Heroes In Uniform (225 page)

If they thought they were going to get anything out of her this way, they were as dumb as she made herself look.

“I didn’t even know he’d cut me, until Marsh, Agent Hayes…” Her voice grew husky and she glanced at the mirror, “…flashed you all like that.”

Color crept into her cheeks and he frowned. Everything about Josephine’s façade was highly polished deceit
except
her embarrassment about those scars. They weren’t pretty, but unfortunately, they weren’t a turn off either.

His cell phone buzzed against his hipbone.

“Dancer, what have you got for me?” God help him, he still had an art-theft investigation to run.

“Philip and Gloria Faraday are siblings. Born in England,” Dancer reeled off. “Parents deceased. No police record, no suspicion of dealing under the table.” He gave a big yawn that reminded Marsh it was well after midnight.

The one-way glass was smeared with handprints and the effect was like looking through a soft focus lens. Josephine made a big show of checking her statement. Sentence by sentence as the agents quizzed her. Walker leaned over her like some proprietary wolf and Marsh gritted his teeth.

Dancer carried on. “The lab agreed to send a crime scene tech to us because of the unusual circumstances. Once they’re done, Aiden can examine it for authenticity and get the paint analyzed. There aren’t any field agents available to help out at the gallery. The SAC said tonight’s homicide got priority.”

Marsh had no problem with that. Human life was more important than art or money and this case had been cold for years. “Go back to the hotel and get some sleep. I’ll meet you at the gallery at nine to interview the Faradays again. See if we can shake something coherent out of Gloria this time.”

“Is it true this serial killer attacked Josephine Maxwell?” Dancer asked.

Marsh sighed. They’d worked together for years and Steve Dancer knew him better than anyone. Dancer also knew Marsh and Josephine had shared one night of sex that had led to deep-seated mistrust on both sides.

“Yeah. He killed another woman in her apartment building, and then attacked Josephine in the lobby. Lucky for her they were interrupted and he fled the scene.”

Lucky…

Clamping his molars together, Marsh fought the urge to retch. The bastard had actually cut her; he’d had his hands on her flesh and it was a miracle she wasn’t dead.

Shit
.

There was a long beat of silence on the other end of the line.

“But how did you know? In the bullpen…” Dancer cleared his throat. “I mean the way you ran out of here when you saw those pictures…how did you know?” One of Dancer’s greatest strengths was uncovering classified information, but Marsh had never told anyone about Josephine’s scars. Tomorrow, he’d be lucky if they weren’t national headlines.

So what difference did it make if he told Dancer?

She’d hate him, but then she already hated him.

“This doesn’t go anywhere else. Josephine was knifed as a kid. Cut up bad enough that the cops didn’t think she’d make it.” Marsh closed his eyes against the graphic images still engraved on his memory from the photographs he’d seen. “I had that evidence file copied to me when we were looking for Elizabeth.”

He’d also seen Josephine’s scars in the flesh when he’d drugged her and injected a tiny transmitter below her shoulder blade. He’d used her to track Elizabeth Ward, her best friend, and his undercover agent who’d gone missing last spring. Josephine didn’t know about the transmitter and he’d do his damnedest to make sure she never found out. Their relationship had taken an unexpected turn when she’d used those same tranqs on him, with startling consequences for both of them.

“She has the same pattern of scars the murder victims have.”

Dancer was silent, though Marsh heard the other man pulling all the threads together and forming an unbreakable weave. “So you think this is the same guy?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. Josephine isn’t talking.” Switching tracks, Marsh asked, “Have you notified Admiral Chambers we found his painting yet?” Another political string-puller, his father’s buddy was going to be delighted they’d finally found that piece. Especially if experts reappraised it as a Vermeer.

“I figured you’d do it.” Dancer’s tone turned hopeful.

Normally, Marsh would have called the admiral immediately, but Josephine’s safety was more important than anything else. Through the window, he watched her smile get more strained. The grip on her pen was so tight the tips of her fingers were bloodless.

His own fingers tightened around the phone because he knew whatever she was writing down wasn’t the whole story. Josephine had a problem with telling the truth. Hell, maybe they both did. “You let him know ASAP.”

