Heroes In Uniform (223 page)

If Josephine Maxwell knew she’d turned him into a eunuch she’d laugh her freaking ass off.

“Are you
boys
doing anything to track down this serial killer attacking women in Manhattan?” Pru’s voice was sharp, striking him from a different angle.

“I’m sure the
boys
are doing everything they can to apprehend the killer, Mrs. Duvall.” Marsh produced his diplomatic smile. “I’m Special Agent in Charge of the Forgeries and Fine Arts Division. We track stolen artwork.”

“Sounds dangerous.” Pru Duvall snorted derisively.

“Art fraud can be a cover for mobsters and terrorist money laundering schemes.” Marsh resisted reciting his arrest record and military career.

Brook leaned closer and asked in a rough whisper, “So what are you doing
here
, Marshall?”

Marsh smelled enough bourbon on the senator’s breath to ignite flames and rocked back on his heels. The aide tapped Brook on the shoulder and pointed to a nearby photographer who patiently cradled his camera. Brook and Pru posed for a photograph insisting Lynn and Marsh join them for the shot. Then, instead of moving away and working the room, Brook turned back to him and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Is this place a front for the mob?” The laugh was hearty and cordial and drew peoples’ attention to their intimate little group.

“Not that I’m aware of.”
Yet
. Marsh wished to hell he’d come alone. Or forced his way in early, before the gallery opened. But he’d had nothing to go on except an unsubstantiated rumor from an unreliable source. Rumors were a given in the art world. Who’d have thought it might lead to the biggest break they’d had in a decade?

He let go of Lynn, ashamed of himself for giving her the wrong idea. His attention focused on Gloria Faraday who, with a satisfied smile, was tottering her way through the crowd toward his painting. The painting that might be a possible Vermeer worth millions; the painting stolen from Admiral Chambers, an old friend of his father’s, back in nineteen-ninety.

She reached up to pin a tiny gold heart on the plaque, but Marsh caught her wrist before she got there. The superfine bones shifted within his grasp.

“Sorry, ma’am. You can’t sell this picture.”

“I
beg
your pardon?” Judging from the volume, Gloria’s outrage was genuine.

Marsh displayed his shield.

“Special Agent in Charge Hayes with the FBI. This painting is believed to be stolen.” Suddenly, Steve Dancer was beside him, herding people away. “If I need to,” Marsh continued in a quiet voice, “I’ll get a warrant to remove the painting, but if you cooperate—”

“Whaaat!” Gloria shrieked. The blood drained from her face as she looked around the staring faces of the elite crowd and wobbled slightly in her designer heels.

“Have a seat.” Dancer maneuvered the woman into a nearby chair before she passed out.

Lynn edged away from Marsh, her cheeks flushing bright scarlet, clearly embarrassed to be associated with a public scene. That should put paid to any attempt at a second date.

Pru put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and patted her gently. “We’ll take you home, dear.” She raised a razor-thin brow at Marsh, her smile glinting with victory. “Looks like your brave FBI agent will be busy for the next little while.”

One side of Marsh’s lips quirked with irritated amusement. Sparring with Pru Duvall was better than dealing with a naïve teenager and a hell of a lot preferable to dealing with Gloria Faraday who was now crying loudly, make-up tracking down her pasty cheeks.

Prudence leaned close to his ear, perfume thick and cloying, her gaze resting on Gloria’s ashen face.

“Better watch out, Special Agent in Charge Hayes. She looks dangerous.” Then she was gone, shepherding Lynn out of a side door.

Her Last Chance: Chapter Two

“This way, sir.”

An agent he’d never met before led him and Dancer through the businesslike reception area on the twenty-third floor of the federal building, toward an unused conference room in the FBI’s Manhattan headquarters.

Marsh handled the painting cautiously, mindful of the priceless nature of the work and all the excited bodies buzzing around him like bees in an overheated hive. They’d packed it in acid-free paper and bubble-wrap. With laser induced fluorescence the forensics experts might get lucky and find a usable recent fingerprint or trace evidence, but latent prints didn’t last long and chances were the thieves weren’t that stupid. Until they could arrange safe transport to the crime lab, the painting needed to be stored somewhere secure. He didn’t think it got more secure than the heart of FBI headquarters.

