Pretty Little Killers

by Rita Herron

  Korine’s cell phone buzzed on her hip. She snatched it and checked the number. Her boss, Director Bellows.

  “I need to take this.”

  Again, no response from her mother. Korine stepped over by the window and connected. “Agent Davenport.”

  “It’s Director Bellows. I know you trained with Special Agent Hatcher McGee at the academy and he praised your work. His partner is out recovering from an injury, so I want you to work with him temporarily.”

  Director Bellows knew they’d worked together. But thankfully, he didn’t know the whole story.

  “Of course, sir. What’s the case?”

  “Homicide—Sunset Cove, Seahawk Island.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Korine’s pulse hammered as she ended the call—she finally had a case. A real case.

  She had to leave.

  She walked back to her mother and gently rubbed her back. “I’m afraid I’ll have to skip the tea today. I have to go now.”

  Her mother’s chin quivered slightly, and for a moment, Korine thought she might say something. But then her face became a blank mask again.

  She wanted to scream in frustration. But she’d done that before, and it did no good.

  Esme stepped back into the room, her brow furrowed. “Ms. Korine?”

  “I’m sorry. I have to go to work,” Korine said.

  Esme nodded as Korine rushed toward the door.

  Still, she couldn’t shake the sound of that blasted song from her mind as she started the car.

  She had to focus, though. She was going to work with Hatcher McGee. God . . . he was legendary for solving hard cases.

  And for being a hothead.

  He was also damned hot in bed.

  But no one knew about their indiscretion except the two of them.

  At least she didn’t think he’d told anyone.

  Director Bellows wouldn’t have partnered you with him if he knew.

  No doubt Hatcher would be pissed to be assigned a rookie like her. A stupid rookie who’d believed him when he said he was single.

  If he’d been home with his wife instead of with her the night they’d fallen all over each other in bed, his wife might still be alive.

  She wouldn’t make the mistake of sleeping with him again.

  She’d prove to him that she could contribute to the case. That she was a professional. That this time, she wouldn’t succumb to his sexy body and rugged charm.

  That their one night of passion meant nothing to her. That it hadn’t haunted her with what-ifs and fantasies about a repeat experience.

  The tune from her music box chimed in her head as she drove toward the cove, a reminder that the most important case of her life remained unsolved. That she’d trained to become an agent so she could rid the world of crime.

  That sex and romance had no place in her life.

  “Sometimes it’s better not knowing,” her mother had once said.

  Korine didn’t believe that for a minute. The only way she could find peace was to arrest her father’s killer.

  Hatcher spotted the police officer’s flashlight beam before he saw the cop. The thin stream of light washed over the edge of the dock, illuminating the body propped against the post holding up the rails.

  His first thought was why hadn’t the killer shoved the body into the water? If he or she had, the body might not have been discovered for days.

  Unless the killer had been interrupted or . . . he wanted the victim to be found.

  Hatcher’s boots dug into wet sand as he left the parking lot and crossed to the dock. Sea oats and grass jutted up in irregular patches. He walked through the opening of the seawall created to keep the tidewater from reaching the houses in the cove.

  Hurricane Matthew had caused erosion and washed debris, shells, driftwood, and seaweed onto the shore. Some of the residents and businesses were still struggling to clean up fallen trees and to repair the shattered roofs and flood damage.

  Thankfully, the low tide had saved them.

  Two days later, if the storm had struck during the full moon and King tides, the situation could have been devastating. Half the island might have been washed away.

  Birds cawed as they flew overhead. A faint light from the lighthouse at the pier a half mile away blinked, looking almost eerie in the distance but still working, orienting ships to the port in Brunswick.

  The officer glanced up and saw Hatcher, then walked toward him.

  “Officer Leeks,” the man said.

  Hatcher shook his hand and introduced himself, wondering why the locals had called in the Feds. They didn’t always welcome the FBI, but Savannah was short on cops, and Hurricane Matthew had stretched the island’s small officer pool thin. Sad, how looters took advantage in the wake of disaster. “Your chief asked us here?”

  The officer nodded. “Yeah. Come take a look.”

  He should probably wait on his new partner, but he was the senior agent, and he wanted to get started.

  Hatcher’s boots pounded the wood as he followed the officer to the end of the dock. The scent of death rose in the salty air, acrid and strong, swirling in the mist. Birds had already begun to swoop down to pick at the carcass, nibbling at the flesh, the pigeons flocking. Officer Leeks lifted a bottle of water and sprayed it toward the pigeons to shoo them away.

  Hatcher removed his flashlight and shined it over the body. “What do you know so far?” he asked.

  Officer Leeks plugged a handkerchief over his nose and mouth as if he was about to gag. “Not much. Woman who lives in that house there”—he pointed to the small yellow clapboard house facing the cove—“said she saw someone dragging a body onto the dock.”

  Hatcher’s pulse clamored. That house was where Tinsley Jensen lived. Where she’d made a prison for herself.

  Focus, man, focus. He’d convinced his superior to let him continue working the case, and he couldn’t let him down.

