by Dee Davis
Critics Hail Dee Davis
as a Master of Romantic Suspense!
Advance praise for Endgame
"Dee Davis is at the top of her game in this clever
and quick-paced ride over dangerous ground. With a
hot love story and a cold-hearted villain, Endgame is romantic
intrigue at its best Davis never disappoints."
—Mariah Stewart bestselling author of Dead Wrong
Dancing in the Dark
"Top-notch suspense. This story of extreme loss, treachery,
and danger also adds up to great romance."
—Romantic Times (4 stars)
"Dancing in the Dark is a definite page-turner;
and a story you'll want to finish in one sitting."
—Romance Reviews Today
"Fast-paced and intriguing,
Dancing in the Dark shouldn't be missed."
—The Romance Readers Connection
Midnight Rain
"Engaging characters and lots of plot twists
make for a spine-tingling romance."
—Booklist
"Taut suspense, wicked humor; powerful romance—
Midnight Rain has it all."
—Christina Skye, nationally bestselling author
of Code Name: Nanny
"Top-notch romantic suspense."
—Romantic Times (4 stars)
Dark of the Night
"A highly entertaining read, both as a mystery
and a love story, which embraces
all the components that a reader could want."
—Rendezvous
"Full of suspense and intrigue...
blackmail, murder and a storyline that takes great
unexpected twists will keep you at the edge of your seat!"
—Old book Barn Gazette
"Intrigue, deception and murder make Dark of the Night
a great way to spend your entertainment hours."
—Romantic Times (4 stars)
"A compelling, thoroughly entertaining tale of romantic
suspense. Fans of the genre should add Dee Davis to their
list of 'don't miss' authors."
—AOL Romance Fiction Forum
Just Breathe
"A wonderful, not-to-miss, stay-up-late read."
—Philadelphia Inquirer "
Ally McBeal meets Mission: Impossible...."
—Publishers Weekly
"A book that successfully merges the elements of a spy novel
and a romance comes around once in a blue moon.... I look
forward to the next Dee Davis novel with excitement."
—Bookaholics
"Ms. Davis uses a deft hand in molding her characters..."
—Under the Covers
After Twilight
"Dee Davis has crafted a compelling story that deftly
combines suspense and romance, offering the best of both.
I'm adding her name to my must-read list."
—New York Times bestselling author Kay Hooper
"Perfect pulse-pounding reading for a cold winter's night."
—Romantic Times (Top Pick)
"An exciting romance thriller ...
not to be missed"
—Huntress Reviews
Endgame
Dee Davis
Endgame is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
Published by Pocito Press.
Copyright 2005 by Dee Davis Oberwetter
All rights reserved.
Originally published as a mass market paperback in the United States by Harlequin Enterprises Limited
Cover design: Frauke Spanuth, Croco Design
http://www.deedavis.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Also by Dee Davis:
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
More Last Chance
Enigma
About Dee Davis
Also by Dee Davis:
Romantic Suspense
Dark Of The Night
Dancing In The Dark
Midnight Rain
Just Breathe
After Twilight
Eye Of The Storm
Chain Reaction
Still of the Night (Novella)
Last Chance Series:
Endgame
Enigma
Exposure
A-Tac Series:
Dark Deceptions
Dangerous Desires
Desperate Deeds
Daring (Novella)
Deep Disclosure
Deadly Dance
Double Danger
Women’s Fiction
A Match Made on Madison
Setup In Soho
Time Travels
Everything In Its Time
The Promise
Wild Highland Rose
Anthologies
Hell with the Ladies (Marcus)
Hell on Heels (Jezebel)
In loving memory of my father
Victory goes to the player who makes the next-to-last mistake.
—Savielly Grigorievitch Tartakower (1887-1956)
PROLOGUE
New York City
BINGHAM SMITH WAS LATE. Which wasn't all that unusual, but given the fact that his driver hadn't shown up, and that he was due to close a deal in less than an hour, it held the potential for disaster.
Cursing softly under his breath, he closed his umbrella, eyed the surging crowd and stepped onto the staircase leading into the bowels of the city. Subways disgusted him. Humanity pressed together, pushing and shoving, all decorum lost.
But he was pragmatic if nothing else, and given the downpour, there was no chance of catching a taxi, so the subway it was. An older, balding man stumbled against him, the spoke of an umbrella jabbing forcefully into Bing's side, the pain oddly localized, sharper than he would have expected.
