Stalked (13 page)

“Make yourself at home,” she said sarcastically. She look at the photos.

“Thanks.” He opened her refrigerator and grabbed two beers, handing her one. “See anything?”

“Other than an annoying ex-boyfriend?”

Joe looked over his shoulder. “Where?”

She hit him in the arm and stared at the crime scene photos. She used the findings in the autopsy report to re-create the scene in her head. The victim was found between her car and the vehicle next to her—owned by the people who found her body.

“She was dragged from here”—Suzanne pointed to the blood pool in front of Weber's car—“approximately four feet to here.”

“Correct, we knew that—but what does that tell you?”

“That she'd just left her car and was meeting someone.”

“That's what I thought as well, but her prints were on the hood of her car, so—”

“—so you think she was leaning against her car while she was waiting for someone.”

“Bingo.”

“She knew her killer. We've been over this, Joe.”

“Or thought she did. What else?”

“No trail.”

“And no weapon found at the scene. The M.E. said the killer's hand would have been drenched in blood, up to his wrist. He wore gloves—powder common in latex gloves was found on the victim.”

“He came prepared.” Good detail. She glanced down at the autopsy report again. She'd missed it the first time because Joe was making her nervous. She could just see what was going to happen. She'd get involved again, his ex-wife would threaten to take him to court for full custody, and she'd be waiting and waiting and
waiting.
She didn't want to go through that again.

“Could have bundled up the blade, the gloves, maybe even external clothing, and dumped it anywhere.”

“Did you canvass?”

He glared at her. “I've been on the job five years longer than you, babe.”

“Don't call me that.”

“I'm going with you on the bundling, but I don't think he dumped it at Citi Field. Too much chance of us finding it. More likely he took it with him, or he dumped it in the Bay.”

They looked at each other. “Bay,” they said together.

“Except the stiletto,” Suzanne said.

“Why?”

“Because it can be traced. At least, in theory. He planned this—gloves, location, the element of surprise, no defensive wounds, no blood trail. He isn't going to be stupid and dump anything that could lead back to him. I'll bet if we recover the clothing it'll be generic from a major store. Salt water would destroy any forensic evidence.”

“I have uniforms looking along the shoreline, going with the tide, to see if anything washed up. But he could have weighted it down and tossed it anywhere.”

“That's what I would do,” Suzanne said.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“You're already there.”

Joe stared at her. “Why can't you forgive me?”

“Who says I haven't?”

He looked into his beer bottle. “I'm not seeing anyone else.”

“Of course not. Stephanie won't allow it.”

“Why do you always have to bring her up?”

“Because your ex-wife is part of any relationship you have. It's a threesome, and not the fun kind.”

“Fuck.” Joe ran a hand through his brown hair, leaving it messy and sexy, just the way she liked to see him. She turned away. She couldn't give in to temptation, because it would only lead to where it led before: heartbreak.

“Joe—look, I don't want to fight with you. I don't blame you. Hell, there's no one to blame. Tyler is your son. He's eight years old and he needs his dad. I get that. I like the kid; he's going to grow up and be just like you. But the games that Stephanie plays to keep you from being happy, I can't do that. And I can't stand between you and Tyler.
I won't.
” Her chest heaved and she wished they hadn't had this conversation. Damn, she cared about Joe and she liked his son. But she wanted something that wasn't possible.

Joe put his empty beer bottle down and stared at her. His dark Italian eyes read her, and she forced herself to withstand the visual assault. She stared back, kept her expression blank, kept her mouth closed.

Do not give in. Do not give in.

He leaned forward and kissed her. She should have turned her head. She'd planned to.

But she didn't.

As soon as his lips touched her, the slow boil that had been simmering since she'd seen Joe yesterday morning bubbled over. She grabbed him and held on as he pushed her against the counter, his mouth open on hers, one hand tangled in her hair, the other on her back, under her shirt, clutching her. Flashes of hot, fast, hard sex ripped through her thoughts and she gasped as his mouth moved down her neck and his hands moved everywhere. Joe's thigh pressed between her legs, and she returned the favor, rubbing his dick as it pushed to escape.

