Authors: Virna Depaul
CHAPTER FOUR
K
ILLING
THE
ENGINE
to his car, Mac studied the large mission-style home located in one of Plainville’s most prestigious neighborhoods, about an hour south of where Lindsay Monroe’s remains had been found. Natalie Jones, the house’s owner, was a victim herself, but unlike Lindsay, she’d somehow managed to escape her attacker.
“Nice place.” Beside him, Jase Tyler, the tall, lanky Texan with sandy-brown hair, a slow drawl and a steely mind for details and faces, whistled. He was the newest member of SIG, the only one besides Mac who hadn’t served in the military. Of the five of them, Mac mused, he was also the most easygoing and charming—not to mention the most fashion-forward man Mac knew who wasn’t actually a full-blown metrosexual. But that was only until he was crossed. Then Jase was as focused and lethal as the rest of the team. Screw his expensive suit and tie—he’d be the first to jump into the fray and get his hands dirty.
Right now, however, he looked completely impressed and not a little envious of the house’s owner. “Taking pictures must pay a lot more than I thought it did.”
“Natalie Jones can afford to buy a dozen houses like this,” Mac said. “Celebs paid her the big bucks to photograph everything from their houses to their dogs. Her photos were regularly in
Architectural Digest.
”
“Well, thanks in advance for asking me to come along. Can we get a tour before we pull out the old spotlight and bamboo shoots?”
Mac snorted. Despite the fact SIG members were based in San Francisco and normally worked their cases alone, Mac had asked Jase to take the two-hour drive up with him. Given evidence found in Natalie Jones’s home last night, it looked like Lindsay Monroe’s killer and Natalie’s attacker might be the same person. Even so, it always helped to have a second set of eyes scouring the evidence. More important, Jase would create a buffer between Mac and the woman he was far too anxious to meet.
After getting the call from Plainville PD about the attack on Natalie Jones, Jase hadn’t researched the woman or her website the way Mac had. Thankfully, Jase also had no idea how unsettled Mac had been by what he’d found, or that his odd reaction had prompted him to bring Jase along in the first place.
Of course, Mac would go to his grave before admitting that.
As SIG’s lead special agent, Mac prided himself on maintaining a reputation for unshakable calm and ruthless focus. He never let his emotions get the better of him, not even when Nancy had walked. That a stranger, one he hadn’t even met in person, had such an impact on him was disconcerting, to say the least. He’d been curious about how Jase would react to her. Even better, he had no doubt Natalie Jones would quickly spill whatever information she had about Lindsay, if any, as soon as she fell under Jase’s spell.
Not that Mac wouldn’t be able to ferret the information out or was incapable of putting on the charm to do so. But, while Mac was hardly ugly, he knew his limitations. Serious, intense and impatient usually held little appeal next to Jase’s suave charm and “aw-shucks-ma’am,” golden-boy looks. And right now, he just wanted to get in, do his duty, while at the same time satisfying his curiosity about Natalie Jones, and get out. “Simple, uncomplicated and unfettered” was his new motto for his personal life, and nothing about the photographer’s photos or face even hinted at any of those things.
Unaware of Mac’s thoughts, Jase focused on Mac’s use of the past tense. “Her photos are no longer in
A.D.
or she just doesn’t get the big bucks anymore?”
“Neither, as far as I can tell,” Mac murmured. He flipped through the pages he’d printed from the internet. “Her career was skyrocketing when she suddenly vanished from the public eye. She completely stopped taking pictures around the same time Lindsay was murdered.”
“Coincidences are rare, but they do exist.”
“They do.” But Mac would reserve judgment.
“So you’re thinking Lindsay and Natalie’s sabbatical are related? And what about the guy that tried to kill her?”
Mac stared at a grainy picture of Natalie Jones and recalled the details he’d read in Plainville Police Officer Munoz’s report. Yesterday, she’d walked in on a burglary in progress, and, after a brief struggle, the man had tried to strangle her. Somehow she’d managed to escape long enough to call 911. When they’d searched her place, officers had found a broken chain and cross pendant on the ground. Natalie Jones had denied ownership, and it had been logged into evidence.
