Her Last Chance (5 page)

Releasing her hand, he opened the
tall slatted doors and searched the built-in closet, poked his head under the
bed and when he was one hundred percent certain that the apartment was clean
and secure, he holstered his weapon.

Josephine sank down onto the bed,
shrugging out of her jacket. Her head sagged and she looked as strong as a
blade of grass. Her forearm got stuck and she jerked uselessly at the heavy
sleeve. He went down on his knees, caught her hand which fisted instantly and
eased the cuff over her palm, letting the coat slide off her shoulders.

His elbow rested on her knee, heat
sparking between them like static. The blue of her eyes was half-hidden by the
fall of her hair. Her gaze settled on his lips and then shifted away. “I’m not
sleeping with you.”

He eased away and raised a
sarcastic brow. “What? No condom? Wasn’t a problem last time.” It was a mean
thing to say, but she brought out the worst of him as she purposefully reduced
everything that had happened between them to casual sex. There was nothing
casual about his relationship with this woman.

She hissed and raised a hand as if
to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist. She started to jerk up her knee, but he
applied just enough pressure with his elbow to protect himself.

“Kick me in the balls again,
princess, and I’ll handcuff you to the bed faster than you can say date rape,”
he growled.

“I didn’t
rape
you.”

“You put Rohypnol in my scotch and
said ‘
Make love to me, Marsh
’ and then dragged me off to bed and screwed
me senseless. What would you call it?”

“They were
your
drugs and
you drugged me first. You kissed
me
.” Her mouth thinned. She strained to
pull out of his grasp, but he wasn’t letting go until he got answers. He knew
why she’d done it. She’d been trying to knock him out so she could escape
protective custody, but things had gotten out of control. Desire had consumed
them both.

He needed to hear the words from
her mouth, to know whether or not it meant anything to her.

“I didn’t mean to have sex. I never
meant to go through with it, dammit.” She closed her eyes.

“Then why did you?” His voice
cracked. With one act the woman had ruined him for everything except pining
after her like a lovesick puppy.

“I—” Her chest heaved. “I must have
gotten the dose wrong and then…” She opened her eyes and the stark blueness of
them speared him. “I’d never done it before and it felt…good.”

Dropping his head, he stared down
at the hardwood floor and wondered if she was finally being honest or whether
she was so skillful at reading men that she was playing him again. He let her
go and she turned away, hiding her face behind a blond veil. The delicate line
of her throat rippled as she swallowed.

She rolled over the bed and got out
the other side. Her face was white, her eyes flat. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I
drugged you and forced you. It
was
rape. You should have me arrested.”

He sat down on the bed and rubbed
his eyes. Damn. He’d wanted to know if it affected her the way it affected him.
He hadn’t meant to attack her with false accusations because they both knew
he’d wanted her from the moment they’d met.

Standing slowly, he dug his fingers
into his hair, knowing he had to be honest, knowing he had to try and regain
some of the integrity and honor that he strived to live by. He walked over to
her, put his hands on her shoulders. Stiff as a Barbie doll she stared into his
eyes, pride and shame battling in the tilt of her jaw, clearly expecting a
sharp jab to finish the job.

“It was the best sex I ever had,”
he told her grimly.

Her eyes flashed with surprise as
she processed his words. “Are you crazy?” The walls went back up. “Or just
trying to get in my pants again?”

Marsh shook his head and walked
over to the door. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” He wanted to tell
her he never wanted to get inside her pants again, but he wouldn’t let any more
lies stand between them. Sweeping his gaze over her body he had one last
question about that evening six months ago. “You didn’t get pregnant?”

Putting a pale, long-fingered hand
over her stomach, she shook her head.

“That’s good.” Marsh held onto the
doorknob and said thickly, “Get some sleep.” Closing the door behind him, he
leaned his forehead against the cool wood and wanted to bang his head.
Good
?
So much for no more lies.

Chapter
Four

______________

T
here was a stillness in
the air, an expectancy that excited him. A gentle mist of rain sprayed his face
and cooled his feverish skin. This wasn’t his neighborhood, this wasn’t his
town, but it was his hunting ground.

He blinked twice, winced at the
soreness of his left eye. He’d covered the scratches with makeup, but that
bitch was going to pay. The bite on his wrist smarted, but he’d covered it with
antibiotic cream and bandaged it carefully. His knife nestled reassuringly in
his pocket. Solid. Real. Safe. Sharp. Vengeful. Memories crowded in, stirred
his blood and made the breath catch in his lungs.

The bloodlust wouldn’t let go. It
was getting harder and harder to think about anything except killing, and that
worried him. The woman in the downstairs apartment had been too old to truly
satisfy him. But who could resist the symmetry of getting to Josephine Maxwell
through another blond-haired bitch?

Not that she’d been a real blonde.

