Every roll of his hips was deliberate, and he watched her, gauging her response. Then he shifted and she gasped as unexpected pleasure rippled through her body.
He brushed his lips over her ear, making her shiver. “Right there?” he whispered.
“Right there is really good.” Her hands covered his buttocks, thrilling in the play of his muscles as they tensed and flexed. He was a well-formed man, hard and honed.
Slowly he began to bring her up again, rocking harder against her until her heart was racing faster than before, rocking faster up into her until his control began to slip. She wanted to see his control slip. She wanted to be the one to break that deliberate restraint, make him forget who he was, where he was, and . . . take her.
She brought her hand around his hip, trailing her fingertips over the sensitive skin of his groin, and his body jolted. With a low groan he froze, trembling against her.
“Daniel, please.” She whispered it in his ear. “Do it. Now.”
He shuddered as his control shattered. His hips plunged at a frantic pace, as if he couldn’t get deep enough fast enough. This, this was what she’d wanted. Him, holding nothing back. She met him at each peak, clutching his shoulders, digging her nails into his back to get closer, to bring him deeper until once again she teetered at the edge. With one last hard twist up into her body he pushed her over. She started to cry out, but his hand clamped across her mouth, muffling her moan.
When the bucking of her body had subsided to quivers, his body went rigid, his back arching as if he’d bay at the moon, but no sound broke free. His jaw clenched as his hips jerked, pressing hard and deep. For a long moment he held himself motionless above her, magnificently male. Then his breath left him in a rush and he collapsed, burying his face in the curve of her neck. He was panting and shudders racked him. Alex smoothed her hands across his back, up under the shirt he still wore.
When his shudders stilled, he lifted his head again, this time leaning up on his elbow so that he looked down into her face. His cheeks were flushed and his mouth was wet and his breathing was still strident. But his eyes . . . She always came back to his eyes.
He looked awed. And Alex felt as if she’d conquered Everest. He drew a deep breath. “Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head, loving looking up at him. “No. It was perfect.”
Another shudder shook him, an aftershock, smaller this time. “You were so tight. I should have done this better, in a bed. I should—”
“Daniel.” She pressed her fingertips to his lips. “It was perfect. Perfect,” she repeated on a whisper and watched his mouth smile.
“Now that sounds like a definite challenge. Next time I’ll—”
“
Police! Stop right there!
”
The shout came from outside and Daniel was instantly on alert, on his knees. He zipped his pants and rolled to his feet, scooping up his gun. “Stay down,” he told her. He stood at the side of the window, peeking between the lace curtains.
Alex stayed down until she saw his shoulders relax. “What?” she asked.
“What?” Meredith echoed, opening her bedroom door a crack.
“It’s the paperboy,” Daniel said. “Hatton took the paper and he’s coming up the walk. But he doesn’t look happy,” he added, sounding unhappy himself. “Now what?”
Alex grabbed her underwear from the floor and shoved it into her robe pocket before pulling her belt tight around her waist. Ignoring Meredith’s raised brow, she fled to the kitchen, busying herself making coffee while Daniel opened the door for Agent Hatton.
“Sorry, Daniel,” Hatton said. “Miss Fallon.” He nodded at Alex, then Meredith, apparently not a man to waste words repeating a name when it worked for both women. He turned back to Daniel. “He drove up in a van. We didn’t know he was the paperboy at first. But take a look at the front page. Your friend Woolf has been a busy boy.”
Daniel grabbed the paper, then looked up, his expression grim.
Alex forgot the coffee, hurrying to take the paper from his hands. At first she frowned. Then her eyes widened. “Rhett Porter’s dead?”
“Who is Rhett Porter?” Meredith asked, reading the front page over Alex’s shoulder.
“Rhett was one of Wade’s friends,” Alex said. “Rhett’s father owned all the car dealerships around here. Wade worked for them, detailing cars.”
“Rhett was also the brother of the boys that discovered Alicia’s body,” Daniel said.
Hatton’s brows were lifted. “Coincidence?”
Daniel shook his head. “Nothing’s a coincidence in this town.”
