“Pru was stabbed and mutilated.” God, he was going to puke and he hadn’t even liked the woman. He braced his hands on his thighs. “Cops first on the scene arrested Dancer and beat the shit out of him—the stupid bastards thought they’d caught the Blade Hunter.”
Josie slumped beside him, but he shifted away a fraction of an inch, unable to bear the thought of anyone touching him, anyone tapping into that valve that might make him explode.
“You’re angry,” she put her hands on her hips, “because we were together while Dancer was being set-up? Because we were busy banging each other when that bastard was cutting up his next victim?” She gave a harsh laugh that ended on a broken sob. “Welcome to my dark ugly world.”
Swinging her knapsack over her shoulder, she jumped up and strode to the door.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Marsh’s voice was little more than a growl in the darkness, but he couldn’t soften it. Couldn’t bring forth an ounce of empathy or sympathy to the surface.
“I’m going back to New York, so we can finish this thing—”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“We’re both going. You know that.” She was undaunted by his anger. He’d forgotten that this was how she’d grown up; with anger and fear and pain. With shouting and violence and plain old-fashioned ugliness. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but that part of himself was wrapped up tight by guilt and self-recrimination. If he let go now it would destroy him.
Her eyes were bright with tears, but it wasn’t sadness in her eyes; it was rage every bit as powerful as his.
“It’s me he wants, Marsh.”
“Which is why you should stay here and let the law deal with it,” he told her.
“They’ve done such a great job so far.” She planted her hand on her waist, cocked her hip. “I’m not putting your family in danger as well as your friends.”
He started to rise to his feet. “Steve Dancer is a trained professional. You didn’t put him in this situation—”
“Tell me you don’t blame me, blame us,” she pointed at the bed, “for getting him caught up in this mess—”
“I should have been paying more attention!” His voice bounced off the walls. Shit. He sank back onto the bed. Dropped his face into his hands. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Josie looked away, swallowed hard and nodded. “Exactly.”
* * *
Marsh’s FBI creds had got them seats on the first flight to NYC, but wedged between Vince and Marsh, she was squeezed tighter than a burger in a bun. They were in cattle class because these were the only seats available.
Josie knew Marsh was angry. She knew he felt guilty. But she was terrified of the feelings he’d evoked and he’d done nothing except ignore her for the last three hours—and that after a night of incredible mind-blowing sex and real honest intimacy.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” The stewardess asked Marsh. She was perfectly made up, white teeth dazzling and totally uncaring about anything except getting the job done. An automaton. Like Marsh.
Josie glanced at him, but he had his laptop open and was engrossed in work. He glanced up at the flight attendant’s question and gave an infinitesimal shake of his head.
“How about you?” The woman lifted her coffee pot and smiled at Josie, vermillion lips clashing against pink gums.
Josie couldn’t even remember if she’d brushed her hair. “No. Thanks.” Couldn’t even drum up a smile.
Marsh’s fingers paused over the keyboard for one fraction of a second as if he’d just remembered she was there.
Vince’s legs were too long to fit in the tiny space in front of his own seat and so he’d shoved them sideways, into her space as the trolley moved past. He accepted a black coffee and received the type of smile from the attendant that was banned in religious countries.
Josie hated flying. Her hands shook. That’s why she said no to coffee. She’d spill it all over the place…maybe even over Marsh’s spanking new laptop.
Tucking her hands beneath her backside, she closed her eyes and leaned against the headrest as the air pressure played havoc with her eardrums.
“You okay?” Vince asked her quietly.
She opened her eyes and he shifted his legs back out of her space. As if unable to help himself, he turned his head to appreciate the physical attributes of the flying waitress as she moved past them.
“Men.” She rolled her eyes.
Marsh’s fingers paused on the keyboard even though he was pretending to be absorbed in his work. A hiss escaped her lips. To think she’d nearly fallen for him.
Who was she trying to kid? She’d taken a running jump off the highest building and ended up splattered on the sidewalk.