Trees rustled as a cold blast of
air raced up the street from the Hudson bringing with it the stench of rotten
seaweed exposed by the receding tide. A couple strolled along the sidewalk, arm
in arm, tensing slightly as they neared him.

Invincible, the Blade Hunter
smiled, nodded his head and said, “Evening.” His fingers tightened around the
handle of the knife until his knuckles ached.

The woman smiled back with the
slack focus of one who’d had too much to drink. She was a blonde and he would
love to teach her a few lessons about letting her guard down, but he didn’t
linger. The boyfriend had jarhead written all over his Cro-Magnon face.

Something slithered around his
legs.

“Ow!” He let go of the knife in his
pocket and went down hard on the sidewalk, breaking his fall with his forearms,
skinning his palms.

Meow
.

A cat sat on the sidewalk looking
at him, flicking its tail.

“You okay, bud?” The jarhead turned
back toward him, leaving his girlfriend wobbling uncertainly in high heeled
inebriation. If he had her to himself he’d slide his knife expertly across her
skin…

He shook himself. Clambered to his
knees. “Yes. Thank you.” The guy picked him up, almost lifting him clean off
the floor by his collar.

“You need help getting home?” The
guy’s voice was gruff, fierce and unexpectedly considerate.

‘I will deal with them according
to their conduct, and by their own standards I will judge them…’

“I’m good, thanks.” He smiled.
Brushed off his pants, no damage done.

The guy lowered his brows and
muttered, “Get off the streets, man—there’s a freaking lunatic slicing and
dicing people like you for breakfast.”

Meow
.

The dark haired stranger shot his
boot in the direction of the cat, sending it fleeing between parked cars into
the gutter.

He watched, fascinated, as the Good
Samaritan strutted back to his girlfriend.
New York City
. The city that
never sleeps. A siren blared far off in the distance. A blast of hip-hop music
poured out of a passing car. He grinned. He
loved
this city. Maybe he’d
stay awhile.

Chapter
Five

______________

D
ancer thrust a copy of
The NY News
so close to
his nose Marsh could smell the newsprint. He grabbed it out of Dancer’s hands,
straightened up from the desk where he was overseeing Philip Faraday as the man
accessed the galleries’ private inventory records.

Front page and center was a picture
of him and Josephine taken at last night’s murder scene, and alongside that,
was a picture of him here with Lynn Richards.

For fuck’s sake.
He groaned.
Hadn’t figured anyone would care enough to focus a lens on him. Then he read
the byline—Nelson Landry. The little shit.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he
squeezed his eyes shut at the big, bold headline.

SUPERCOP ON THE JOB.

He was going to catch hell from his
boss. The chances of this not getting to the director’s ears were less than
zero. Good thing that financially he didn’t
need
to work.

Philip Faraday craned his neck to
see. “Looks like you had a busy night, Agent Hayes.” Turning back to the
computer monitor, the man’s fingers tapped rapidly over the keyboard, calling
up data. “That the woman you brought to the opening last night?” Faraday nodded
to the newspaper.

Marsh shot the guy a tight smile.
If he could find out who sold the stolen art to the Faradays, he still had a
slim chance of chasing down a lead, making an arrest and getting the hell back
to Josephine before she figured out a way to leave town. “Do you have that
information for me yet?”

Wearing a burgundy shirt with gold
cufflinks, designer sunglasses and black slacks, the art dealer looked sharp.
And he was a damn sight easier to deal with than his flaky sister, Gloria, who
teared up whenever Marsh asked her a simple question. He’d sicced Aiden and
Dancer on her, which seemed to be working because she’d stopped crying, except
when she looked at him.

“I’m going as fast as I can.”
Philip stopped typing and scowled up at him, the light glinting off his thick
glasses. “Maybe I should get my lawyer in here.”

There’d been a time when people had
thought him charming. BJ.
Before Josephine.

“If you want a lawyer, feel free.
But selling stolen property in this country will get you jail time. So why
don’t you work a little bit harder on getting me that name and I’ll work hard
at remembering you cooperated?”

Philip averted his gaze and began
printing out documents.

Marsh’s cell phone rang. He pulled
it from his suit pocket, moved toward the floor-to-ceiling glass frontage that
faced West Broadway.

“Hayes,” he answered.

“I’m being followed.” Josephine’s
voice sounded clipped and breathless.

“What the hell do you mean you’re
being
followed
? You were supposed to go into protective custody with Walker and
Nicholl.”

“Yeah,” she said, “about that…”

Sweat broke out along his brow. He
could hear her footsteps echoing off the sidewalk, her breath raspy.

“I changed my mind,” she said, like
that was a sane option with a serial killer on her tail.
Shit
, she’d
done the same thing with the mob after her so he should have been prepared.