“I wonder how Woolf got this scoop?” Meredith asked. “It wasn’t on the news or on the Internet. I was just online, checking my mail.”
She said it with a pointed look, and Alex knew Meredith had not only been awake but had heard the entire scene on the sofa.
His cheeks darkening, Daniel buttoned his shirt. “I’ll go have a chat with Mr. Woolf.”
“I’ll stay inside the house with the Miss Fallons,” Hatton said.
“And I’ll make coffee,” Alex said. “I know I need it.”
Meredith followed her to the kitchen, smirking. “
I
need a cigarette,” she murmured.
Alex glared at her. Neither of them smoked. “You just shut up.”
Meredith chuckled. “When you decide to get a wild hair, you really do it right.”
Dutton, Wednesday, January 31, 5:55 a.m.
Daniel was turning onto Main Street when he saw a light come on in the window of the office of the
Dutton Review
. Instinct told him to hold tight, so he pulled his car behind a boxwood hedge, turned off his headlights, and waited. A few minutes later Jim Woolf appeared from behind the building, gliding past Daniel with his headlights darkened as well.
Daniel pulled out his cell phone and called Chase.
“What now?” Chase asked, grumpy.
“Woolf got another big scoop last night. One of the town men was killed when his car went off the road. I came to ask him about it and it looks like our boy is going for another early morning romp.”
“Fuck,” Chase muttered. “Where’s he going?”
“East. I’m going to tail him, but I need backup. I don’t want him noticing me.”
“Tell Hatton to stay with the ladies and have Koenig tail him with you. I’ll start driving your way. Call me before you confront him.”
“Yes, sir, partner sir.”
Wednesday, January 31, 6:00 a.m.
No, no, no, no, no . . .
Bailey rocked herself, the pain from banging her head against the wall a welcome relief from the loathing and disgust that made her want to die.
“Bailey. Stop it.”
Beardsley hissed the command, but Bailey didn’t listen to him.
Bang, bang, bang
. Her head throbbed and she deserved it. She deserved to be hurt. She deserved to die.
“Bailey.” Beardsley’s full hand shot under the wall and grabbed her wrist. He squeezed hard. “I said stop it.”
Bailey dropped her head, dug her chin into her knees. “Go away.”
“Bailey.” He wouldn’t go away. “What happened?”
She stared down at the dirty hand that had her wrist in an iron hold. “I told,” she spat. “All right? I told him.”
“You can’t blame yourself. You held out longer than most soldiers would have.”
It was the smack, she thought heavily, her thoughts a nauseated whirl. He’d held the syringe just out of reach and she’d wanted . . . needed. Craved to the point nothing else mattered. “What have I done?” she whispered.
“What did you tell him, Bailey?”
“I tried to lie, but he knew. He knew it wasn’t in my house.” And he’d kicked and hit and spat on her every time she’d lied. Still she’d been strong. Until the needle.
Now it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered.
“So where did you hide it?”
She was so tired. “I gave it to Alex.” She tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. She tried to cry, but she had no more water in her. “Now he’s going after Alex, and Alex has Hope. And he’ll kill me, and probably you, too. He doesn’t need us anymore.”
“He won’t kill me. He thinks I wrote down Wade’s confession and hid it.”
“Did you?”
“No, but it’s buying me time. He’ll keep you alive until he checks out your story.”
“It doesn’t matter. I wish he’d just killed me.”
“Don’t say that. We’re going to get out of here.”
She let her head drop back against the wall. “No, we won’t.”
“Yes, we will. But you have to help me. Bailey.” He dug his fingers into her wrist. “Help me. For your daughter and for all those other girls you hear crying in the night.”
Bailey faltered. “You heard them, too? I thought I was losing my mind.”
“You aren’t. I saw one of the girls when he was taking me to his room.”
His room, where he’d tortured her for days. “Who is she, the girl?”
“I don’t know, but she was young, maybe fifteen.”
“Why does he have them?”
“Why do you think, Bailey?” he countered gravely.
“Oh my God. How many does he have?”
“I counted twelve doors on that hall. Now help me. For those girls and for Hope.”
