“So what the hell is it doing at a small gallery opening in New York City?” Marsh asked, rubbing his eyes. The Faradays had to have known it was more valuable than what they’d paid…but that was the point of being a dealer, right? To make a buck. “What was the price tag on it at the gallery last night?” Marsh asked.
Dancer pushed away from the window and crossed over to the desk. Pointed out a figure on a separate list. “Eight hundred grand.” He whistled and flashed his boyish grin. “I’ll take two.”
Marsh drummed his fingers on the desk.
Pru Duvall had stood next to him, directly in front of that painting and hadn’t even glanced at it, hadn’t shown the slightest interest in anything except his date. It was possible she didn’t have anything to do with the day-to-day running of Blue Steel Trading Corp and had never seen the painting before. But if she wasn’t interested in art, what the hell was she doing at a NYC show? He didn’t trust Pru Duvall and her husband was an asshole. But he was a well-connected asshole.
The Duvalls were staking out their political patch and the art scene in NYC was brimming with affluent, influential people—who else could afford to spend eight-hundred grand on a painting?
“Set up an interview with the Duvalls, Dancer, but keep it very low-key, very non-threatening. In their home if possible.” Marsh checked his wristwatch, wondering how Josephine and Vincent were getting along. He pulled out his phone and dialed Vince’s number. “What did the admiral say when you told him we’d found the painting?”
A flush of color made Dancer’s freckles disappear and he had the grace to look ashamed. “I, ah, didn’t reach him.” He shuffled his legs as he leaned on the table. “The housekeeper said he was on a fishing trip to Alaska.”
“Pretty sure they have phones in Alaska, Steve.” Marsh ground his teeth at the sound of the dial tone. Dancer was the best electronics experts he’d ever known, but the man didn’t deal well with power brokers. He could charm women with nothing more than a dimpled smile, but got tongue-tied with the brass. “Call the FBI office in Anchorage, have them track him down.”
It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Marsh rubbed his temple and wondered what Vince and Josephine were up to. And why weren’t they answering the telephone?
* * *
“It’s too big.”
“You’re holding it wrong.”
“How the hell do you walk around with this thing?” Josie strained her neck to peer up at Vince. His laugh started somewhere in his stomach and worked its way out of his lips—she felt the vibration move up her back as he stood behind her. With one enormous hand he took the gun out of her two-handed grip, replaced the magazine and slid it effortlessly back into his shoulder holster.
The cannon looked tiny in his hands.
“It’s a Desert Eagle pistol, ma’am,” Vince’s eyes were darker than chocolate, with a hard polish of military. “Weighs more than four-pounds with the magazine loaded.”
She shook her hands and rubbed her aching wrists. “Well damn. That won’t work.”
He frowned down at her, a diamond stud winking in one ear. “You looking for a self-defense weapon?”
“No, I’m thinking of invading Washington.” She planted a hand on her hip and glared back at him. “Of course I’m looking for a ‘self-defense weapon’.”
God, even the thought made her cringe. She’d felt nothing but desperation when she’d looked through the sights on that monster pistol. And desperation meant fear.
She hated fear. Hated guns. She caught her bottom lip with her teeth. Life sucked. Get over it.
Elizabeth was on a delayed honeymoon in the middle of the Outback or she’d have phoned her for advice. She wasn’t due back till next week and Josie doubted Nat would appreciate her interrupting their time together.
Her fingers ached from being so tightly clenched, so she relaxed her hands. Wished she could concentrate enough to do some painting, but even that was beyond her right now.
A flash of white teeth caught her by surprise. Vince smiled.
“We can arrange that.”
“You’ll help me get a gun?” Grinning from the relief of actually doing something proactive as opposed to sitting on her ass waiting for this killer to turn up, she grabbed her bag and raced up the steps to the door. “Where do we go? Do I need cash? How much?”
