by Tracy Wolff
“On my desk.” But she slowed to a fast walk, aware of the strange looks she and Cole were getting as they crossed the bull pen. Most of the detectives hadn’t arrived yet, but a few were around—and looking at her with concern.
When she got closer to her desk and saw the flowers still sitting there in the pretty butterfly vase, she relaxed a little. Some small part of her had been concerned that she’d missed her shot at them—that they would have disappeared as mysteriously as they’d arrived.
Cole made a choking sound as he looked at the hot pink roses in the too-sweet vase. “You thought I sent you those?” The look he cast her was more than a little appalled. “What are we, twelve?”
She shrugged. “I thought you had singularly bad taste.”
“Not that bad.”
She ignored him, reaching into one of her desk drawers and grabbing a pair of latex gloves out of the box she kept there. It was ridiculous to hope for prints, as the asshole had probably never even touched the vase, while she, the florist, the delivery guy, and God only knew who else definitely had.
But procedure was procedure, and if the guy was cocky enough to send the lead detective flowers, he was cocky enough to make a mistake. Picking up the vase, she ran her fingers along the lip of it and under the bottom, not sure what she was looking for.
But the message on the card had been too cryptic, the flowers too obvious. No, there was something with these flowers—she could feel it. Besides, the gesture would be useless if he hadn’t included something to taunt her with.
She glanced over at Cole for the first time since entering the station. His expression was puzzled and more than a little grim. In fact, he looked like he wanted nothing more than to smash the vase to bits.
“You run across anything having to do with pink roses in your research?” she demanded as she sat back and continued to study the vase.
“No. Not that I recall.”
“Anything about flowers at all?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So what is this all about, then?”
“I have no idea. But I don’t like it.”
She glanced at him, grinned. “You just don’t like the idea of another man sending me flowers.”
“While that is entirely true, I still agree with you that this stinks.” He leaned over and sniffed a rose. “I’m just not sure why I feel like that.”
“There’s got to be something.” She traced a finger over the swirls on the vase. “Butterflies, maybe?”
“What’s in the vase?”
She glanced at him, startled. “What do you mean?”
“Would he put something—”
“In the water?” She finished the sentence for him. Ripping the flowers out of the vase, she dumped them in the trash can next to her desk, then squinted into the murky depths of the vase. “I can’t see anything.”
She pushed up her sleeves, reached into the vase and felt around.
“Hey, is that a good idea? You don’t know what he put in there—” Cole’s voice was low with agitation, and a quick glance revealed how desperate he was to rip the vase out of her hands. But he understood the chain of evidence as well as the next guy, maybe more so, and he hung back, let her do her thing.
Which wasn’t much, as all she felt was water and a few leaves. About to give up, she stroked her fingertips softly around the bottom of the vase one more time, and that’s when she felt it. Something hard and thin.
Grabbing on to it, she pulled it up and gasped when she got her first real look at it. It was a necklace, nearly identical to the one hanging around her neck, except it had a blue, heart-shaped pendant hanging off it.
Shocked, horrified, she turned to Cole. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
As Cole stared at Genevieve and the dripping necklace in her hand, fury wound its way through his gut. Someone was fucking with Genevieve, fucking with him, and he really didn’t appreciate it.
How could this be happening? He’d worked his ass off planning his return to New Orleans, making sure that everything was in order. Yet from the moment he’d stepped foot in this damn city, things had gone terribly wrong.
First, he’d been unable to find out anything new about Samantha’s case. Then he met Genevieve and realized the glaring error in judgment he’d made when he’d chosen her to help him. And now this—someone laying a trail of evidence that led straight to his door, and threatening his lover while they did it. She might have refused to tell him what her little freak-out had been about that morning, but he wasn’t stupid. And he’d be damned if some asshole with a God complex got to torment his woman.
On the bright side, he’d managed to step inside this goddamn building without having a nervous breakdown. The knowledge was cold comfort.
Rage ate at him, the need to find whoever had done this and wrap his hands around the bastard’s throat until he was no longer a threat to Genevieve. Until he was no longer a threat to anyone.
“Cole?” Genevieve’s voice was hard, brittle. “Do you have any idea what’s going on here?”
He shoved a hand through his hair, fought down his rising frustration as best he could. But he was out of his element here, and sinking fast. Even he was smart enough to know that. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? That’s the best you’ve got?”
“It’s the truth, Genevieve. Whether you believe me or not, I’m telling you the truth.”
She stared at him for long seconds, those sapphire eyes missing none of his discomfort or anger, despite his attempt to hide both. Ironic, wasn’t it, that the reason he’d bought the stupid pendant was because it had reminded him of her eyes—a clear, dark blue that seemed bottomless? Now those eyes were ripping him apart, trying to dig into the soul he’d given up long before now.
Genevieve shook her head, tried to clear it. But there was too much going on in it for her to think clearly, too many things that just weren’t adding up. “I know this guy is nuts; I know he’s following me. But how can he follow me and you at the same time? It isn’t possible.”
He shrugged, his mouth grim. “We’re on pretty different schedules—if he’s willing to sacrifice some sleep, I can’t believe it would be that hard.”