  He’d have to talk to Tinsley, but first he wanted to assess the situation. “When did the report come in?”

  The officer checked his watch. “About an hour ago.”

  Judging from the stench, though, the man had been dead for hours. “Have you spoken with the woman?”

  “Not yet. I rushed out here first, just in case the victim was still alive.”

  The rotting wooden railing of the dock looked as if it might give way, but it was keeping the dead man’s body from tumbling into the murky water.

  Hatcher stooped to examine the victim.

  White male, close-cropped brown hair, midfifties. Skin was wrinkly and discolored.

  His head had been smashed in.

  He wore dress pants and a white shirt. Expensive shoes and watch.

  His clothes were intact, suggesting he hadn’t been sexually assaulted, but Hatcher wouldn’t know for certain until the autopsy.

  Both pants and shirt were drenched in blood from the beating he’d taken.

  Hatcher raised the flashlight to study the victim’s face again, and his heart hammered. Shit.

  This was no accident or random crime. It was intentional.

  And probably the reason the local sheriff had asked for the FBI.

  The killer had left them a message—a pair of intertwined SS on the victim’s forehead, painted in blood.

  Korine’s phone trilled just as she reached the island and turned onto the road leading to the cove. Director Bellows again.

  “Agent Davenport, sir. I’m about to park at the cove.”

  “Good.” His breathing sounded heavy. “I wanted to ask a favor of you.”

  Korine frowned, nerves fluttering. “I’m listening.”

  He wheezed a breath. “Hatcher McGee is—was—the best agent I’ve ever had.”

  Was?

  “Go on.”

  “At Quantico, I’m sure you heard that his wife was murdered.”

  She wiped perspiration from her neck. “I did, sir. That was a shame.”

  “Sure as hell was. Worse, Mc
Gee blamed himself. He crossed the line. When he finally tracked down her killer, he ripped the man apart. It was brutal. Pure revenge fed by an alcoholic rage.”

  He was a drinker? Disappointment flared. She’d had troubles with her brother on that front. “He was cleared of any charges, wasn’t he?”

  “Only because I vouched for him during the investigation. After it was over, he sank back into his whiskey. I thought he was lost forever.”

  Korine took a deep breath. “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s been badgering me to put him back on active duty,” Bellows continued, “so I went to bat for him over that, too, but I stipulated that he had to quit the booze.”

  She slowed her car, eyes narrowing as she scanned the dock and cottage in the cove.

  “What I’m trying to say is that my ass is on the line. I need you to watch McGee and make sure he’s ready to be back. If he’s drinking or goes rogue, I want to know.”

  He wanted her to spy on Hatcher McGee? Jesus. That wouldn’t sit well with Hatcher if he found out.

  “Agent Davenport, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you on board?” Bellows barked. “Can you handle the job?”

  An image of Hatcher’s heated eyes as he drove his cock inside her taunted Korine.

  Then the photo she’d seen of him at his wife’s funeral.

  Grief stricken, guilt ridden, and . . . alone.

  She’d wanted to comfort him, but she’d been too furious when she’d discovered that he was still married.

  That he’d lied to her.

  So she hadn’t attended the funeral. The last thing she wanted was to appear needy or unprofessional.

  No way she’d attempt to try to fill his wife’s shoes.

  “Agent Davenport?”

  “I can handle it, sir.”

  “Good.” Relief tinged his voice. “I know you’re a by-the-book agent; that’s why I chose you.”

  He ended the call, and Korine pocketed her phone, his words echoing in her ears. Director Bellows had no idea how badly she’d messed up before.

  She couldn’t mess up again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Keeper raised her hands and stared at the blood dotting her palms and fingernails.

  His blood.

  She hadn’t meant to get it on her. To taint herself with his evil.

  But she hadn’t been able to resist. His blood meant he was dying. Suffering.

  As he should.

  She tossed the gavel into her bag. She’d take it to her secret place later.

  Hands shaking, she turned on the hot water and shoved her hands beneath the spray. For some reason, she didn’t want to wash off the blood.

  But she had to.

  The police had found his body. They’d investigate. Hunt down his enemies as if they needed to get justice for his killer.

  Bitterness swelled in her chest.

  He deserved what he’d gotten. No one on this earth would mourn his loss. Except maybe his wife. And she was just as bad as him. She should have stood up to the man and convinced him it was criminal to allow so many predators to walk free.

  The crimson blood mingled with the warm water and swirled around and around like a river in the sink before it disappeared down the drain. Her nails looked ragged, stained, and dirty.

  A sardonic laugh caught in her throat. Tomorrow, she’d get a manicure. Then no one would ever know.

  Heart racing, she closed her eyes and relived the past few hours. The adrenaline rush from knowing she was finally getting justice. The way his voice had quivered with fear at the last moment. The way he’d begged as if he’d thought that would make a difference.

  A laugh bubbled inside her as she envisioned the shock on the bastard’s face when she’d tied him down. He hadn’t believed she would actually hurt him. Had pegged her as a weak female.

  He’d finally understood the depth of his mistake.

  He was just as bad as the evil men he allowed back on the streets.