Vince stared at her narrowing his eyes, assessing. “Well, we’ll need two recent photos—head and shoulder shots.” He walked over to the big windows at the front of her apartment, examined the blinds and then closed them. Shutting out the sunlight. “And you’ll need some ID. Birth certificate, probably, and money orders for the fingerprint and application fee—”
“Application?” Standing by her front door, her shoulders sagged as her mood plummeted. She reached for the doorknob.
“For a Special Carry License. Don’t touch that door until I say so, young lady.”
Rolling her eyes, she asked, “And how long will it take to get a Special Carry License?”
“Long enough to teach you how to use a handgun.” Vince gave her one of those God Almighty stares that Marsh had down pat. They must teach them at Navy boot camp.
Irritated beyond politeness, she put an index finger to her lips and cocked her hip. “Hmmm, I wonder if that murdering bastard remembered to pick up his concealed-knife carrying permit before he started butchering women? I guess we should put out a news alert, huh?”
“You think this is funny?” Vince’s intensity made her uneasy and uneasy pissed her off.
She grabbed the doorknob.
“Don’t you—” Vince didn’t yell, but his voice was like a sonic boom penetrating the brick and despite his bulk he lunged toward her quick as a crocodile. But she was faster.
She yanked the door wide open then fell back in shock when she realized a man stood there. Her heart scrambled into her throat. Vince drew his weapon and leapt toward her.
“Get back!” He pushed her against the wall as Special Agent Sam Walker drew a deadly looking pistol and pointed it at Vince’s massive chest.
“No, no, no! FBI!” Josie struggled to move, tried to put herself in front of Vince, but his hand was like a metal brace across her chest. “He’s FBI! FBI!” she gasped. Josie watched their expressions alter from warlike to wary.
“ID.” Vince’s voice brooked no opposition.
Thankfully, Sam Walker didn’t argue. He flipped his jacket to reveal that gold badge with the eagle on top and Vince lowered his gun, but didn’t release her. In fact, the pressure of his palm on her sternum increased and Josie found it difficult to suck in a breath. Funny how there were no sexual fireworks, unlike when Marsh touched her.
Funny as a heart attack.
Slowly, with infinite care, Vince put his gun away, pulled his wallet out of his pocket and dug out some ID. “I’m this lady’s bodyguard. I apologize for pulling a gun on you, sir.”
Walker had the gall to look amused as he returned the ID and Vince continued to pin her to the wall. Her cheeks felt hot, and her lungs struggled to function with that much weight working against them.
“I only opened the door,” Josie panted.
“You disobeyed a direct order, missy.”
“I’m not in the…” Her vision started to gray. She wasn’t about to apologize. She hadn’t asked for this guy’s help. “I’m not… in… the freaking Army…”
“Navy.” Vince turned his head to trap her gaze. “If you want to get people like me and Special Agent Walker killed, you just carry on acting like a spoiled brat.”
Josie ground her teeth, unable to squeeze the words out of her burning lungs. She was the target and yet she was the only one without a weapon. How the hell was that fair?
I didn’t ask for your help…
Dark eyes pinned her as the world started to spin on the inside, but there was no way she was apologizing for opening her own front door, dammit.
* * *
The door to Josephine’s apartment stood wide open.
Marsh looked up the stairwell and started running, flicking the snap on his holster and putting his hand on the SIG’s grip. He already had a round in the chamber.
Someone shouted out as he got to the top of the staircase.
“Don’t get excited, Hayes.” Special Agent Sam Walker came out the front door, fatigue digging trenches at the sides of his eyes.
Marsh put his back weapon and redid the snap. “Where’s Josephine?” Shouldering his way past the other fed, he stopped abruptly as he caught sight of Vince leaning over a prostrate form.
“What the hell happened?”
Vince straightened and shook his head. “My fault. I underestimated the amount of pure stubborn pigheadedness running through her veins. She passed out rather than admit she might actually be in the wrong.”