“Lied your ass off more like.”
Deliberately Marsh bumped his forehead on the enormous windowpane and absorbed
the reverberation through his brain. “Where are you now?”
Don’t let it be
somewhere deserted and quiet. I don’t want to listen while some bastard cuts
you up—

“The middle of Washington Square.”

Okay. “See any cops around?” He
waved at Dancer, tried to get his attention, but the agent was handing Gloria
coffee and patting her shoulder.

“No,” Josephine laughed, “for once,
no cops.” Beneath the laugh there was a whisper of fear that dug into his
sternum.

“Go sit on a bench near the
fountain, and stay on the line. I’m on my way.” He held his hand over the
phone, shouted to his coworker. “Dancer, Josephine’s slipped her FBI leash and
now she thinks she’s being followed.”

Dancer shook his head as he came
toward him. “That woman has a death wish.”

Marsh closed his eyes.

“Sorry, boss, probably
not
what you wanted to hear.” Dancer tugged his ear.

She was in a crowded area. He doubted
a predator as savvy as the Blade Hunter would risk such a high profile murder
location. Not when the thrill was in inflicting pain.

The Total Mastery Gallery was
situated between Prince and Houston St., SoHo. Only a few blocks from
Washington Square.

Marsh looked over at Philip
Faraday, who’d swiveled to face them, shamelessly eavesdropping on their
conversation.

Turning his back, Marsh lowered his
voice for Dancer alone. “Arrange warrants for the bank and phone records and
find out where the hell the Faradays got that painting. If they don’t give us a
name by noon, take them downtown and charge them both with possession of stolen
property. That’ll do for starters.”

With his cell to his ear, he strode
out through the huge glass doors and onto the street. “Keep talking to me,
Josephine.”

“What do you want me to say?”
Josephine’s voice was calmer now. “You were right, I was wrong?”

Taking one look at the bumper to
bumper traffic, he jogged north on foot, dodging pedestrians. “Sounds like a
good place to start.”

She laughed, just enough to take
the edge off his skyrocketing nerves. Then he cursed his colleagues at BAU.
What
the hell were Walker and Nicholl thinking?

“How did you know about the scars?”
she asked suddenly.

Now there was a question he’d been
waiting for and didn’t want to answer.

“You checked me out that night you
drugged me in Boston, didn’t you?” Her voice sounded distant as if she’d
disconnected from him. That night he’d saved her from a mob hit and then
drugged her so he could implant the transmitter and set up his plans without
having to watch her every single moment. But if Josephine thought seeing her
skin was an invasion of privacy he was pretty sure she’d flip if she knew about
the microchip.

“I put you to bed, remember? I
started to undress you, but then I saw the scars…” Damn. At least that lie was
better than admitting the truth, even though he sounded like a pervert. “After
I saw them I figured you’d rather I left your clothes on.” This wasn’t a
conversation to have over the phone.

The silence drew out. He didn’t
like the sensation of her pulling away.

Dead leaves gathered in gutters,
black and soaked from last night’s rain. The sky was overcast and heavy
moisture damp in the air. A siren screamed going fast in the opposite direction.
It was only eleven a.m., but Marsh hoped the park was packed full of people
enjoying an early lunch.

“Josephine? You there?” Fear soared
at the silence and his heart punched against his ribs. “Josephine!”

It took him less than two minutes
flat out running. His leg muscles burned, hot air fired his lungs, but he was
right there, heading for the centre of Washington Square, frantically searching
the area for the blonde termagant who’d taken over his life.

And there she was.

Relief surged through him like a
hot wave as he spotted her dressed in the same olive-drab jacket from
yesterday. She was sitting hunched over on a bench, phone to her ear, one arm
folded over her chest, legs tightly crossed, glaring at some guy who wore a
banner proclaiming, ‘Are
You
Going to Heaven?
Take a test
.’

She was safe. Pissed as usual, but
safe. And not going to Heaven if he could help it—not today anyway.

The trees were almost bare, a few
orange sycamore leaves clinging tenaciously to survival. It was more than a
little ironic they were standing on an old burial ground. He took a moment to
regain his breath. Searched the area for possible threats, all the time keeping
Josephine in his peripheral vision.

There was one guy, sitting on a
nearby concrete bench,
The NY News
spread over his knees as he munched
on a sandwich. Mid fifties, jeans, thick rust-colored sweater, balding head
with a compensatory beard. He looked like a university professor.

Marsh watched him glance and squint
over at Josephine. Then the guy turned the page of the newspaper, fighting with
a brisk breeze that whistled through the streets, flattened the page against
his knee. He glanced up again. Then Marsh realized the guy was looking at the
photograph of him and Josephine in the newspaper.

People didn’t forget a face like
that.

