Authors: Toni Anderson
“But
the bitch
, as you so
politely put it,
is
dead,” Marsh said quietly. “And I think she knew her
killer.”
Everyone spoke at once.
“What?”
“Oh my God…”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Hey! One at a time!” Cochrane
pointed at Geoffrey. “You said,
oh my God
, like you knew something?”
Geoffrey sat on the arm of Brook’s
chair, stiff as cardboard. “It’s just…”
“Spit it out,” Detective Cochrane
ordered. Marsh let him lead.
Geoffrey glanced uncertainly at
Brook. “Pru was heavily into S&M and I know she was seeing someone, but I don’t
know who it was.”
The admiral snorted. “She was a
sick bitch. Wanted me to whip her. If she was still alive I’d be happy to
oblige.”
“Shut up! That’s my wife you’re
talking about and no matter what kind of marriage we had, I loved her.” Brook
sat up in his seat, vibrating like he was about to go for Chambers’ throat
again.
“Where’d she keep her stuff?” They
might have a solid lead.
“Stuff?” Brook was oblivious, but
Geoffrey knew exactly what Marsh was talking about.
“In her room.” Geoffrey stood up
and walked to the door, visibly shaking. “I’ll show you.”
The PA led them down a corridor, to
a bedroom dressed in deep crimson and gold. Opulent drapes, a king-size
four-poster bed with a painting of a naked woman curled up against a red
backdrop on the wall above it. An ornately carved trunk sat behind the door,
sporting a big fat padlock.
“I could shoot out the lock.”
Cochrane started to unclip his weapon.
“I think someone might know where
the key is?” Marsh tilted his gaze to Geoffrey.
The man squeezed his eyes shut.
“She wanted me to try it on. That was all. She wanted to tell me what she was
into.”
“She tell you a name?”
He shook his head. “We were friends
even as children but lately she’d drifted away…”
“Just get us the damn key.”
Cochrane looked nervously around the bedroom. Marsh felt it too; a creepy
sensation trickling through his bones as if Pru’s ghost lay curled on that bed
purring, beneath the painting that shared an uncanny likeness with her.
Geoffrey left and quickly returned,
lowered his voice to a whisper and glanced at the door to make sure the admiral
and the senator were out of earshot. Neither man had followed them and Marsh
hoped they didn’t kill each other while they were gone. He inserted the key and
the mechanism opened easily.
“She tried to get me to dress up in
this stuff.” He looked up, eyes wide. “I was curious, you know? Not about the
sex.” He shrugged. “About the gear.”
He opened the lid and inside was a
black leather whip, crops, paddles, masks and leathers.
Geoffrey reached out as if to touch
something and Cochrane slapped his hand. “That’s all the S&M I’ve got in
me. Touch anything else and I’ll shoot you.”
Geoffrey backed away. “But, oh my
God, my DNA is on that stuff.” Geoffrey started to cry and Marsh felt like
growling in frustration. Because the Blade Hunter was still out there and had
given them more evidence than they could process in a week.
Unless it was good old Geoffrey,
which wasn’t impossible but didn’t seem likely. Although the women weren’t
raped, merely tortured.
He closed the lid, careful not to
touch anything with his bare hands. “We need to get this to the lab.”
Cochrane nodded.
“We need Pru’s telephone records
and address book.” Marsh frowned. “What about email?”
Geoffrey’s shoulders drooped and he
swept a quick look around the room. “She had a laptop, but I don’t see it
here.”
“Are we going to need a warrant to
get this information?” Marsh asked.
Geoffrey shook his head. “No. Brook
might not have loved Prudence in the traditional sense, but it doesn’t mean he
doesn’t want to find the bastard who killed her. And so do I.”
***
“How far we gotta
walk and why can’t we take a cab?”
“I walk everywhere. It’s good
exercise.” Josephine smiled up at Vince, glad to be out in the fresh air. Being
protected was stifling. Living in fear was crippling. This guy wasn’t going to
attack her in broad daylight. There was no reason not to pretend some things
were normal.
The streets were full of dead
leaves. An overfull trashcan rolled and littered the street. Metal fire escapes
snaked up walls, parked cars lined the streets, and tall trees competed with
concrete lampposts for the sun. Manhattan at its finest.