“Yes, sir,” Dancer replied smartly. “By the way, I still have that photograph of you in handcuffs…”

Marsh wanted to curse, but other things weighed too heavily on his mind. “Yeah, yeah, just make the damn call.”

He hung up and stared through the window. The clench of her jaw and hunch of her shoulders screamed nervous tension, but he doubted she’d break. Not here. Not yet.

What was she hiding? Why the hell was she hiding it?

But the only thing that really mattered was she was back in his life and he had no intention of letting anyone hurt her ever again. A hum ran through his blood, an excitement he hadn’t felt in months and he wished to God he didn’t feel now. Josephine was in danger—he didn’t believe in coincidence. The Blade Hunter was trying to finish a job he’d started twenty years ago, and that
job
was murdering Josephine Maxwell.

* * *

The urgent need for a shower ate at Josie’s nerves. The scent of sweat, blood and fear clung to her, the memory of her attacker’s touch eroding her skin, gradually being absorbed into her bones and settling there like a bruise.

She bit the end of the pen. If it wasn’t for Marshall Hayes she’d be in her apartment right now packing.

To go where?

She hadn’t figured that out yet. She had options. Connecticut? Montana? Or maybe she should just get on a train with no set destination in mind.

Squinting at the page she’d written, she put down the pen and glanced up at Special Agent Sam Walker, who sat on the table swinging his leg, the gentle motion rocking the surface beneath her forearms.

He and Nicholl were reading the latest report on the murder of Angela Morelli. Discussing it quietly between them. Her stomach clenched.

Despite living in the same building for the last few years, Josie had barely known the woman. And now Angela was dead because of her.

She worried a loose thread on her jacket, snapped it off. The room was dreary and stuffy, nothing but industrial gray and green. Walker’s gun sat on his hip, close to her elbow.

Maybe I should become a cop?
Too bad she wasn’t big on honesty or law enforcement. She wiped her fingers on her jeans and looked at the black holstered weapon again. Guns were something she’d always avoided—only wise guys and cops carried guns where she came from, and she didn’t trust either.

Christ, she wanted to get out of here. She scanned what she’d written.

I checked the mail and someone grabbed me from behind.

The sharp blade of the hunting knife flashed before her eyes and Agent Walker’s big black gun looked tempting as hell.

Mrs. Lauder from number three opened the front door and screamed. Attacker jumped up and ran away.

There were a few more details she could add, but she hadn’t lied.

The door off the street had opened with a rush of wind and Janet Lauder, her downstairs neighbor, had taken one look at the scene, dropped her groceries and run shrieking into the street.

Josie had held up her portfolio as a shield in a last desperate defense.

Mrs. Lauder’s screams had gathered support and loud male voices had responded—if they hadn’t, Josie wouldn’t be sitting here right now. She’d be laid out dead in the morgue. The predator had slid the knife into his pocket and walked toward one of the ground floor apartments. He’d paused long enough to make her a parting promise. “Next time, you’re dead.”

Asshole
.

She signed the statement neatly with her trademark
J Maxwell
signature. Her shoulder itched the way it did sometimes but she didn’t try to scratch it. It seemed important not to show any weakness in this bastion of law enforcement.

“Can I go now?” She shifted her feet, preparing to stand. Despite fatigue that dragged at her eyelids, she smiled. It went against her nature, but the
system
had taught her that looking miserable got you nothing but therapy and pep talks from dumpy-looking social workers. She was far too old for that crap.

Nicholl picked up her statement and skimmed through it, frowned at her in that condescending way some men had.

“Madam, I think it is time you started to tell the truth about your association with this murderer and not some half-cocked story about running into the guy in the hallway. Are you his accomplice? Are you helping him?”

Now they’re gonna pin this on me? Never trust a frickin’ cop
. Rolling her eyes, she threw a look at the mirrored window where she knew Marsh was watching.

Time for another inch of honesty. “I don’t know what else I can tell you. I got my scars when someone attacked me when I was a kid in Queens. There was a police report.” Holding Agent Walker’s gaze she let sincerity shine through. “I thought he was going to kill me.”