Blessedly numb, she reached for the phone. Started to dial forensics, when she realized what time it was. The whole shop was shut down until eight a.m.
So nervous she nearly jumped out of her skin, she picked up the pendant with the hand that was still gloved. Ran a finger over it while her other hand went to the stone even now nestling between her breasts.
The one she was wearing felt different, was heavier than the one in her hand. Reality to perception. Worth to smoke and mirrors. Was that what this guy wanted—her questioning Cole, blaming him for something he couldn’t have done?
If so, it was a stupid plan. Because no matter how hard he pushed her, no matter how dangerous he looked, she knew Cole wasn’t a killer. At least not like this one was—remorseless, vicious, completely without compassion. She would never be able to reconcile the man who had held her while she sobbed with someone who could rape and butcher a woman.
Besides, his intelligence was formidable. His research and planning were the stuff legends were made of. Would he really be stupid enough to jeopardize his freedom for the momentary rush of pissing her off? Scaring her?
Her gloved finger stroked over something that felt unfamiliar, an imperfection in the pendant that hers definitely lacked. Turning over the magnificent stone, she ran a thumb over the back of it again. So clean and shiny, it was hard to imagine that the imperfections she felt were anything but deliberate.
She opened the top drawer of her desk, started searching for the magnifying glass she kept there. It had been a birthday gift from Shawn last year, a Sherlock Holmes joke she couldn’t help but be amused by. Who would have thought it might actually come in handy?
“Genevieve.” Cole’s voice was harsh as he crouched down next to her desk—next to her—and got i
n her face. “You can’t actually believe that I’m messing with you.”
She barely processed what he said. Intent on finding the magnifying glass, on figuring out what those scratches were, she was deep in her head. The fact that it was safer there, harder to get hurt, had nothing to do with it, she told herself. It was just better for her to concentrate on the mystery, on the killer—whoever he was—who suddenly seemed to have her in his sights.
But Cole refused to be ignored. His hands wrapped around her upper arms, squeezed until she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out in pain. But two could play his game, and while she let him have his way in the bedroom, out here was a whole different story.
“Back off, Cole. I don’t have time for this right now.”
“Well, that’s just too damn bad, sweetheart. Because whether time allows or not, we are going to have this out.”
“I know it’s not you, all right? Of course I do.” Her grasping fingers finally closed around the handle of the magnifying glass and she pulled it out in relief. “Now, will you back off already?”
His hand closed over the nape of her neck as he leaned so close their breaths mingled, became one. “Hell, no, I won’t back off. Because if you know I didn’t send this to you, then you know you’ve got a bigger problem than you originally thought. Some freak has targeted you, is sending you shit he has no business sending you. And as he seems to have a particular fondness for knives and other instruments of torture, I think I’ve got a right to be concerned.”
“We don’t know this is the same guy who’s killing those women.”
“Don’t give me your cop bullshit! Just because you can’t prove it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“It doesn’t work that way. Assumptions aren’t going to get us anywhere.”
He sneered. There really was no other expression that could capture the curled lip, the insolent eyes. “You, maybe, with your shiny badge and strings of evidence. Assumptions might not get you anywhere. But I’m a whole different story.” He reached for the magnifying glass.
She knocked his hand away. “I told you to back off.”
“And I told you that’s not going to happen.”
She glared at him for a minute, but he gave as good as he got. Better, and she finally looked away with a sigh of disgust. “Let me do my job, Cole.”
“Who’s stopping you?”
Refusing to even grace that ridiculousness with a comment, Genevieve focused on the blue and silver pendant in her hand. Stared at it through the magnifying glass and barely made out the impressions of an S and a D.
She looked closer, ran her finger over the scratches, and realized she was right on. “Someone’s carved initials in this stone,” she murmured, turning to Cole despite herself.
“What initials?” he demanded.
“It looks like an S and a D, but I can’t be positive until the guys from the lab take a look at it.” She bit her lip, ran through what she knew about the three homicides she was already working. Tried to ignore the fact that none of the victims had those initials.
“What are you think—” She turned to Cole and broke off in midsentence as she saw the ghastly look on his face. He was frozen, his eyes completely blank as he went somewhere far away in his head.
“Cole?” She snapped her fingers in front of his face, but he didn’t respond. Didn’t so much as blink. She looked down at the pendant again, ran her fingers over the hastily scratched initials. And realized, for the first time, that they were his sister’s initials.
Frightened for him, she called his name again—a little more cautiously than she had before—and was relieved when he finally moved.
“Who the hell is this guy?” he growled, shouldering her aside to pick up the pendant. She knew she should object, but the water would have destroyed any fingerprints, and he definitely didn’t look like he was going to take no for an answer.
“If I knew that, I’d be able to sleep at night, instead of imagining his next victim.”
“Yeah, well, this is bullshit.” He slammed the pendant on the desk so hard that her heart stopped as she imagined explaining to Chastian how the evidence had cracked in half. Thank God it was more sturdy than it looked.