With a curt nod, the man disappeared, swallowed by the crowd, and Bing turned the corner, stepping out o
nto the train's platform. An empty platform. It seemed he couldn't catch a break.
Turning his wrist, he consulted the face of his Piaget, and immediately wished he hadn't.
A quarter of an hour wasted and no train. He debated making his way back to the stairs, and the relative sanctity of the street, but dismissed the idea almost immediately. Best to wait.
Nothing ever came from overreacting, and besides, his head was beginning to ache and the prospect of climbing stairs did not appeal. The people on the platform surged forward as a unit, a sure sign the train was coming.
Bing tightened his hand on his briefcase, and blinked as the lights seemed to brighten and then dim, a wave of dizziness making him stumble. Sucking in a breath, he let the crowd move him forward, fighting for composure, a dull ache radiating through his chest cavity and along his arm.
He ruthlessly pushed the thought of pain aside, twisting past a tweed-clad grandmother so that he stood poised on the yellow line just as the rumble of the oncoming train became audible. There was no time for illness. There was simply too much at stake. He'd worked long and hard to reach this point, and nothing—not his driver, not a rainstorm, and certainly not a stitch in his side—was going to interfere with his success.
The number six train roared into the station, sparks flying on the steel below. The pain in his chest had intensified, making it hard to breathe, and the single light at the head of the train mesmerized him, the rhythmic sound of the wheels seeming to mimic the frantic beat of his heart.
He closed his eyes, fighting for breath, and started to take a step backward, but before he could accomplish the movement, the crowd moved again, each person intent on claiming a spot in front of the doors of the incoming train.
One minute there was concrete beneath his feet and the next—nothing. He knew he was falling, even tried to throw out his hands to break the fall, but the pain was too strong, his heart pumping with an almost syncopated rhythm, the effort robbing him of all strength—robbing him of life. Which was probably just as well, because two seconds later the number six train smashed through Bingham Smith's body as if it were made of straw.
Six down, three to go.
CHAPTER ONE
New York City
INTERROGATION ROOMS RANKED only slightly above gas station restrooms in the stench and filth department. Which was too bad, considering the amount of time Madison Harper spent in them. Sucking in a final breath of semi-clean air, she opened the door and walked into the room, immediately commanding the attention of the detective in the corner and the unsub at the table.
The latter looked to be at odds with his surroundings, although he was showing some signs of wear and tear. His white button-down was starting to wilt, and the creases in his khakis weren't as pristine as they'd once been. With a little luck, she'd soon be responsible for adding some sweat to the ensemble.
With a subtle nod at the detective, she lifted the bag she held onto the table, making a show of pulling out a blood-spattered pipe. Still without breaking the silence, she carefully laid the pipe on a battered bookshelf, and then, just as carefully, turned her back on it.
"Mr. Jackson." She held her hand out to the man at the table, ignoring the flash of surprise in the detective's eyes. It was always the same. Derision, surprise, skepticism, and then ultimately resentful admiration. Profiler's lot in life.
"Who the hell are you?" Paul Jackson glared up at her through bloodshot eyes. She waited a beat, and then another, delighted to see him shooting a sideways glance at the pipe. So far so good.
"My name is Madison Harper." They shook hands as if they were at a business meeting, and then she sat across from him at the table. Detective Barton shifted, leaning back against the windowsill, eyes narrowed, arms crossed.
Skepticism.
Madison bit back a smile.
"You another detective?" Jackson was studying her now, trying to figure out who the hell she was, and more importantly if he could use her to his advantage. It was there in the tilt of his head, and the twist of his brows.
"No." She shook her head, pulling a stack of files out of the case and dropping them onto the table. "FBI. We've been working with the police. Trying to solve Connie Weston's murder."
Murder was a kind word for the act. A vivacious fifth grader, Connie had disappeared on a walk to the corner grocery, only to be discovered dead in an abandoned warehouse five days later. The child had been raped, sodomized, and then beaten in the head with the pipe on the bookshelf. There were no fingerprints, and no trace elements to tie Jackson to the murder, but Madison was nevertheless certain of his guilt.
The trick was to get him to admit as much.
"I already told Barney Fife there," Jackson inclined his head toward Barton, but his gaze was back on the pipe, "I didn't do it."