Bailey drew a breath that hurt inside and out. “What do you want me to do?”
Releasing her wrist, Beardsley threaded his fingers through hers. “Good girl.”
Dutton, Wednesday, January 31, 6:15 a.m.
C
an I get you some more coffee, Agent Hatton?” Alex asked. He sat at her table, calm and unrushed. His partner was gone, giving backup to Daniel.
Hatton shook his head. “No, ma’am. My wife only lets me have a cup a day.”
Alex lifted her brows. “You listen to your wife? Really? Very few men that come through the ER listen to their wives, which is why most of them end up in the ER.”
He nodded solemnly. “I listen to every word she says.”
Meredith scoffed from the kitchen. “But do you obey her?”
Hatton grinned. “I listen to every word she says.”
“I thought so,” Meredith said and filled his cup anyway.
Hatton saluted Meredith with his cup, then put it down on the table. “Hello there.”
Hope stood in the doorway of her bedroom staring at Hatton.
“This is Agent Hatton.” Alex took Hope by the hand. “Agent Hatton, my niece Hope.” Then Alex stared as Hope touched Hatton’s face where a soft gray beard grew.
Hatton leaned forward in his chair so Hope could reach him more easily. “Everyone says my beard makes me look like Santa,” he said. He opened his arms, and to Alex’s shock, Hope climbed into his lap. She stroked his beard with the flat of her palms.
Meredith uttered a small groan. “Not again.”
Alex looked at Hatton helplessly. “Hope’s had a tendency to fixate on things.”
“Well, she’s not hurtin’ a thing, so leave her alone for now,” Hatton said, forever endearing him to Alex.
Alex sat down at the table with them. “You have kids, Agent Hatton?”
“Six. All girls. Eighteen all the way down to eight.”
Meredith looked at the organ, then at Alex. “Maybe he knows what the song is.”
“I don’t want to get her started again,” Alex said, then sighed. “We have to try.”
“What song?” Hatton asked.
Meredith hummed it and Hatton frowned. “Sorry, ladies. I can’t help you.” He checked his watch. “Vartanian said you were meeting Dr. McCrady and the forensic artists this morning at eight. We should be getting a move on.”
Disappointed that he hadn’t recognized the song either, Alex stood up, her knees still stiff from her concrete slide the day before. “I have to walk Daniel’s dog.”
Hatton shook his head. “I’ll take the dog outside, Miss Fallon.” To Hope he said, “You’ve got to get ready. Little girls need time to primp.”
“He does have six daughters,” Meredith said wryly.
Hope pressed her hands to Hatton’s soft beard, her little face suddenly intense. “Pa-paw.” It was the first word she’d spoken, her voice small and sweet.
Hatton blinked once, then smiled at Hope. “Your pa-paw has a beard like mine?”
“Does he?” Meredith asked, and Alex tried to bring Craig Crighton’s face to mind.
Quiet. Close the door
. When she could think, she shook her head. “He never had a beard that I remember.” She cupped Hope’s cheek. “Did you see your pa-paw?”
Hope nodded, her big gray eyes so sad Alex wanted to cry. But Alex made her mouth smile. “When, honey? When did you see your pa-paw?”
“Didn’t you say the nun at the shelter said Bailey had looked but hadn’t found him?” Meredith murmured.
“Sister Anne said she didn’t think Bailey had found him.” Alex frowned. “You know, Daniel never told me if he’d found Sister Anne. Or Desmond.”
“I know he called it in last night. I’ll check it while you two get ready,” Hatton said. He set Hope on her feet and tipped up her little chin. “Go with your aunt now,” he said, and Hope obediently put her hand in Alex’s.
“We have to keep him,” Meredith said, pointing to Hatton. “He’s got a way with her.”
“Or he needs to give us his magic wand,” Alex countered wryly, and Hope’s face shot up, suddenly panicked. Alex glanced at Meredith, then ignoring the protest of her knees, crouched to look Hope in the eye. “Sweetheart, what is the magic wand?”