“Cole—” She opened her mouth, unsure of exactly what she wanted to say. Knew only that she wanted to comfort where she should question, soothe where she should antagonize. But every thought in her head went out the window as a shrill scream echoed through the building.
It was quickly followed by another, more bloodcurdling than the first. And another one after that.
She and every other cop in the room leapt to their feet and hit the door running. Following the screams, she wound her way down the hallway until she got to the supply cabinet off the lobby. The screams were loudest there, and a crowd of cops had gathered around the clearly distraught woman.
“Hey, what happened here?” Genevieve leaned forward, asked one of the vice cops she knew a little.
Somebody gagged, rushed away, and then the crowd parted and the desk sergeant on duty looked at her with frantic eyes. “You’re homicide, right?”
“Yeah.” The sick feeling in her stomach grew until it was all she could do to keep her breakfast down.
“Then you need to see this.” He pushed his way through the crowd, yanking her behind him in his wake. And pointed at the open door of the supply closet.
Chapter Twenty
Her own gag reflex kicked in as she took in the scene in front of her. Behind her she heard Cole swear, right before he took off. She wanted nothing more than to turn to him. To comfort him. But she couldn’t do that, not now. Clenching her fists until her nails drew blood from her palms, she concentrated on breathing through the pain until she got her emotions—and her stomach—under control.
Then yelled, “No,” as someone stepped forward to touch the body.
“She might still be alive!” The cop turned and she recognized Morales, one of the men who had asked her out about a year ago. He was one of the few who hadn’t let her rejection get to him.
“She isn’t alive, Edgar. And going in there will only contaminate the scene.”
“We can’t leave her like that!” The anguish in his voice was so real it had her taking another look at the body. And cursing as she realized who it was. Sharon Duval, one of the lab techs. Rumor had it she and Edgar were quite the item.
Sympathy had her glancing at Edgar’s face, laying a hand on his trembling back. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
The eyes he turned to her were glazed with shock. “Who … what—” He grabbed Genevieve and buried his head in her shoulder as the crowd watched.
Her arms came up of their own volition, rubbed his back as she murmured senseless words of comfort. Everything inside of her was straining to dig into the crime scene, but she took a few moments to hold her friend. To give him what little she could.
She didn’t know how much time had passed, but suddenly the forensics guys were there—as shaken and angry as Edgar as they stared at what was left of one of their own. After catching one of the other officer’s eyes, she slowly disengaged herself from Edgar as other hands reached out to take him.
Then she moved forward, met Jefferson and the rest of his crew. “What the fuck is going on here?” he muttered in a vicious aside. “Who would do this?”
She understood his anger, felt her own burning in her gut. Sharon had been one of the nicest people Genevieve had worked with—and one of the few other women at the station. To see her like this—naked, strung up, her body mutilated to the point that she was barely recognizable as human—was almost more than she could bear.
When Jefferson gave the okay, she grabbed a pair of gloves from his kit and moved forward. Stared at the incredibly unscathed face. And cursed low and long.
“He wanted us to know who she was right away.” She said it softly to Jefferson, felt the other man sway a little before locking his knees.
“Why do you say tha
t?”
She circled the body, stared at the mutilated back. “Her face is the only part of her he didn’t ruin.”
“Fuck.”
As one, she and the crime scene techs put on booties and entered the crime scene. There was blood all over the floor, buckets of the stuff that continued to drip from the long slices on Sharon’s body.
Her stomach started to revolt again, but she steeled it. Refused to lose it here. She had a job to do, and by God, she would do it.
On some level, she was aware of her lieutenant showing up, along with Captain Wesley. They got the crime scene cleared, and then entered the closet. She realized, distractedly, that neither one bothered to put on the booties to keep their shoes clean.
“A lot of this was done postmortem.” Jefferson said what ’Genevieve had already been thinking. “Thank God.”
“No shit.” She crouched down, got a closer look at the victim’s feet. She was missing two toes. “But why? That isn’t like our guy.”
“Our guy?” The captain’s voice cut like a whip. “Are you telling this animal has struck before? And I wasn’t notified?”
Oh, shit. Unsure of how to answer him, Genevieve glanced at her lieutenant. Chastian’s mouth was tight, his eyes grim, but his anger seemed self-directed. “We think so. But we can’t be positive—the MO of each murder is completely different.”
“Each?” Wesley’s voice was livid. “How many women have died without me being notified?”
“This is the fifth one, sir.” Genevieve spoke softly, hoping to diffuse the already tense situation. All she needed was for the captain to explode in the middle of her crime scene.
But all he did was grind his teeth together and say, “When this is over, I want to see both of you in my office.” He paused, looked at something over Genevieve’s shoulder. “Make that all three of you.”
She turned to find Shawn standing there, a look of abject horror on his face as he surveyed the room. He took a minute, then did exactly what she had done. Shrugged it off and said, “Where are we?”
“Just getting started.” She went back to looking at the victim’s feet. Something in this one was ringing a bell, taking her back a few years. But she didn’t say anything, not yet. She’d work the scene unprejudiced, gather as much evidence as she could. Then she’d check out the database and see if her instincts were as right-on as she thought they were.