Barton shifted again, looking a lot like he wanted to tear into Jackson, but he had his orders, and to his credit, despite his obvious disapproval he didn't attempt to interfere. They'd been round and round their approach, and only when his lieutenant had insisted had Barton agreed to play it her way. But apparently he lived by his word.
"Maybe not on purpose," she said, noting that Jackson had indeed started to sweat, his hands clenched in an attempt to hold on to control.
Jackson worked for the local cable company and had been in the area the day Connie disappeared. He was newly divorced, and recently discharged from the army. His sheet included a suspected rape and a couple of arson charges from his youth. And he'd been the primary suspect in a New Jersey rape a couple of years back, a hooker named Belinda Markham.
Until today he'd been the picture of helpful, cocky and confident. Even volunteered to take a lie detector test. He was definitely the kind of man who could have approached Connie without scaring her. The eleven-year-old would never have seen it coming. Not when she was so close to home. Even in New York there was a comfort zone.
"We know you did it, you sick bastard. Just tell us how." Barton evidently had lost whatever willpower he'd summoned, and he stepped menacingly toward Jackson, his face twisted in anger.
Jackson immediately regained some of his former bravado, glaring up at the detective through narrowed eyes. "I didn't do nothing."
Madison swallowed a rebuke, settling instead for a visual one, and then smiled at Jackson, reaching out to touch his hand, her skin crawling with the action, her body held in tight control so that her revulsion was not apparent. "We're not blaming you, Paul. I've seen the pictures." She made a play of pulling them out of an envelope.
She let her gaze sweep over the tiny form clad only in the plaid skirt of her school uniform, focusing instead on Jackson, who stared at the photograph as though in a hypnotic trance. It was as if he simply couldn't pull his eyes away.
"The man who killed her obviously felt remorse, Paul. See how he laid her jacket over her face? It's a protective move, meant to shield her from harm. Whoever did this obviously had a heart."
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, and looked up to meet Detective Barton's eyes. His skepticism was fading.
"She was a pretty little girl." Jackson's voice was soft now, all traces of contentiousness gone. "Really sweet."
Madison grabbed onto the adjective. To call someone sweet you had to know them. Or at least have met them. She felt a flash of triumph. She was getting close. "Not so sweet, surely?" She looked up to meet Jackson's eyes, only to find he was again staring at the pipe, his breathing uneven.
"I mean girls that age—they don't know what they've got, do they?" She waited a moment, making sure she had his full attention. "Wearing their skirts so short. Their legs all tanned and bare. They hardly leave anything to the imagination. And girls like that hardly ever wear bras. It's enough to drive a man crazy, isn't it?"
Jackson nodded slightly, his gaze now alternating between the pipe and the photograph. There were circles of sweat under his arms now, and beads of it on his forehead. With a slight nod, Madison indicated that it was time for the final act
.
Barton pushed off of the windowsill and walked over to pull out the chair beside Jackson. "Did you know that when a person is bludgeoned to death, like Connie here—" he poked a finger at the photograph "—blood flies everywhere?"
Unconsciously, Jackson looked down at his hands.
"All we have to do, Paul, is test you for trace." It was far too late for that, but the man had no way of knowing. Besides, he'd turned the corner, found his out. He'd never meant to kill Connie. He'd only wanted to seduce her. In his mind, her friendlessness had meant she wanted him. It was only afterward, when he realized the reality was nothing like the fantasy—that Connie was frightened and hurt—that he knew he had to kill her. To cover up what he'd done.
Madison knew it all. She could see it. Feel his impotence. His building rage. She could smell Connie's fear as it filled the room, surrounding him, robbing him of his fantasy—of his triumph. She could feel his hand as it closed around the steel of the pipe. All he wanted was to erase his mistake. Stop the crying. Make it go away. He'd been wrong. She wasn't the one. And for that she had to pay. Remorse and anger twisted in his gut, until there was nothing left to do but hit her, and hit her, and hit her....
"I didn't mean to hurt her."
Madison jerked back to the present, her breath coming in gasps. Jackson was looking at her, his eyes begging her to understand.
"Of course not," she whispered, her hand still on his, not daring to break eye contact.
"It's just that she kept coming on to me." The words came out on a sigh.
Again Madison swallowed bile. "It's not your fault, Paul. How could you have known she'd fight you?"
"She did." He was earnest now, intent on explaining. "She screamed and she screamed, and she kicked me. I didn't know what to do. Then she tried to run away."