But Hope said nothing, her face frozen, terrified. Alex wrapped her arms around her. “Baby,” she whispered into Hope’s golden curls, “what did you see?” But Hope said nothing and Alex’s heart sank. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get your bath.”
Bernard, Georgia, Wednesday, January 31, 6:25 a.m.
“Agile sonofabitch,” Agent Koenig murmured behind Daniel.
Daniel watched Jim Woolf pull his way up into a tree. “You wouldn’t think he had it in him.” His jaw tightened as he looked through the trees at the ditch by the side of the road. “He took lots of pictures before he picked his tree. I don’t want to know who it is.”
“I’m sorry, Daniel.”
“Me, too.” In his pocket his cell phone vibrated. It was Chase. “We just got here,” he said. “Koenig and I. I haven’t checked the scene yet. How far out are you?”
“Not far. I used my lights. Go ahead and check it out. I’ll wait.”
Daniel pushed through the trees, cell phone still pressed to his ear, imagining Woolf’s stunned expression even as the man snapped his picture. He got to the edge of the ditch and stopped. “There’s another one,” he told Chase. “Brown wool blanket.”
Chase made an angry sound in his throat. “Then pull that damn idiot out of his tree and sit tight. I’m exiting the interstate now and CSU and the ME’s rig are on the way.”
Dutton, Wednesday, January 31, 6:45 a.m.
He pulled into his own driveway, relieved, exhausted, stiff in all the wrong places. But Kate was safe and that’s what counted. He had an hour to shower, eat, and pull himself together before he was due at Congressman Bowie’s for an update meeting.
There was tragedy, he thought, and there was politics. Sometimes they were one and the same. He stopped on his front porch to pick up the morning paper, and even though he’d been expecting the news, his heart sank. “Rhett,” he murmured. “You dumbass. I warned you.”
His front door opened and his wife stood there, hurt in her eyes. “You used to try to hide your late-night romps from the neighbors. Not to mention the children.”
He nearly laughed. After all the times she’d ignored his rolling in late from another woman’s bed, she’d picked today to confront him. The one time he wasn’t guilty.
Yes, you are. You need to tell Vartanian about the seven other women. It’s not enough to keep Kate safe. If one of them dies . . . it’s on your head
.
His wife’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “You look like you slept in your clothes.”
“I did.” The words were out before he could stop them.
“Why?”
He couldn’t tell her. He didn’t love her. He wasn’t sure he ever had. But she was his wife and the mother of his children and he found he still had enough self-respect to admit her opinion of him mattered. He couldn’t tell her about Kate, about any of it.
So instead, he held out the paper. “Rhett’s dead.”
His wife drew a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry.”
She was. Because she was a decent person. She’d never liked Rhett, never understood their “friendship.” Ha. As if. More like a mutual self-preservation society. Keep your enemies close to your heart; then you’ll know if they’re about to double-cross you. It was valuable advice he’d received from his father once a long time ago.
His father had meant his political enemies. Not his supposed friends. But the advice worked just the same. “He . . . um . . . he ran off the road.”
She opened the door a little wider. “Come on in, then.”
He stepped over the threshold and looked into her face. She’d been a good wife all these years. He didn’t want to hurt her. He just never seemed to be able to stop himself. None of his affairs really meant anything, except the last one.
He still felt bad about the last one. Normally he just used women for sex. But he’d used Bailey Crighton to get information. She’d changed since her daughter was born. No longer was she the town slut they’d all had at one time or another.
She’d thought he cared, and on some level he had. Bailey had tried so hard to make a life for herself and Hope and now she was gone. He knew where she was and who had taken her. But he couldn’t say anything to help Bailey any more than he could help the other seven women targeted by a killer.
“I’ll fix you some eggs while you get showered and changed,” his wife said quietly.
“Thank you,” he said and her eyes widened. It occurred to him he hadn’t said that to her nearly often enough. But then, on the list of his many sins, being impolite didn’t seem to hold a candle to rape. Or the murder of the women he’d refused to help.
Atlanta, Wednesday, January 31, 8:45 a.m.