There was a snort from the couch. She fought to sit up, but Vince placed his palm on her head. “Lie down for another minute. Okay?”
To his surprise Josephine nodded and lay down. The blinds were drawn, probably against snipers, though Marsh doubted the Blade Hunter would get to her that way—not personal enough. Something moved at the edge of his vision. Sam Walker strode past him and down the steps into the sitting area.
“Can I have a drink of water, please?” Josephine’s voice was sweet and seductive. Marsh felt a shot of heat. The last time he’d heard that tone was when she’d asked him to make love to her.
Would she use that tack on anyone? Sam Walker went into the kitchen and Marsh watched him go, anger burning beneath the surface of his skin. Shit. He shook his head, jealous as hell.
“Your bodyguard nearly killed me.” She looked pathetic and frail lying there on the big scarlet couch, the giant looming over her. The same woman who’d once nailed him in the balls so hard he’d almost passed out.
“Yeah, I figured Vince was the type to knock a woman around. That’s why I hired him.” He exchanged a knowing look with the former SEAL. “Somehow I doubt this is Vince’s fault.”
Sam Walker came back into the room carrying a glass of water.
“Special Agent Walker saw it—didn’t you, Sam?” Josephine sent the sonofabitch a tremulous smile and he nodded, a return smile on his face.
Dark emotions twisted through Marsh’s gut. Great. Once again she’d reduced him to emotion rather than logic.
He sighed, sank down on the couch beside her. She curled up her legs to accommodate him. A pair of scruffy boots lay an inch from his suit pants. He picked one up, undid the laces and slipped the boot from her foot, dropped it onto the floor before laying her foot gently back on the couch. Repeating the action with the other foot, he saw Agent Walker watching him, a speculative gleam in his fatigue-rimmed eyes. Marsh dropped her other foot, which bounced on the cushion, didn’t even have the energy to smile when she curled her feet beneath her pert bottom as she sat upright.
Enormous canvases covered the wall behind Walker’s head, distracting Marsh’s gaze. The colors were white flames with the occasional intense splash of color that writhed and twisted as if trying to escape. He remembered the first time he’d seen them. Stunning, evocative—like the woman who’d painted them.
“Want to tell me what happened? Or shall we move on?” Marsh asked. Tension joined forces with a headache that beat the crap out of his skull.
Beetling his brows, Vince said, “I don’t know if I can protect her if she refuses to cooperate with basic instructions.” His eyes were on Marsh, intelligent, loyal and playing Josephine like a pro. Except she’d never played well with others.
“I don’t need you anyway. I’ll disappear. I know how—”
“Yeah, that worked out so well last time.” Marsh was careful with words in front of Sam Walker, but her flinch of pain told him he’d struck home. The Mafia had tracked her down after torturing and murdering her father and the woman who’d raised her. If Marsh hadn’t found her first, she’d have been dead. Their gazes locked, the blue of her eyes so vivid they looked like they’d been daubed on a fresh canvas.
Sam Walker took a seat next to Vince on the opposite couch, looking short by comparison.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to take off.” Walker’s tone was subdued.
Josephine’s hands gripped each other like tangle weed.
“Why? What do you have on this guy?” asked Marsh.
Walker pulled a folder out of his case. The sober quality of the man’s stare made Marsh pay attention.
“Detective Cochrane pulled up a list of possible victims linked to this killer as far back as the mid-nineties, two cases from New Mexico and two from D.C. I’ve been going back through the records trying to link more possible victims—”
“What are you using to assess linkage?”
Sam shot a look around the room. “Whatever I say is classified. If any of this information is leaked I’ll get you all charged with obstruction.” He rested his elbows on his knees, a pen held loosely between his fingers. “Even you, sir.” He nodded at Marsh.
Marsh figured he must have checked his alibi for the murders and he was off the hook. About time. “Then why are you telling us?”