“I guess you were too poor to take
cabs when you were younger, huh? And now even with a psycho after you, you’re
too tight?” said Vince.
“Ha.” She liked the fact Vince
didn’t baby her. She’d rather be baited than coddled. But what she really needed
was movement and space. She needed endorphins and she needed a physical
release. They were walking down Sullivan Street in SoHo. Not far from where she
was meeting her client. She wasn’t ashamed of her poor roots, took pride in
having actually made something of herself with a little help from her friends.
“After my mother left, even food
was a luxury in our house,” she told him. Then she remembered the kindness of
Marsh’s parents, and their generosity. It was nothing to do with how much money
they had—although that helped—it was to do with a goodness of spirit.
Being poor wasn’t anything to be
proud of. Surviving her childhood was.
Her mood dropped. Before they’d
left the apartment, Walker had phoned her to ask for a DNA sample. They’d
exhumed a body that might be her mother and needed to compare her DNA.
“I feel sick.” She needed to catch
her breath. She sagged against the wall of a drycleaners, but the smell of
chemicals coming from the vent was strong enough for a glue-sniffer to get
high. Gagging, she moved on, leaned against a corner convenience store that
carried everything except fossil fuel.
“You pregnant?” Vince grabbed her
arm and swung her around to face him.
She shook her head. “I got my
period this morning.”
“That explains a few things.” He
raised his eyes to the heavens.
“Like what?”
“Like the tears. Like the
bitchiness—”
“I wasn’t bitchy.” Tears welled in
her eyes again.
Shit
.
“That’s right, and you’re not moody
either. Come on, sunshine.” Vince hauled her along the street, stopped at the
intersection waiting for the lights. She moved automatically, putting one foot
in front of the other. What would it be like to be pregnant? To have a child to
love and care for? To have a relationship with a man she loved, a family.
“I feel like this is my last
chance…” The words popped out of her mouth.
“Did you phone him? Did you tell
him?” Vince peered down at her, eyes darker than coal, full of compassionate
irritation.
She looked away. “No.”
“Do it. Do it right now.” Vince
stalked back from the edge of the curb and heaved out a massive pissed off male
sigh.
Fine
. She could do this. She
faced her reflection in the dirty streaked window of the corner store. Her
heart hammered against her ribcage in distinct beats as she dialed Marsh’s
number. It rang four times before she got bumped. “Damn.” Looking over her
shoulder, she caught Vince’s eye. “Voicemail.”
“Just tell him you love him!” Vince
dragged massive fingers through his close-cropped hair and looked like he
wanted to crush something. Probably her.
“Marsh. I called to say…” Her voice
was rough and sounded more angry than loving. She tried to clear her throat.
“To apologize for everything. I’m sorry Dancer got arrested, sorry I got in the
way of you doing your job.” The words
I love you
stuck on her tongue.
She did love him. She didn’t want to but apparently this wasn’t something she
got to decide. She licked her lips but words dried up. Maybe if they were face
to face, she could squeeze them out, but talking to a cell phone?
She couldn’t do it.
A car engine revved down the
street.
Pissed, Vince threw his hands wide
and began crossing the junction as the lights changed.
Tires squealed and a horn honked as
a vehicle peeled away from where it was double parked and raced toward the
intersection. Josie didn’t even have time to scream as the SUV plowed straight
into Vince and threw him high into the air. The car braked sharply and he slid
off the hood.
Time stopped.
Her body was in motion though her
mind was still screaming back on the sidewalk. She dialed 911 as she ran toward
him. “I need an ambulance. Someone’s been hit by a car on the corner of
Sullivan and—”
Someone was pulling her shoulders.
She tried to shake them off, tried to give the operator exact details about
where they were and Vince’s condition. His leg was bent awkwardly beneath him.
Blood poured from his thigh and a head wound. She touched his face, careful not
to move him. He was unconscious.
Hands grabbed her but she pulled
away. “Get
off
me!” She turned to shake off whoever the hell was
manhandling her, but froze when she recognized him.
Red hot anger surged through her
veins. “You hit him with a car!”
He grabbed her but she fought him.
He wrapped both arms around her waist, trapping her arms to her sides and
holding her to him, walking backwards to his SUV.