She pulled his shirt from his slacks and kneaded his hard chest. Joe was all man, all cop, lean and ripped.

He unholstered his gun and dropped it on the counter, then pushed her onto the kitchen table, her copy of the crime photos flying. Her shirt flew in another direction, and when his mouth found her breasts she moaned. He nibbled at her, hard enough for her to feel his teeth but not hard enough to hurt. He pushed his hand down the front of her jeans and found her wet spot. He grinned at her as he slipped in one finger, then another, a promise for what would come as soon as she stripped. She kneaded her fingers over the heavy bulge in his pants and his cat-ate-canary smile disappeared. He fought with her jeans. “God, Suzi.”

She pulled his head to hers and bit his ear, then licked it, his muscles tensing under her moving hands. He unzipped her jeans.

Her phone rang.

“Don't you dare,” he growled in her ear, pinning her to the table.

She closed her eyes and reached for the button of his pants.

Her phone kept singing to her. AFI's “Miss Murder.” Headquarters.

She pushed Joe off and grabbed her phone.

“Madeaux.”

“This is Ray Jordan from the night desk. I have Assistant Director Hans Vigo from national headquarters on the line for you.”

“I'll take it.”

Joe walked across the room and stared out the window, all sweaty and sexy. She turned her back to him.

Two clicks later and Dr. Hans Vigo said, “I'm sorry to bother you this late at night, but it's important.”

“What can I do for you Assistant Director?”

“You worked with SSA Tony Presidio today, correct?”

“Yes.” Suzanne knew immediately something was up. Not just because of a call from an assistant director but also because of his tone. “The murder of Rosemary Weber, which I'm working with NYPD.”

“I need all your reports and a detailed list of every place Tony went while he was in New York. Anything you can remember about what he said and did.”

“Of course; may I ask why?” She picked her shirt off the floor and slipped it on. She held her phone with her shoulder and began to button it up.

“He died of a heart attack thirty minutes after arriving back at Quantico.”

Suzanne sat down, forgetting about her shirt.

“He went back early to go through his notes. I had no idea he was ill.”

“He left a message for me before he boarded the plane in LaGuardia, concerned about FBI exposure on this case. Do you know what he was talking about?”

“No, sir. We discovered some of Weber's files were missing, and Tony's having an analyst re-create them off shorthand notes. Unless—he did leak specific information to the press about how we know the killer staged Weber's murder to look like a robbery. He's hoping the killer will try to pawn the ring to prove us wrong.”

“Thereby proving us right,” Hans said. “Sounds like Tony. Stay on it, and keep me in the loop. I'm heading down to Quantico in the morning to take care of Tony's affairs.”

Joe smiled but didn't look at her. He walked back toward the kitchen and grabbed his gun off the counter.

“I'll send you everything first thing in the morning.” She hung up. “Joe—”

He shook his head, leaned over, and kissed her. “Next time, I'll flush your phone.”

“There won't—”

He put his hand over her mouth. “There's always a next time.”

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ten Years Ago

No one was happy with me that I'd lied about my parents being dead, especially not my parents. But in my defense, they were dead to me. Grams had been my legal guardian for five years, but I was fourteen when she died and the idiot judge thought that I had to live with someone. He picked my mom.

Mom and Dad had divorced after the trial and Mom tried to force me to live with her. Grams had been stronger then and stood up to my mom. Mom cried, but I just kept my thoughts focused on all the lies she'd told. Grams had been as hurt as I was, because Mom was her daughter. I might have only been nine during the trial, but I understood a lot more than people thought. I told Grams not to blame herself, that Mom made me live with the consequences of my bad choices, like when I thought the Jacuzzi would make a good bubble bath or when I went over to Jared's house to play his war games after Mom said I couldn't play any games rated M. I was grounded for a month.