Marsh dismissed him. On the far
side of the park, behind the Arch, Marsh spotted Walker and Nicholl in a
Lincoln town car parked along The Row. Narrowing his eyes, he shook his head,
placing his hands on his hips. They were staking her out to see if she led them
anywhere. She was a freaking suspect. Or bait…

Suddenly she was beside him,
holding out a can of cola. Accepting the drink, he pulled the tab and swallowed
deeply, letting the sweet lick of sugar calm his blood.

Handing back the can, he slanted
her a look that dared her to share. Josephine didn’t like to share anything.
She was more closed off than Fort Knox. But she took a sip anyway, which gave
him a juvenile thrill. He’d once again regressed to high school.

Avoiding his gaze, she reclaimed
her spot on the bench. The pallor of her skin reminded him she hadn’t had much
sleep last night and this was her second time going head-to-head with the
killer. She wasn’t a rookie. The first time had scarred her for life—literally
and figuratively. Who knew what yesterday’s encounter had done.

Taking out his wallet, he hunted
for Agent Walker’s card and dialed his number.

“Walker.” The man answered on the
first ring.

“This your idea of protective
custody?” His voice was cold and clipped.

“Ms. Maxwell wouldn’t accept
protective custody,
sir
.” Walker’s tone made Marsh stare hard at the
Lincoln.

“So what are you going to do? Wait
until he cuts her up before you nail him?”

“I don’t need you to tell me how to
do my job.” Walker’s voice rose and Marsh heard Nicholl in the background
telling his partner to back off.

But maybe the guy was right.
Josephine wasn’t exactly known for her cooperation. Marsh rubbed his forehead.
Walker was a good agent with several commendations in his file and Marsh was
screwing with the investigation because he was personally involved and because
he could.

Shit
. He’d always detested
people who abused power and yet look how tempting it was. He took a deep
breath. Then another. The one thing Marsh believed in was the law. He needed to
let the bureau do their job, while he protected Josephine.

“You’re right,” and though it cost
him, “I’m sorry.”

The tension eased a little on the
end of the line.

“Did you get the evidence from the
old case?” he asked. “Because I can go over to Queens right now and pick it
up—”

“No, sir, that won’t be necessary…”

“You got it?” Marsh heard evasion
in his voice. The guy wasn’t telling him everything.

“No, sir.” Walker paused as if
debating what to tell him. “The evidence disappeared. About a month ago a beat
cop was murdered, his uniform stolen and someone used it to sign out the
evidence on Ms. Maxwell’s old case. It was never returned.”

“What?” Marsh fisted his hand in
his short hair, pulling at his scalp. This UNSUB was bold and not missing a
trick. “Did you get anything from the station cameras or the log?”

Walker hesitated again, and Marsh
was starting to get seriously pissed.

“The only thing we got was your
name, sir.”

What the
…? “I told you I
examined the files six months ago,” Marsh frowned.
Had he told them?

“Yes, sir, but the UNSUB signed
your name when he took the file.”

Why the hell would he do that?
Marsh gritted his teeth on a curse. “Maybe he checked the log to see who else
checked out the evidence…”

“Maybe.” But Walker replied too
quickly.

“Do I need an alibi for last night,
Special Agent Walker? Because I’m pretty sure I can provide one.” Marsh didn’t
have time for this shit. Turning his back on the black Lincoln, he sat on the
bench next to Josephine, aware of her scent, her interested blue eyes.

“I have over two hundred people,
plus my partner, plus a date, who can place me at the Total Mastery NY Gallery
on West Broadway for most of last evening.”

Josephine raised a single eyebrow,
but he didn’t know if it was the fact he was supplying an alibi or the fact
he’d had a date that surprised her.

“Why’d you sign out the evidence
six months ago?” Walker redirected his questions.

No way was Marsh exposing Elizabeth
Ward, his former agent and Josephine’s best friend, to this investigation. Not
when Elizabeth had sacrificed everything and finally got her life back.

“Josephine’s father was worried
about her.” Marsh felt her stiffen beside him, but refused to look in her
direction.

“Walter Maxwell?” Walker probed.

Marsh let his head drop back, his
neck stretching as he gazed up at the thin veil of gray sky through half-naked
branches. “That’s right,” Marsh replied, hearing the unspoken question,
Walter
Maxwell who turned up dead twenty-four hours later?

“I think we need to get a statement
from you, sir.”

He was a ballsy bastard, Marsh gave
him that.

“You clear it with Director Lovine
and I’ll be happy to tell you everything I know.” Like
hell
.

Marsh usually resented the power
and influence that came with his family name and fortune, but right now it
saved him from dealing with a ton of bullshit that would not help solve this
case. Director Brett Lovine and he had grown up together in the best schools.
Though he rarely used his personal connections for his own benefit he wasn’t
going to get embroiled in some screwed-up conspiracy theory while the real
killer murdered more women.