“How old were you?” Walker asked, frowning. He was watching her lips.

She withdrew eye contact. “Nine.”

“Where did you grow up?” Walker crinkled his baby-blues, trying to catch her gaze again and charm her. This wasn’t going where she wanted it. She’d wanted to deflect them away from herself but had nothing else to give them.

“Brooklyn. I was visiting a friend in Queens.” She rested her palms on her thighs. Held them still and then relaxed against the hard back of the chair as she realized she wasn’t going anywhere soon.

The room was warm so she slipped out of her jacket and crossed her legs. Both men followed her actions in an automatic male response. She might not be Sharon Stone, but she had moves.

Josephine glanced at the mirrored window and knew Marsh wouldn’t be so easily diverted. Heat rose in her cheeks as memories of exactly how she’d distracted him returned in vivid detail. Virgins should not dabble in sexual manipulation unless they were prepared to get more than they bargained for.

“I think I took him by surprise being there, when I was a kid.” She frowned. She’d never really figured out why he hadn’t killed her. Even in the darkness she’d seen the shocked expression in his eyes. Of course, she shouldn’t have been there. Should never have been peeping through that window from the fire escape. So she hadn’t made a sound when he’d gathered her up—hadn’t wanted her mother or her mother’s lover to find out she’d been sitting outside that window watching them.

She pushed down a sob that came out of nowhere.

“How old was he? It was a
he
, right?” Walker persisted.

Walker was a good-looking guy. Shorter than Marsh, solid, square-jawed, there were lines at the corners of his eyes that suggested he smiled a lot. Lucky him. She concentrated on him and not his crane-like partner, nor the darkly intense man who exuded power even from a room away. Hell, distance was no object for Marshall Hayes.

“It was definitely a guy.” She conjured up old memories that were always fresh in her mind. “He had blunt fingers, square hands.” She looked at her own tapered fingers, swallowed as she recalled the intimate caress of his hand over the knife handle. “I don’t know how old he was. Hell, I was nine. Anyone over sixteen was old back then.”

“Was he an adult?”

“Physically or legally? I don’t know.” She ran her fingers through her hair, pulled. The room spun slightly because she was so tired. “Why don’t you go get the police report? It’s bound to have more details than I can remember.”

“We will,” Nicholl assured her with a glare.

He was the prick she voted Most Likely to Succeed.

“Why do you even think it’s the same guy?” she demanded, picking up the pen and scoring the writing pad with the nib. “It was, what, eighteen, nineteen years ago? I figured he’s dead or in prison with all the other psychos.”

Maybe her memories had betrayed her…maybe it was a different guy.

Sam Walker opened a file and laid a picture on the table. Angela Morelli’s dead eyes stared up at her, her torso patterned with exactly the same marks Josie carried on her flesh.

Bile rose in her throat and she covered her lips with her palm.
Son of a bitch
. Other photos appeared on the table. Body after body of butchered women, blood soaking beneath them in dark pools.

“Josie, I know this is hard, but you’re the only lead we have on this guy.”
The only one left alive
. Walker’s voice was coaxing and gentle, totally at odds with the horror laid out on the table. He squatted beside her, put a hand on her knee and she held very, very still.

She didn’t like to be touched. Never had. But she couldn’t afford to freak out in Law Enforcement Central. Rubbing her arms, she tried to hide her reaction until he removed his hand.

When he did, she forced herself to try to breathe. To try and remember. It wasn’t like she wanted this nutcase on the loose any more than they did.

The bastard had knocked her unconscious and carried her down some godforsaken alley. “I really don’t know how I can help.”

As a child she’d lain frozen as that sharp blade had sliced her skin. Not deep, but deliberately searching out raw nerve-endings.
I won’t kill you if you don’t make a sound
. She frowned, kept her hands on the tabletop in front of her. There’d been
something
about his voice, but it was so long ago…

She’d been too scared to move—just like today. And when he’d flipped her onto her stomach she’d expected him to kill her, but instead he’d scored his blade across her flesh some more, carving a pattern that had defined the rest of her life.

It had stung like a bitch, but she hadn’t made a sound. At some point she must have passed out because when she’d woken up, he’d been gone.