Mom and Dad made bad choices—it was like that FBI agent said; some bad choices have unforeseen consequences. That doesn't make it okay to lie.

Grams and I had a tacit agreement that day. We could talk about Mom or Dad or what happened to Rachel, but we'd remember only the fun things, like when Grandpa taught Rachel and me to fish or when Grams taught us to bake.

And then Grams was gone, just like Grandpa and just like Rachel, who I remembered more than I wanted.

It was my second week back living with my mom, the day I started high school, and Mom drove me to the campus. As if being a freshman who was shorter than everyone else as well as notorious wasn't bad enough, Mom had to pick a fight.

“You need to forgive me.”

“For what?”

“For what happened to Rachel.”

“You didn't kill her.”

“Don't talk about it.”

“You started it.”

I'd never have talked to Grams like I spoke to my mom, but I loved and respected Grams.

I looked at my mom. Pilar McMahon. Forty-five. Dyed her hair and wore too much makeup.

“Do you know how sorry I am? Do you know how much I have suffered these five years? Knowing what happened to Rachel, knowing that you never wanted to see me again.”

And if Grams was still alive, I wouldn't be having this conversation now.

“Peter, please.”

Mom didn't know what I knew. That in the last week I'd heard the front door close in the middle of the night. That even when she thought she was being quiet her bed hit the wall. I might not have known had I not been raised to the same sounds.

“Are you still a slut?”

She slapped me. I got out of the car and didn't look back.

The first day of high school wasn't the worst day of my life, but it was in the top ten.

It was the end of the day, when I went to my locker to get my things, that bad went to worse. I found a note.

I'M WATCHING YOU.

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

FBI Academy

During her first week on campus, Lucy had discovered the secluded, parklike area behind Hogan's Alley while exploring the campus with Margo and Reva. She'd come here many times when she needed to be alone. Because of the trees and overhanging branches, the circle was ten degrees cooler in the heat of the day and, better, it afforded privacy.

She sat heavily on a fallen log early Friday morning, after running five miles on the track trying to work out the grief of Tony's death. The run had left her drained instead of invigorated, her emotions on overdrive.

The sun was still low on the horizon, the air crisp and clean in the clear summer dawn. It would be a beautiful morning before the heat became unbearable. But she wouldn't enjoy it. Too many feelings, too many questions.

A breaking twig caught her attention, and then a voice: “Lucy, it's me.”

“Sean?” She jumped up, stunned. “What are you doing here?”

“I know you were close to Tony. I asked Kate to get me in.” He walked over and hugged her. “Your friend Margo told me you'd probably be here.”

“I needed to get away from everyone.”

He sat down and she leaned against him. It was good to have Sean here, even if it was just for a few minutes. “Thank you,” she said. “It's a long drive.”

“Kate said I could stay for breakfast.” He smiled, then looked at her, worry in his eyes. “You okay?”

Tears blurred her vision and she buried her face in Sean's shoulder and cried for the first time since she'd heard Tony had died. Sean held her, stroked her hair, didn't say anything. There was nothing to say, and Lucy was grateful that he had come to her. She hadn't even thought to ask him to, but it made all the difference.

Several minutes later she sat up. She touched his damp shoulder. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Better?”

She nodded.

Sean kissed her lightly. “I was spoiled seeing you every day. I miss you. Talking on the phone just doesn't cut it.”

“I know.”

“Are you all right?”

“I will be. I've known Tony for less than a month, but I'm still stunned.”

“I'm sorry I didn't get to meet him.”

“I think I'm going to miss his stories more than anything,” Lucy said. “Tony put a personal twist on all the cases he worked. Listening to him recount his process and the different paths he explored was interesting and insightful. He was dedicated. He cared.”

“So do you. That's why he brought you into his world.” Sean kissed her forehead. “You should have asked for today off.”