Lights blazed. The grinding noise of a fax machine shrieked through the air and resonated through his ears. A tiny portion of his brain wondered what was going down, but the rest was focused on where this investigation might lead. This was the biggest potential break they’d had on the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum robbery in years.

Gloria Faraday had dissolved into a hysterical mess, but Philip had turned the fiasco into a media stunt and sworn to help the authorities in any way he could to capture the thieves who threatened legitimate business.

Marsh and Dancer had photographed every piece exhibited at the gallery and requested inventories from Total Mastery Galleries worldwide. More agents would descend tomorrow to go through the books and determine provenance for every item the gallery showed. Marsh didn’t know if the Faradays were innocent or guilty, but with a little manipulation they might lead him to information he’d been hunting for years.

Focused on the job, he flicked an uninterested glance across the bullpen. Enlarged photographs were pinned to one wall. Pictures of mutilated women.

He stopped dead.

Dancer bumped into his back as Marsh turned toward the images. His heart drilled a hole in the wall of his chest.

It wasn’t the brutality of the pictures that rocked his world. It was the pattern of the wounds.

A group of agents huddled over a desk, gesturing toward the photographs and punctuating sentences with sharp jabs and sour expressions. One agent looked up, a flare of recognition zipping through his eyes before he walked over to where Marsh and Dancer stood gawping like a couple of schoolgirls.

The agent stuck out his hand, raised his voice over the goddamned fax machine that still screeched through the air. “Agent Cole, sir. I took some of your undercover courses in Quantico.”

The young agent followed Marsh’s gaze to the photographs, planted his hands on his hips. “This sick sonofabitch got another one down in the Village earlier tonight. We’ve got some guys from BAU consulting and we’re trying to link the last two victims.”

Marsh nodded, but his throat was full of coarse sand and his heartbeat dampened to a mute thud that barely kept him upright. “Where?”

“Sir?”

“Where. In the Village?” He forced the question out over the background noise because, God help him, Marsh was praying with everything in him that he was wrong.

Agent Cole stuffed his hands in his pant pockets. “Grove Street. Scene’s a mess.”

The world crashed and Marsh stumbled slightly.

“You all right, boss?” Dancer murmured, holding him upright with an iron grip on the back of his thousand-dollar jacket.

No
. He jerked his head.
Not all right
. He hadn’t been all right since the day he’d walked away from Josephine Maxwell in a cow pasture in Montana. Right now he doubted he’d ever be okay again.

Forcing his legs to work, Marsh shoved the 17th Century Dutch masterpiece into Dancer’s arms and turned back the way he’d come.

Josephine lived on Grove Street.

Josephine had scar tissue that matched those mutilated women.

Faster and faster he moved. Legs pumping even though he felt like he was wading through zero gravity. Panic stabbed as the noise and bustle of the office exploded through his senses and he broke into a run to the elevator. Ignoring the alarmed glances, he thrust the doors apart and slid inside the metal tomb and rested his head against cold steel. Heard his heart racing through his ears as if it were being broadcast over a loudspeaker. Sweat beaded his brow and scored a line down the side of his face. He loosened his tie, jerked open the top button of his shirt.

Why did I leave her alone? Why didn’t I protect her?

Because she didn’t want you. She never wanted you.

It shouldn’t have made any difference.

Somehow he was in his car with no memory of having got there, peeling out onto the street. Traffic wasn’t heavy on the Avenue of the Americas. Yellow cabs mostly. He wove in and out of the steady stream and jumped a red light.

Sweat filmed his body and made his starched white shirt stick to the skin across his shoulders. He blasted fresh air into the suffocating interior of the BMW, the draft scouring his face, helping him regain a little control.

Pictures flashed inside his brain. Sliced flesh. Pooled blood. He tried to put the images of death and silky, matted hair out of his mind, but it was impossible. Perspiration dampened the palms of his hands and made the grip on the steering wheel slippery. He wiped them on his thighs. Nausea coiled in his stomach, but Marsh seized it and clamped down hard on the panic—let his training take over. Blowing lights and breaking speed limits, he pulled onto Grove Street in record time.

