly dead? Or maybe it was just good old-fashioned terror of getting
involved and getting your heart tenderized with a meat mallet.
“Where are you off to?” she asked.
“Savannah.”
“Oh.”
What the hell was in
Savannah?
She refused to ask, knowing how seriously he took his job.
Craning her neck she stared up at the image of freedom and independence,
ignored the gnawing under her heart at her lack of those qualities in her life.
A pigeon landed on the ground in front of her, a puddle of feathers strutting
and pecking for scraps of food.
“You ever been up to the top?” She
indicated the malachite green Greek monolith with a tilt of her chin, surprised
when he shook his head.
“No, but I know the arm has been
closed to visitors since 1916 when German collaborators set off dynamite on the
New Jersey shore.” His eyes held a wealth of sadness. “Terrorism is nothing
new. You?” It was a lazy question, them sitting in the sunshine chatting, but
this statue meant so much more to her than that.
“I used to come here every year
with Marion. The weekend
after
Independence Day.” Marion hated crowds,
yearned to travel to her grandfather’s homeland across the ocean to Ireland.
She’d never got her wish. The tightness in Josie’s throat burned. “I… I didn’t
come this year.”
Marion’s death had been too
fresh—the guilt almost suffocating and she didn’t think it would ever go away.
She glanced at her knapsack. Today was the first time she’d had the nerve to
return and that was only because she’d had to, putting Lady Liberty and the
memories off as long as she possibly could.
Now visions of all those childhood
visits welled up inside and even six months on, the pain of losing the woman
who’d taken the reins of Josie’s life when she’d had no one else was
overwhelming. She knew deep down that it wasn’t Marsh’s fault Marion had been
killed. It was hers. A sob rose up and she cupped her hand over her mouth so it
didn’t escape.
She could feel Marsh’s gaze, feel
the weight of understanding in those hazel depths. But he didn’t move to touch
her. Didn’t try to help. This wasn’t something he could solve or fix. She had
to get past it herself. The silent empathy in his eyes suggested he understood
her pain, her need for penance and her inability to get past the guilt.
He pressed his lips together and
shoved his hands in his pockets. Leaned forward and the pigeon flew away. After
a couple of minutes silence, he asked, “Did Special Agent Walker get in touch
this morning?”
“No.” She reached up to shake her
hair out of the elastic band she’d tied it back with. The sea breeze
immediately grabbed it and played.
“Maybe he hasn’t found anything
yet.” Marsh’s jaw flexed.
Found anything… Like an old
blonde corpse matching my mother’s description
. Mingled grief and guilt
formed a kaleidoscope of torment that knotted her stomach. Knowing she was
about to lose it, she grabbed her belongings and strode away, aware of one very
solid body scrambling after her.
Marsh snagged her arm and spun her
round to face him, “I don’t have time to chase you around. This isn’t a game!”
Trying to destroy the evidence of
her tears, she blinked rapidly. But he must have spotted the wetness on her
cheeks because suddenly every inch of her body was pressed to his, her face
against the cool fabric of his shirt, inhaling the male scent of his cologne
and the slight musk of sweat. She couldn’t breathe or see, but she craved
comfort so badly it didn’t seem to matter.
“Jesus. I’m sorry. I keep
forgetting this is your mother we’re talking about.”
Strong hands roamed her back,
soothing and therapeutic. It felt good to lean on him. So damn good. And far
too dangerous. Being alone was what she did. How she survived. The pain of
being hurt and abandoned had cut deeper than any knife and she wasn’t sure how
to deal with things any other way. She pushed back and sniffed inelegantly. She
wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
“Wanna climb her?” she asked. She
knew she’d surprised him. She’d surprised herself except she wanted to go up,
to scatter Marion’s ashes on the wind, but this was one thing she couldn’t do
alone.
He took her hand and squeezed. “I
can’t. I have a flight to catch shortly. Anyway it’s closed today. Vince will
stay with you tonight—”
“Okay. Great.” She slipped out of
his grasp. “We’ll hang out. Catch a movie.” She kicked a stone, bit the inside
of her cheek to stop herself saying anything more junior-high. All
ten-foot-six, ex-Navy SEAL walked up behind him.
Marsh’s cell phone rang and she
used the opportunity to head toward the ferry terminal. His hand snaked out and
grabbed her before she’d gone two paces.
“Hayes,” he answered the phone.
“When?” He paused for a second and Josie knew something bad had happened from
the way his eyes sliced to her. “Yeah, she’s here. I’ll bring her right over.”
She felt the blood drain from her
face. “Did they find my mother?”
Their eyes locked, his febrile
bright. “No. There’s been another murder.”
***
Marsh negotiated
traffic toward Federal Plaza, one hand gripping the wheel tight as he blasted
the horn at a cabby trying to cut him off.
Josephine sat beside him, pale,
tense, withdrawn.
“They have any leads?” Vince asked
from the backseat.
“They wouldn’t tell me anything on
the phone.” Tension rose within him triggering an ache in his jaw and a fear
that ran all the way to his fingertips. And he had to go to freaking Savannah.
He glanced at Josephine’s stark
profile.
“Come with me.” The suggestion was
out of his mouth before he could stop it, but now he thought about it, it was a
damn good idea.