At least now they had reason to believe Alex Hanes, the source of trace DNA on Lindsay Monroe’s remains, was still in California. That was assuming three things, of course. First, that the cross pendant had actually belonged to Lindsay. Second, that the pendant had been taken by Hanes. Third, that Hanes had kept the pendant with him until he’d burglarized the house in front of them.
Assumptions weren’t ideal, but they were a starting point, and he’d take anything he could get. Moreover, given the unique inscription on the pendant, which had immediately registered a hit on DOJ’s Automated Stolen Property system, the first assumption was more like a sure thing. Time would tell whether the pendant contained any trace DNA by Hanes or anyone else besides Lindsay.
After the patrol officers had secured the scene, detectives had arrived within the hour and canvassed the neighborhood, but no one had seen or heard anything. Mac had immediately made plans to drive the two hours north from San Francisco to Plainville. In the meantime, he’d gotten up to speed on Natalie Jones. What he’d learned was far too much and far too little.
He’d barely started to explore the portfolio on her website before concluding she deserved the big bucks she’d been paid. It didn’t seem to matter what she was photographing. How unimportant the person or place seemed to be. Each of her photographs exuded a feeling, whether it was joy or fear, passion or grief. She clearly didn’t shy away from emotion, and consequently she made sure that anyone viewing her photographs couldn’t shy away either.
The press had raved about her work, as well as her travels, which had taken her from one side of the world to the other. From that alone, he’d expected her to be unique. Then he’d clicked on her bio page.
While the person who’d taken the photo hadn’t been as talented as her, the picture still managed to transmit Natalie Jones’s essence. What should have been a two-dimensional image of an attractive woman with light eyes, honey brown hair and a clear, olive complexion seemed instead to be a deliberate tease, a small sample of an edgy passion almost too strong to be contained, yet one that hinted at even more beneath the surface. Staring at her image was almost as painful as staring at her work, except in a completely different way.
Her image had electrified him. It still did.
No shock there.
He’d dated since his divorce. Slept with women. Even cared for them. But it was the intensity of his reaction to Natalie Jones’s picture that was so mind-blowing. Especially because he wanted to feel it again and again, even as he dreaded doing so.
Still, Jase was right. Despite the correlation between her becoming a hermit and the timing of Lindsay’s death, the most likely answer was coincidence. That she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time when their perp decided to commit a burg.
It was his job to find out for sure.
Unfortunately, something was making him hang back. A feeling that if he got out of this car, he was going to walk head-on into the very complications he wanted to avoid.
He glanced at Jase, who was staring at him with an odd look on his face. “Sorry. You asked whether I think Natalie Jones’s disappearing act is connected to the timing of Lindsay’s murder? Not in the sense that she had anything to do with it, but I’ve little to nothing to back that up. Plus I’ve been wrong a time or two.” He grinned. “Barely. But it wasn’t a random burglary. Nothing was disturbed. The guy was after something specific, which means he picked her for some reason—the question is why. Come on.” Mac swung open his car door and stepped out. He strode up the walkway, Jase close behind.
“You get in touch with Hanes’s parole officer to tell her about the pendant?”
“I’m going to try her again later today.”
“And what about the results of the neighborhood sweep?”
“The detective in charge, Samuel Carillo, said he faxed me all the reports. They talked to all the neighbors, and no one saw or heard anything unusual. Most residents are working age. Few retirees or families.”
“Well, SIG’s all about taking on the tough cases. Good thing you brought me along.”
Mac snorted.
“You said no more than an hour,” Jase reminded Mac. “I want to get back to the office before dinnertime. I’ve got a date and don’t want to be late.”
Mac didn’t blink at Jase’s words, but he couldn’t help wondering who Jase’s latest flame was. The last woman he’d dated had been an NFL cheerleader. The one before that, a model. He liked them gorgeous, feminine and high-maintenance. The kind of women that deferred to men so often they pretty much forgot how to think for themselves. It was no surprise when, inevitably, Jase started to grumble about the demands his ladies made.
At some point, the piper came calling, demanding payment.