“You should be grateful.” A
hate-filled whisper seared her ear as she kicked wildly. “I was going to shoot
the moron, but he was standing right there.”
She started to scream and someone
shouted at him to stop. But they were too late. He threw her in the car.
Stabbed a needle into her ass. It hurt as he slammed down the plunger.
He ran around the hood, flashing a
gun to keep passersby back. Josie grappled with the door handle but her fingers
felt spongy and couldn’t grasp anything. Vince lay in an ever-increasing pool
of blood. Her vision wavered in and out and then started fading at the edges
and she knew she was about to pass out. He’d got her. The man who’d killed her
mother. He finally had her exactly where he wanted her. She was as good as
dead.
Chapter
Eighteen
___________________
“J
ust tell him you love
him!” Vince’s voice was distinct against a background of traffic noise.
Marsh and Sam Walker were back at
St. Mary’s Church going through records. All of a sudden this investigation had
so much freaking evidence it was going to take weeks to process and something
told him this wasn’t a coincidence. They didn’t have weeks.
He listened to Josie’s message,
knew she was struggling. Apologies were not her strong point. Revealing
emotions was not part of her persona. The heaviness around his chest lightened
because he’d been about to phone her.
Just tell him you love him.
But instead, after a long silence,
she hung up.
Shit
. Groaning, Marsh ran
his hands over his face. The woman was tearing his heart to pieces. Goddamn her
for not saying the words he was desperate to hear. Needed to hear. But who was
he to talk when he hadn’t been upfront either?
He hit call return and didn’t know
whether to be relieved or frustrated when it was busy.
“I love you. We are not done
talking about this.” He hung up and saw Walker staring at him strangely.
“She dump you?” Walker asked.
“Not for the first time.” Marsh met
his gaze head on. “Make a move on her and I’ll re-arrange your face.” He’d
turned into a jealous ass.
Walker shrugged. “It’s her call.”
Yeah, didn’t he know it.
He looked across the small room at
the agents carefully laying the church papers three deep on two tables.
Anything with a date on it was being filed by the year. Anything without a date
was being read and separated into an African pile, missionary pile, charity
organizations, personal correspondence, etcetera.
They were all doing everything to
catch this asshole and get their fellow agent released. Aiden glanced up. “I
think I’ve got something.”
Marsh strode to his side. “What is
it?”
“Receipts for an apartment rental
in Queens the year Josephine was attacked.”
Walker hovered behind them. “Local
PD checked with the building’s owners, but it was prior to computerization and
they didn’t keep records that far back.”
There was no name associated with
the document aside from that of the church. Marsh picked up a sheaf of papers,
handed a stack to Walker. “We need to find this guy fast. I have a sick feeling
Pru Duvall was the appetizer.”
They worked as quickly as possible.
Scanning documents as the cold air blasted them from the street through the
open window.
And then he saw it. The name that
pulled it all together.
Joshua Faraday.
“Father Malcolm.” His voice cut
through the din of the small room crowded with federal agents and cops.
“Yes?” The father squeezed past two
agents and stood beside Marsh, peering over his elbow.
“Joshua Faraday?” Marsh watched the
man’s face as his memories bloomed. Excitement lifted his mouth. “Yes, yes,
that’s the man. I’d forgotten his name, but now you’ve said it, it was
definitely him.”
Aiden stilled beside him. He got
it.
“How old was he?” Marsh asked.
“He wasn’t a young man, maybe late
forties?” The priest seemed hesitant.
It was a little older than the
profile estimated, but that could be wrong. Or… “Did he have any family?”
The priest scowled down at the
stained carpet, his mouth tight. “I do believe his whole family came with
him—wife and children.”
“Philip and Gloria?” Aiden asked
from Marsh’s side.
A smile spread over the priest’s
face. “Why, yes, and I believe his wife was Nancy, lovely lady.”
Philip Faraday fit the profile
exactly
.
A quiet rage filled Marsh. The asshole had been under his nose the whole time.
Worse, Aiden had handed him back the painting a few short hours ago. Faraday
might not get the full fifty million but he had the connections to get enough
to disappear.
He looked at Walker, “Find out
where Joshua Faraday is today. If he’s still alive. We need an arrest warrant
for Philip Faraday, and bring his sister in for questioning.” The agent turned
away to make the call.