“Because I know you have the clout to get the information anyway and I like the illusion of control.” Walker didn’t look impressed with Marsh’s status and Marsh respected him more because of it. But he’d do whatever it took to keep Josephine safe from a killer. Walker stared hard at Josephine. “And because I think you’re the first victim.”
“I’m not a vic—”
“Are you sure?” Marsh cut across the denial that was an integral part of Josephine’s existence.
Walker nodded and reached for a picture from the top of the pile. “I was initially concentrating on this woman in New Mexico because I thought she was the first victim. Her name is Donna Viera, murdered in the early nineties.”
The photograph slid across the surface of the coffee table with a whisper of sound that stirred the hairs on Marsh’s nape. Blonde. Skinny. Her body covered with a series of crisscross patterns that had bled profusely, streaking her skin.
“Cause of death?” Marsh asked.
Josephine averted her eyes and sipped water. Vince hunched over the table, staring at the photos of ritualized slaughter.
“She bled to death.” Walker pulled out another photo and placed it beside that of Donna Viera. Angela Morelli. The woman from downstairs. Two decades apart and the sonofabitch was still killing. Marsh tried to control the fury that surged through him.
“These victims are almost definitely the work of the same person. Both vics are blonde, Caucasian women, late twenties to early thirties—attractive women.”
Josephine put her water down abruptly, spilling it. “I’ll get a cloth.” She was halfway to her feet, but Marsh planted a hand on her thigh and held her in place. Vince got up to search for a towel. Marsh knew she wanted to avoid this, but it was important that she understood exactly what she was dealing with.
“Angela Morelli was a dyed blonde.” Walker pointed to the woman’s pubic region. “He skinned her genitals, probably as punishment.”
A wave of revulsion rose in his throat, but Marsh shoved it down. Josephine had her hand over her mouth as Vince handed her the cloth. It dangled uselessly from her fingers so Marsh took it from her and wiped up the water she’d spilt.
“What about his MO?” Marsh asked.
Walker glanced across at Vince. “I know you’re a decorated soldier and a war hero and all, but if this gets out…”
“I had top security clearance as of three months ago and you think I’ve forgotten the rules already?” Vince’s amused expression didn’t fool Marsh. The slur on his character insulted the ex-SEAL.
“Vince is the most discreet person you’ll ever meet,” Marsh stated.
“And the most law abiding.” Josephine shot Vince a glare, but he returned it with a quiet smile and a wink.
“I figure you need to know what the danger is.” Walker pulled out two more photos. Two more women brutalized.
“These women were attacked in their own homes. They’re single and were alone during the time of the attack. He spends considerable time with the victims. Several hours according to the evidence.”
Josephine opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, no words escaping.
Walker carried on. “Evidence suggests he gags them, ties them to their beds and then he cuts them. Repeatedly.”
“Any DNA or trace evidence?” Marsh asked, hoping against hope.
Walker shook his head. “Nothing yielded a viable biological sample until the blood we found on the floor downstairs when you bit him. Analysis isn’t back yet but they have a rush on it. Let’s hope he’s in the system.” Looking at Josephine, he said quietly, “From what you’ve told us we figure he wears some kind of hat or mask, at least until he has the victim secured.”
Josephine shuddered and turned away. Her skin was so pale the blue of her veins was visible beneath the surface on the backs of her hands.
“Why does he cut them?” Josephine’s voice was high pitched.
Walker shrugged. “Piquerism? Some people get sexual gratification from the act of cutting or stabbing. Or get off on the victim’s pain.”
“Sexual assault?” Marsh asked.
Walker shook his head.
“He didn’t rape me.” Josephine’s tone held relief. Marsh reached out and took her hand, rubbing her cold fingers with his. She turned to face him, eyes stark with confusion. “Why not?”
“Maybe he’s impotent.” Marsh shrugged. He really didn’t know what drove a man to kill for fun. The fact the victims hadn’t been sexually assaulted was a plus, but he still made them suffer.
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