Mac, while he enjoyed an occasional splurge now and then, had gotten used to single life, unencumbered and debt-free. No mood swings to deal with. No neediness or anger when he couldn’t drop everything at work and rush home to be at another person’s beck and call.
Even so, by the time they reached the house porch, Mac’s muscles were tight with anticipation.
He couldn’t deny it. He was curious to see if he felt the same punch in the gut when he met Natalie Jones in person. Most of all, however, he was charged up, feeling that same rush of adrenaline through his veins that hit him whenever he worked a case and knew he was on the verge of an important discovery.
Lifting his hand to knock, he paused and frowned. Loud music with a deep, rock bass drifted through the solid front door, but he heard something else, as well. Thumps. An occasional low moan, as if someone was in pain. It made his eyes narrow. His pulse pick up speed. His breaths escalate.
Even so, he remained cool. Calm. His knuckles rapped the wood, and he called out, “Hello? Ms. Jones?”
* * *
M
OST
PEOPLE
HATED
exercising, but to Natalie, running on her treadmill in the privacy of her own home while listening to the music on her iPod speakers was as close to heaven as she’d been in over three months. Given her blindness, heaven was motion and speed and power without fear of repercussions, like running smack-dab into anything from a tree to a brick wall to a Mack truck. Moreover, given what had happened yesterday, heaven was repetition and rhythm and exertion that diluted the sheer terror she’d experienced when she’d realized someone was inside her house.
Her sanctuary. Her haven from prying eyes.
Anger flashed through her at the memory, but it competed with her lingering fear. The fear was winning. Story of her life, but she supposed, in this case, who could blame her?
She still smelled him: sweat, coffee and desperation edged with something else.
She still felt his fingers, tightening around her throat, too strong to escape.
And she still heard his voice, measured at first, then more ragged as she’d continued to fight him.
She was going to die, she’d thought, and it was going to happen without her ever seeing her killer’s face.
Only she hadn’t died. She’d fought back.
She’d felt no sense of victory then, and she didn’t now.
“Stop it,” she muttered, clenching her fists. Her anger was now directed at herself. He hadn’t broken into her house and mind again; she’d just willingly let him in.
When her breath began to hitch, she told herself to calm down. Her fingers found the small pieces of wood—children’s puzzle pieces in a variety of simple shapes—that she’d glued to the flat treadmill buttons in order to distinguish one from the other. Her speed increased. She willed herself to
become
her movements and barely heard the knock on her door. When the noise finally caught her attention, her stride faltered, but she quickly compensated. It didn’t matter who it was. She didn’t answer her door unless she’d scheduled time for someone’s visit.
Several more thuds followed the first. She upped the speed on the treadmill again, hoping to drown out her visitor’s knocks completely.
Bonnie had assured Natalie her need for isolation was only temporary. That it would give her the time she needed to adjust before taking life by the horns again. Her therapist, Joanna O’Neil, said it made sense, as well.
Bulbs, after all, were entitled to their time underground.
Joanna, however, seemed to think Natalie’s time for hiding had come to an end. Bonnie didn’t agree, and Natalie was fine with giving her the benefit of the doubt.
Sweat dampened her hair and soaked through her thin T-shirt and shorts. She concentrated on the music. The strength of her breaths, pumping air in and out of her body. The strength of her legs and feet as they pounded out a steady rhythm. It didn’t matter. The knocks on the door kept coming, beating steadily, getting louder and louder with every second that passed. Vaguely, she heard a male voice.
Go away,
she thought crossly even as she strained to make out his words. The voice came again, this time louder, and she finally heard what he was saying.
Police.
The police again. Maybe with an update. She should—
Her distraction made her gait falter.
Her foot twisted. She felt herself fall even as the conveyor beneath her feet continued at high speed. Quickly, she thrust out her arms, knowing from experience that it would limit the number of bruises and cuts she suffered, but that was assuming her head missed the treadmill console. The last time she’d fallen, she’d knocked her head so hard she’d had to get stitches. Worse, being inside a hospital again had thrown her into a full-blown panic attack.