Cochrane held a phone to his ear
and barked out, “Senator Duvall just reported that his wife cleared out her
bank accounts before she died.”
“It’s the bastard’s getaway money.”
Marsh’s mouth went dry. The killer—all indications pointed to it being Philip
Faraday who also fit the general description of the attacker—had probably been
Prudence’s lover and had somehow convinced her they were going to run away
together. She’d met Steve Dancer for lunch because the bastard had wanted to
set Dancer up, maybe punish the FBI agent for his involvement in confiscating
the painting, or to screw with Marsh as he was protecting Josie. And the
bastard had killed her as easily as he’d murdered all those other women. The
guy had no conscience, no empathy, not even for a woman who was willing to give
up everything for him.
Facts were starting to come
together. How the killer accessed Josie’s address even though it wasn’t in the
public domain. If he had access to people in the NY art world it was merely a
question of bribing the right person for the information.
Marsh took out his cell phone and
dialed Vince. Sweat broke out along his brow. If they could keep Josie away
from Faraday until he was picked up, this whole thing would be over.
“So you think Joshua Faraday was
fucking Margo Maxwell and the son found out?” Walker was also on his cell,
obviously waiting for information. He winced as he glanced up at the priest’s
face. “Sorry, Father.”
Marsh held up his hand as the call
to Vince went through. “Who the hell is this?”
“EMT on the way to Downtown
Hospital. I’m afraid the person you’re calling was involved in a hit and run—”
Sweet Jesus
. “What about the
woman with him?” Marsh’s voice cracked, his breath so tight in his chest he
thought he might be having a heart attack.
“I’m sorry sir. There wasn’t
anybody with him when we arrived.”
Shit, shit, shit
. He held
the phone down as he pressed his hands against the surface of the table, every
muscle in his body screaming with tension, papers scattering around him as he
struggled to breathe. He put the phone back to his ear. “Is Vincent going to make
it?”
“We don’t know. He’s pretty badly
injured and needs surgery—we need to get in touch with next of kin…”
“I’ll deal with that.” Marsh rang
off and noticed the silence.
Everyone in the room was staring at
him expectantly. The smell of rot and decay crawled around inside his senses
and made him feel sick.
Do not think about Josephine. Do your job.
How could he not think about
Josephine being at the mercy of a killer? He knew the guy had her. “Vince was
involved in a hit and run and is seriously injured.” He swallowed to get the
words out. He tried Josie’s number again. “Josie isn’t answering her cell and
wasn’t with him when the paramedics arrived.”
He stared at Walker. “Get a trace
on her cell. We need to pick up Philip and Gloria ASAP.” Saying the words made
him want to puke—why hadn’t they found that clue ten minutes earlier? “I need
Steve Dancer out of jail now, helping me get Josephine back.” His nerves
twanged, strung so tight it would take one small push to make him snap.
He needed to hold it together. The
law had to be enough to get Josie out of this alive. And Vince…
Please God
.
“Aiden.” He worked through his cell
phone address book, pulled out one for Vince’s girlfriend, Laura. “Get in touch
with Vince’s girlfriend and get her to the Downtown ER.” He held the man’s
gaze. “Stay with her and with him. We need to know if he saw anything, or heard
anything or…”
In case he dies
…
Aiden was dialing his cell as he
grabbed his jacket and disappeared.
“This doesn’t let Dancer off the
hook—” Walker started.
“We know who the Blade Hunter is.”
Marsh shrugged into his tailored jacket. “I bet with a little detective work we
can place Philip Faraday at all the locations of the murders and I
know
he knew Pru Duvall, even though she lied about the fact.”
“How do you know that?” Walker
asked.
“Because the day he tried to kill
Josephine, Pru Duvall was at the same gallery opening as Lynn Richards and
Steve Dancer.
His
gallery opening.” Marsh was running out of patience.
“The same gallery opening where I confiscated his fifty million dollar
insurance policy.”
That painting had never been for
sale for eighty thousand dollars no matter what the price tag said—it had been
on display to some of the most powerful art connoisseurs in the world.
Why the hell hadn’t his brain
been working
? Marsh shouldered past Walker, stood outside and inhaled huge
lungfuls of fresh fall air.