It hurt.
He was treating her like she was a casual acquaintance, like someone he knew well enough that he couldn’t ditch her there and then, but not intimately enough to actually work up an interest in how she was feeling.
Not enough to pretend he cared.
And so what if she was being stupid and bitchy? She hadn’t wanted to get involved period. Now Pru Duvall was dead. Steve Dancer was in jail and it felt like Marsh was blaming her—blaming them—for what had happened, when she hadn’t wanted to get involved anyway!
She understood the weight of guilt.
She carried it in her backpack on a daily basis.
And when she’d finally begun to work out what all the fuss was about with relationships and sex, wham bam! Shut out and isolated like the nobody she really was.
Dammit. Worse than before because she should have known better. People left. People died. People were murdered and she’d never been able to do a damn thing to stop it. But Marsh did. He spent his life trying to stop the darkness swallowing the world. He deserved a better person than her in his life and she knew exactly how to prove it.
“So are we through fucking each other or should I make myself available later?”
The woman in front of them twisted around, shock making her eyes wide before she remembered her manners and turned back to face the front.
Marsh’s hands froze over the keyboard, but he didn’t look up. Vince raised his table and tried to get the hell out. But an elderly woman with a stick made her way slowly past him and he was stuck.
“How’d I rate, Marsh? On a scale of say, Georgia O’Keefe to Rembrandt? Or am I more of a Jackson Pollock?”
“You want another rating?” His laughter was cruel, his tone tipped with biting sarcasm.
No, what she wanted was to get out of this mess and never see him again. She did much better alone.
“I always liked Jackson Pollock.” He couldn’t meet her gaze and that’s when she really got it. He thought this was all her fault…
She sat in silence and used years of experience to remain dry-eyed and emotionless. She was not doing this. Pain was something she avoided assiduously. She wasn’t having a relationship that would rip her to shreds. And maybe she was kidding herself about the relationship thing anyway, because right now he looked like he couldn’t stand sharing the same airspace.
God knew her father had always told her she was trouble, had been from the day she was born. Looked like Marshall Hayes had finally figured it out.
* * *
The corridors heaved with cops, press and Department of Justice agents. The buzz around Marsh spiraled as a couple of the reporters recognized his face. Marsh pushed through to the building’s atrium. A solid hand planted on his chest stopped him going any further. The cop’s pale blue shirt stank of BO, his matching blue eyes dared him to push any further.
Marsh flicked the desk sergeant a glare and flashed his badge. “Special Agent in Charge, Marshall Hayes.”
The cynical glare came with a sneer. “Doesn’t mean you can go back there.”
Detective Cochrane, the bald cop from Angela Morelli’s murder scene, tapped the big guy on the back, “Hey, Morris, we need this one.” As if Brooklyn PD could keep him away. “Let him thro
ugh.”
Marsh nodded to Cochrane, caught a speculative gleam in the detective’s gaze as he shoved past the big cop.
“Where’s Special Agent Dancer?” Marsh asked. They were walking fast down bustling corridors filled with wall fliers, past excited uniforms, the air rank with the stale odor of under-washed, over-worked bodies.
“Back here.” Cochrane held a door for him, twitched his moustache to indicate Marsh went first.
“You don’t really think you’ve got the right guy, do you?”
“Your man was caught leaning over the still warm body of a senator’s wife and the murder weapon was right there with his prints on it—”
“It’s a set-up. Test his DNA and you’ll know it’s the wrong guy.”
“We’re running his DNA, but if it’s a set-up it’s a freaking elaborate one.” Cochrane shook his head.
“The perp’s trying to get to Josephine Maxwell—”
“Looks to me like he was trying to get to Mrs. Duvall, and succeeded…”
Shit. Another woman dead. In a city this big how the hell did he protect everyone? “How’s Brook taking it?”
As if conjured, the steely-haired politician walked dazedly out of an interview room. Next to Steve Dancer, under normal circumstances, Brook Duvall would be the top suspect on the law enforcement radar. Marsh moved toward him, sympathy warring with an inbuilt suspicion. It had nothing to do with his dislike of the man, and everything to do with the statistics of murder.