  For a moment when she’d watched his life force flow from him, she’d felt powerful. Not helpless anymore. Not wounded. Not invisible.

  Or alone.

  Breathing easy for the first time in months and filled with optimism for the future, she dried her hands.

  The stories awaited. All those people who sympathized with her pain.

  Who’d understand what she’d done if she told them.

  But she didn’t have time for that now.

  It was time to go to work.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “What do you think that bloody SS means?” Officer Leeks asked.

  Hatcher didn’t want to freak the young guy out, but a mark like this was symbolic and suggested premeditation. It also suggested that this crime was not an isolated murder.

  That there would be others.

  “Agent McGee?”

  “It’s the justice symbol,” Hatcher said.

  A car engine rumbled from the street. Hopefully, the FBI evidence response team—ERT—and medical examiner.

  He turned and spotted a black sedan rolling into the cul-de-sac where he’d parked. Damn, not them. Probably Korine Davenport.

  Knowing he had to play nice and ignore the fact that they’d slept together—and that despite his wife’s death, he’d fantasized about having her again—he walked toward the vehicle. If this wasn’t his new partner and someone had gotten wind of the murder and come to gawk, he’d make sure they didn’t contaminate the crime scene or take pictures and blast them all over social media before the police informed the family.

  Moonlight shimmered, barely visible through the dark clouds, but just enough for him to get a look at the driver as she climbed from her car.

  Definitely female.

  Long legs that seemed endless appeared. The dark pants and jacket she wore suggested that she was an agent. His gut pinched as she slammed the car door and started toward him.

  That fiery red hair that had tortured him in his dreams escaped some kind of clasp that was supposed to hold her hair back but failed. Five six, slender, with an angular face that looked feminine in spite of her square jaw, she should have looked all businesslike.

  Except he knew every inch of skin beneath that boring suit, every inch from her voluptuous breasts and coral-colored nipples down to the butterfly tattoo on her inner thigh.

  Fuck. He had no business remembering that.

  Irritated that he had, he clamped his jaw tight and braced himself to deal with her. Hopefully, this partnership would be short-term. Wyatt would come back. Unless Wyatt refused to work with him.

  He wouldn’t blame him if he did.

  Korine picked her way through the brush, her eyes widening as she looked up at him. Even in the dark, he noticed her lift her chin stubbornly, as if she knew their interlude had been a mistake. Or maybe she was needy like Felicia had been and wanted more.

  It didn’t matter.

  He had nothing to give. Especially to her, the woman who’d torn him away from his wife when she’d needed him the most.

  Anger coiled inside him. Bellows had probably told her to watch him.

  Fuck that. He was the lead here, and he’d make sure she knew it. He extended his hand, determined to maintain a professional demeanor. “Agent Davenport, good to see you again. I just took a look at the body.”

  Her hand felt small and delicate as she shook his, and reminded him of how erotic her fingers had felt around his cock.

  She tensed, as if irritated he hadn’t waited on her. “I got here as fast as I could. You want to show me the crime scene and catch me up?”

  He gestured toward the dock and indicated she should go first. “Woman in that cottage called it in. Victim is a white male, fifties, bludgeoned to death.”

  “Bludgeoned?”

  “ME will have to confirm that was the COD, but that’s the way it appears. Haven’t found the murder weapon yet.”

  “ID?”

  “No ID yet either.”r />
  A gusty wind picked up, shaking the trees, and she shivered as if chilled. “Then we should get to work.”

  He didn’t like the way she said we. This partnership was temporary, not long-term.

  And he refused to take orders from her.

  He folded his arms, the breeze from the ocean swirling sand around their feet and bringing her sweet aroma to him—lavender. He’d tried to erase it from his mind, but it had tortured him anyway. He’d even bought a damn lavender-scented candle and burned it while he drank.

  He’d get rid of it tonight. Throw it out with the booze.

  She brushed a strand of hair from her face and stared at him expectantly.

  Annoyed but anxious to focus on work, he led the way to the body. Officer Leeks looked as shaky as the railing he gripped, as if he was barely hanging on to his dinner.

  Hatcher quickly made the introductions. “You’ve been very helpful in securing the crime scene,” he told Leeks. “Why don’t you wait in the cove for the evidence response team and the medical examiner?”

  The man looked visibly relieved, then practically ran down the dock.

  Korine frowned. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Squeamish, I guess. Probably his first murder.” Hatcher lifted his head and pinned her with a stare that was half dare.

  Her gaze flickered with understanding, then amusement. “Good thing you don’t have to worry about that from me.”

  He arched a brow. “Good thing.”

  She’d been tough in training and had experience with sex crimes, but this was a dead body. The blood and smell alone might get to her.

  But she showed no sign of it as they approached the victim.

  Seagulls swooped over the edge of the water, pigeons flocking again.

  Seemingly unbothered, she waved them away with one hand, her gaze darting to the water and beach, then to the victim. She halted, her posture ramrod straight, then pulled a small flashlight from her jacket pocket and shined it on the body.

  He almost taunted her about getting sick when she’d just criticized the other cop.