God
. Please, let him find
Josephine alive.
Don’t hurt her
. Don’t fucking hurt her.
Marsh needed a cigarette even
though he’d given them up months ago. Walker followed him out onto the street
and they stood looking at each other as Walker held his phone to his ear and
repeated whatever he was being told.
“Joshua Faraday died in Africa in
1996, no details. Nancy Faraday died in England a couple of years later.”
Walker stared up at the bare
branches of the silver birch. “Officially I cannot get Steve Dancer released…”
He put his hands on his hips, determination obvious in his stance.
“Wait.” Marsh held up his hand. “I
know what you’re going to suggest, but before we get everybody’s ass screwed to
the wall, let’s see if I can do something.”
Marsh dialed Brett Lovine, the
Director of the FBI, on his private cell.
Lovine didn’t bother with small
talk. “I’ve fielded calls from a senator, a retired admiral and a retired
general this morning. The latter two want you sacked immediately, one of whom
is your own father.”
“Brett—”
“Marsh—”
“Shut up and listen! None of it
matters.” Silence on the end of the phone told him he finally had his friend’s
full attention. “We know who the Blade Hunter is. We know he set up Agent
Dancer to take the fall for Mrs. Duvall’s death and we know he has taken
Josephine Maxwell hostage.”
Walker’s eyes bulged because they
didn’t have proof of any of it, but Marsh
knew
. Marsh was silently
praying. Praying the guy he’d grown up with trusted him. Praying the woman he
loved survived long enough so that he could actually say the words to her.
“What do you need?” Brett said. The
quiet tone and somber pitch told him he had his friend’s attention.
“I need Special Agent Steve Dancer
released immediately. Drop the charges and give me my best man back, so we can
find Josephine.”
Silence. The hesitation was killing
him. Doubt booming inside his chest with each beat of his heart.
“If it turns out Agent Dancer was
involved in
any
way I’ll have your badge.”
“If Dancer was involved you can
have any damn thing you want, Brett.”
“Dangerous promise to make to a
politician, Marshall. I thought you’d have figured that out a long time ago.”
Brett laughed, but it was a hollow bitter sound.
“Some things are worth selling your
soul for.”
***
The knife was
sharp. Not as familiar in his hand as the last one, but it slid through the
outer layer of his skin like he had no more substance than water. He sucked in
a breath. Watched the blood slide over his wrist and drip onto Josephine’s
olive green t-shirt in ugly dark blotches.
Her chest rose steadily, fell
gently on a silent exhale. He’d thought he’d have had more trouble getting her
away from her FBI handlers, but one fake call and a little fast thinking and it
had been brutally simple. He’d intended to lure them both inside one of his
friend’s galleries and kill the bodyguard and anyone else who got in his way.
He’d set up in position to watch them and make sure it was just the two of them
and then WHAM! Literally.
Placing a finger against the soft
skin that covered her carotid, he felt the calm settled beat of her heart. Her
skin was warm to the touch.
She was still unconscious.
Good. He didn’t want to rush this.
Breakers crashed on the beach. A
seagull screamed and he looked out of the darkened window, feeling the energy
of an incoming storm, excitement and poignancy competing inside him because
this would be the final chapter of this part of his life.
He had money to aid his escape and
transform into someone new. He’d stop killing for a while and see if he could
tame the beast that raged within him in other ways.
He had the painting back.
Since the gallery showing he’d had
several offers from people who wouldn’t care how bloody his hands were. Their
greed had fewer morals than his bloodlust.
He felt an unexpected ache of
loneliness in his chest. He missed Pru.
When they’d met there had been that
sexual spark. He’d always been attracted to things he wasn’t supposed to have,
and to doing things he wasn’t supposed to do. He’d sensed a kindred spirit and
their affair had crossed continents without anyone ever suspecting. Poor Pru.
She was still serving him well.
Pru had first brought him here to
the senator’s North Fork hideaway one weekend not long ago when Brook had been
in D.C. It was secluded, nestled between two vineyards. This was where the big
butch senator came to relax with his gay lover. No neighbors close enough to
spy and no staff except for the woman who cleaned once a week.
She was going to get a bit of a
shock this week.