Maybe this wasn’t the Blade Hunter?
Maybe it was a copycat killer taking the opportunity to get rid of a liability. Both Brook Duvall and Admiral Chambers were right up there in Marsh’s sights—the admiral had found out Pru had probably screwed him out of a painting worth millions—a painting that could change his miserable life.
Detective Cochrane put a restraining hand on his arm. “He might not appreciate chatting, right now.”
Brook’s face was ashen, his eyes bloodshot from tears still visible on his cheeks. He had a lost quality about him, of someone whose world had shattered without them seeing it coming.
“We’re old friends.” Marsh shook Cochrane’s pudgy hand off his arm and walked over to the other man.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Brook.” Marsh squeezed the guy’s shoulder and studied him. Wearing jeans and a L.L. Bean sweater, he looked as if he’d been in the country.
“Were you out of town?” Marsh asked quietly.
Duvall nodded. “We have a house in the Hamptons.” And then he started to cry. Threw himself on Marsh’s shirtfront like they were brothers. “Pru hated the beach house, hated fishing and fresh air. Never wanted to come with us. Oh, God, oh, God…”
While Marsh had trouble believing the Duvalls had been faithful to each other, he had no doubt Brook was devastated by the murder—didn’t mean he hadn’t done it though, or hadn’t set it up.
“What did she do when you were away?” Marsh probed, noted Detective Cochrane’s interested gaze watching the senator carefully.
Brook drew himself upright, wiped his eyes. Marsh offered the man a handkerchief and had the weird thought that he’d have to get another one for Josie because he bet right now she was letting go of all the tears she’d bottled up since they’d woken to the phone ringing at four a.m. this morning.
And he’d behaved like a total asshole because everything he believed in was being challenged. The law. His personal code of ethics. And his views on marriage that he knew she wouldn’t share. And how the hell did he deal with that when he was smack bang in the middle of a murder investigation and law enforcement snafu? How did he deal with that when a killer was putting every effort into making sure the woman he loved died viciously and soon?
Vince was protecting her… and more guilt ate at him because it should be him. But he couldn’t leave Steve Dancer to face the wolves alone. Couldn’t stand the guilt of knowing he hadn’t been doing his job properly because he’d been too busy in bed with Josephine.
Dammit.
Brook looked away. “She had her own friends and social life. Geoffrey is getting her desk calendar from the apartment.” Tears shone like varnish on his cheeks under the harsh glare of the strip lights. “I’ve told the police everything I know.”
Pru had called Dancer to set up a lunch date and Marsh would bet she was somehow involved in the situation Dancer now found himself in. Pru Duvall was somehow involved in her own death.
Marsh grabbed Brook’s arm, forced the man to meet his eyes. “I know this is painful for you, but did she have a boyfriend?”
Brook didn’t bristle, didn’t blink. “I don’t know—we didn’t…”
He started crying and Marsh felt like a bastard for pushing, but he pushed anyway. “You didn’t have a sexual relationship with your wife?”
Brook shook his head. His lawyer came out of the room behind him followed by Special Agent Sam Walker, who looked like he’d spent the week in his clothes. Brook’s lawyer hustled him away with a wary glare. Poor bastard.
Agent Walker lounged against the doorjamb in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up past his beefy elbows. They exchanged a look and Marsh wanted to grab the other fed by the throat and slam him through the wall. Walker looked about ready to do the same to him.
“What’s going on?” Walker asked Cochrane, ignoring Marsh.
Marsh held his tongue. The detective shrugged and moved along the corridor. “Your man’s through here, Agent Hayes—”
Walker blocked his path. “No way are you getting in to see the suspect.”