Daniel slumped in a chair at the team table. He dragged his hands down his face. He hadn’t even had time to shave. Thanks to Luke, he at least had a change of clothes.
Luke had given credit to Mama Papadopoulos, who’d called him every hour the evening before, fretting about “poor Daniel.” Luke had dropped off one of Daniel’s suits on his way to his own office. But Luke’s face had been drawn and weary and Daniel knew his friend had troubles of his own. He thought of the pictures Luke had to look at every day as he investigated the slime that peddled children on the Internet.
He thought about Alex. She’d been a child when Wade had assaulted her, whether she’d admit it or not. Primal rage flared within him and he was glad Wade Crighton was dead. Slime like Wade and the predators Luke chased did so much more than physically assault their victims. They stole their trust, their innocence.
Daniel thought of how Alex had looked the night before—vulnerable and fragile. He shuddered where he sat. The sex had been the most amazing of his life. Being with her had rocked him to his very foundation. The thought of losing her scared him to death.
He had to make this insanity stop. Now.
So get to work, Vartanian.
Chase, Ed, and Hatton and Koenig joined him at the table, carrying cups of coffee and looking grim. “Here,” Chase said, giving him a cup. “It’s strong.”
Daniel took a sip and winced. “Victim three is Gemma Martin, twenty-one. We’re three for three. All three grew up in Dutton, all graduated from Bryson Academy, same year. Gemma lived with her grandmother, who got worried when she didn’t come down for breakfast. She found Gemma’s bed unslept in and called us.”
“We ID’d her with her prints,” Ed said. “Everything at the scene was identical to the others, down to the key and the hair wrapped around her toe.”
“I want to know where he grabbed her,” Chase said. “Where was she last night?”
“Gemma told her grandmother that she wasn’t feeling well and was going to bed early, but the grandmother told me that Gemma often lied. Her Corvette is missing from her garage. We’ll start with her usual haunts.”
“What about the tapes from where Janet rented her minivan?” Chase countered.
“I dropped them off at CSU when I brought Hope to see Mary last night. Ed?”
“I had one of the techs review the tapes overnight,” Ed said and slid a photo across the table. “We got very lucky. Look familiar?”
Daniel picked up the photo. “It’s the guy who bought the blankets.”
“He made no attempt to hide his face this time either. He had the key to Janet’s Z.”
“And we have no idea who he is?” Chase demanded.
“We’ve got his face taped to the visor of every squad car in the city, Chase,” Ed said. “The next step is to flash his picture on the TV news.”
Daniel looked at Chase. “If we do that, he could go under.”
“I think that’s a chance we have to take,” Chase said. “Do it. What’s next?”
“Yearbooks,” Daniel said. “We need to track down the women in the pictures.”
“Already started,” Chase said. “I’ve got Leigh calling every high school in a twenty-mile radius of Dutton to get their yearbooks from thirteen years ago.”
Ed sat back, puzzled. “Why high school yearbooks from thirteen years ago? Janet, Claudia, and Gemma would have been nine years old thirteen years ago.”
“I’m getting to that.” From his briefcase Daniel pulled Simon’s pictures and told the others the version of the story he and Chase had agreed upon the night before.
“Daniel had surrendered the pictures to the police up in Philly,” Chase said. “The detective on the case up there was good enough to have them scanned and e-mailed to us first thing this morning. The originals are being couriered down.”
Daniel felt bad about Vito Ciccotelli jumping through the hoop of scanning and e-mailing the photos, but he’d been completely honest with Vito last night when he’d called him. Vito had offered to scan the pictures himself. Daniel hadn’t needed to ask.
Vito had rejected any offer of thanks, saying Daniel had given him something more precious—he’d helped Vito save his girlfriend Sophie’s life. Daniel thought of Alex and understood how Vito viewed the saving of his Sophie as the all-trumping act.
Ed shook his head. “Okay. So Simon had these pictures, including one of Alicia Tremaine and another of the waitress who was killed last night, Sheila Cunningham.”
“Yes. Alex was able to identify four of the others. One is dead, suicide. The others we have to match to girls from the local schools. That’s why I want the yearbooks.”