A beat cop tried to bar his way, but Marsh flashed his badge and was waved through. Parking behind a squad car, he got out, slamming the door behind him, the noise echoing off tightly packed buildings like a gunshot.

When the echoes faded it seemed unnaturally quiet. The hiss of traffic far away. The rustle of slender branches nothing but a gentle crackle on a cold wind. Marsh focused on the black door one hundred yards up the street. It stood wide open. Lights from the foyer flooded down the three stone steps and metal railings threw skeletal shadows across the sidewalk. Crime scene tape sealed off the area. Police officers kept a subdued crowd of reporters and spectators at a distance.

Josephine’s house.

Atheist or not, he started praying.

He held his badge high, pushed through the onlookers, and dipped under the tape past a green-looking rookie. They exchanged a silent look and Marsh nodded, climbing the three steps, his heart vibrating in his chest. He braced himself. He was a professional. Everything was under control. A gurney with a body on it was pushed out the door, the wheels squeaking.

Josephine
…

He reeled and averted his eyes. The woman he loved was dead because he’d been too stupid to realize she was in danger. Too cowardly to risk rejection. He took a deep breath as the gurney rattled inelegantly down the steps and was lifted into a waiting wagon. He grabbed the railings, not knowing how to walk or even if his legs worked anymore. Grief wanted to shove him to his knees and make him howl. The woman he loved had been murdered and he’d never get the chance to make things right. Why hadn’t he tracked her down? He hadn’t stopped thinking about her for months, why the hell hadn’t he at least called?

“Who’re you?”

Marsh looked up into the sharp eyes of an NYPD detective and reminded himself this was a murder investigation. He wanted to know what the hell evidence they had and how close they were to nailing this sick fuck.

Marsh took a handkerchief out of his top pocket and wiped his brow. “FBI.” He fumbled for his shield and hoped to hell it didn’t show that inside he was dying.

“Another one? Jesus-H.” The balding detective stood back to let him through, rubbing at his moustache. “At least we got a lead this time.”

A lead
? “You working this case?”

The detective flicked a glance over his sweat-drenched appearance as if deciding whether or not to trust him. Whatever he saw must have worked.

“I worked the first two vics. Ran it through ViCAP, got hits in D.C. and New Mexico.” He glanced over to the gathering crowd as if mentally tallying faces. “The feds took over and then Interpol got involved. We figure this perp has been active for more than a decade.
The Blade Hunter
, the press calls him.” The cop gave a derisive snort and his moustache quivered as an Evidence Response Team dusted for fingerprints in the hallway behind him. “Sick bastard. Cutting up blondes all over the world.”

Marsh pressed down hard on the bridge of his nose, swallowed the bile that formed as he envisioned photographs of Josephine’s dead body pinned beside those of the other women.

“You’re not on this case, are you?” A suspicious note entered the detective’s tone.

Marsh’s phone vibrated on his hip. Grateful for the momentary respite in answering the cop’s question, he held up his hand in apology. He pulled it out, found a text message from Dancer asking him what the hell was going on.

“SAC Marshall Hayes? To what do we owe the pleasure, sir?”

Marsh glanced up from his cell phone. A tall wiry Supervisory Special Agent from the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico reached over the local detective’s shoulder to shake Marsh’s hand. Lifting his gaze further, Marsh connected with the cobalt eyes of the woman who haunted his dreams.

Josephine
.

His world spun. He gripped the doorjamb tighter, fingernails cracking the smooth black lacquer paintwork. His breath rasped in his throat as the world leveled and relief burst loose inside his chest.

Alive. She was alive.

Beautiful.

Dressed in black jeans and a black sweater with a drab army jacket thrown over her shoulders, her skin appeared almost translucent under the fluorescent light. Fear and vulnerability tightened her expression, but she hid it by narrowing her gaze. Her lips curled in their usual scathing manner.

He didn’t care. She was alive—and apart from looking a little shaken up, she seemed as pissed as the last time he’d seen her. She’d pulled her silver-blonde hair back into a ponytail. Her deceptively delicate features were set in a heart-shaped face that disguised a vicious tongue and a mean temper. For the last six months he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind.

Why her? It didn’t matter why. He’d thought she was dead and it had reduced his life to meaningless ashes.