Marsh was taller, but Walker was broader. Brawling was not in the FBI’s Code of Conduct Handbook, but it wouldn’t be the first time Marsh had broken that particular rule. He planted both hands on the other guy’s chest and shoved him back a step. “Don’t fuck with me, not today.” He held the man’s gaze, watched him bristle and raise his fists. Come on. Give me an excuse…
“Hey, Special Agent in Charge, this isn’t a pissing contest.” Detective Cochrane grabbed his arm. “Your guy’s down here.” Cochrane pulled him along and he went because Steve Dancer needed him.
Marsh followed him until they entered a viewing room. The Forgery and Fine Art team were as tight as family. They relied on each other. Supported each other, and steered clear of the competitive bullshit that invaded other divisions. Dancer was more than just another agent. He was his best friend.
Dancer sat with sagging shoulders in a hardback chair. Unfocused eyes registering nothing, dried blood caked his face, giving him a wretched appearance. Keeping hold of the rage that coursed through his veins, Marsh managed to sound casual.
“Has he seen a doctor?” he asked.
Cochrane nodded, rubbed his moustache. “Got a busted nose.”
The flesh around one eye was red, swollen completely closed. Dancer’s pallor shone white behind the dried brown blood.
“What evidence do you have?” Marsh asked. “Did he provide DNA? Have you run it yet?”
There was no way Dancer was the Blade Hunter.
“We’ve got semen on Mrs. Duvall’s body, although we haven’t run it yet.” Cochrane smoothed his palm over the bald spot on top of his head. “Your guy says his zipper was undone when he came to. Says he was drugged and doesn’t remember a damned thing.”
“The perp has never left semen behind before—”
“Yeah, that bothers me,” Detective Cochrane admitted as he pulled at the tight collar of his shirt. “And he looks twenty, even though I see from his file he’s thirty-three, but he still isn’t old enough to have knifed Josephine Maxwell when she was a child—well, he is, but he’d have been a kid too…”
Kids did god-awful things every day. But neither figured a kid was into this type of sophisticated torture.
“And we’re tracking the timeline and trying to place Agent Dancer at other scenes. But your guy has never traveled outside the US, so that fries the theory of this perp as an international killer.”
Inside the square sterile ro
om, Special Agent Nicholl leaned over Dancer and placed a photograph in front of him. Even from this distance Marsh could see the blood on the digital image.
Marsh stared through the glass, knowing Dancer couldn’t see him but hoping to infuse the other man with some form of hope.
“He isn’t the Blade Hunter.”
Cochrane stroked his moustache. “So either he did Prudence Duvall and set it up as a copycat—a very obvious copycat—or he’s being set up.”
The unspoken question was why and by whom?
Cochrane was watching him closely, looking for what, Marsh didn’t know. He no longer trusted these guys to get the job done. “What about the knife?” Marsh asked.
“At the lab with everything else.” He shrugged, scratched his head. “You know in the real world how long it takes for those results to come in.”
“No CSI timeline for us, huh? Make sure it gets top priority.” Marsh sent a grim look at the detective. “You got motive?”
The detective laughed with a smoker’s rasp. “No motive.”
Marsh stared at Agent Nicholl who was trying to push Dancer into a confession. Dancer shouted something at the other fed, fury firing up his one good eye. Nicholl was an excellent interviewer, but when you had the wrong guy…
“Does he fit the profile the FBI generated?” Marsh asked.
Detective Cochrane stared through the window beside Marsh, and Marsh watched him though the reflective surface—the same way Cochrane watched him back. Both looking for clues, for tells that someone knew more than they were letting on.
Unfortunately, Marsh didn’t know a damned thing.
“Steve Dancer is a single white male who lives alone. Above average intelligence. Raised by his mother. Interested in law enforcement.” Cochrane shrugged. “He fits some of the profile but not all.”
Marsh looked through the glass at the best man he knew. “As a kid Dancer missed most of his formal education, but arranged his own home-schooling program so he could nurse his mother who suffered from MS. Then, after she died, he worked three jobs to pay his way through MIT—graduated top of his class at the age of twenty.” A muscle ticked near his eye.
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