“I’m sorry I didn’t call.” Was she furious or bored? Or annoyed he was still talking?
She barked out a laugh, still avoiding his gaze, but Jack noticed she wasn’t reading anymore. She simply stared at the paper, her lips pressed together so tightly they’d lost all color. Progress, he supposed, but…okay. She was angry. She had that right, but other than apologizing, he didn’t know what else to do. Hannah wasn’t like him. She got angry for reasons that wouldn’t even occur to him. It left him feeling like a kite in the wind, its string clipped, its demise assured when it collided with the ground. And so it begins again, he thought. This is where he and Hannah left off a year ago.
“Once I realized you hadn’t been informed, I thought it best to tell you in person,” he said.
She took a swift breath through her nose, then released it slowly. “And you did. Thank you for that courtesy.” Cold. Cold enough to freeze him solid. And she still wouldn’t look at him.
“Listen. I don’t know what you want me to say. Goodwin was supposed to tell you. He dropped the ball, and believe me, when I found out this morning, I called and gave him hell.” Jack adjusted his position on the chair. “I’m saying I’m sorry, Hannah. Stop busting my balls.”
“I accepted your apology,” she said. “Stop busting my…chops.” His Hannah, bristling with anger, face flushed, was shaking with barely controlled emotion, and she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He found himself sighing, and that reminded him that he hadn’t slept in who knows how long, and yeah, he was tired. Best to get this over with.
“The assignment required me to die on paper, so I could have a life after the op.” Hannah’s cheeks drained of color, panicking him, so he pushed his coffee toward her, thinking the caffeine might help.
“You had a life before the operation. With me.” There was hurt in her gaze again, and it confused him. When he’d left on assignment, they’d been fighting more than not. He was almost positive she hadn’t even liked him by then.
“I’m sorry.”
She grabbed a random paper clip off her desk and kept her eyes on it, using her fingers to twist it into pop art. “I moved to Boston because I thought my life was on the line. I was told you were murdered because of the Murtagh case, the case we were working, and Murtagh is still in the wind, Jack. Your car was rigged with explosives. Every time I stepped into a car I wondered if it would be my turn next.” She met his gaze squarely now. “I had to leave D.C. How could you do that to me?”
Now that made sense. She’d thought she was in danger, and her reaction was to take steps to protect herself, upending her life. Realizing they’d been unnecessary would piss Jack off, too.
Her breathing hitched, then her chin quivered, and her breathing became labored. Jack saw panic color her expression, and it freaked him out. “What the hell?” he said.
“Shut—” She sucked in air. “—up!” Hannah squeezed her eyes shut, and focused on inhaling and exhaling. He didn’t know what was happening.
“Go home, Hannah. Let me take it from here.” It was the least he could do.
She shook her head, her expression a cross between amazed and confused now. “And what? Catch up on my to-be-read pile? Is that how you envision my life until the killer is caught?” She covered her face, still breathing heavily.
“I don’t care what you do as long as you’re at a safe house under round-the-clock protection. Do your nails. Catch up on sleep. It’s with pay, so order out, have a party.” Jack had noticed the dark circles under her eyes, and that she was thinner than before, but it only now occurred to him that it was indicative of something bigger. He didn’t recognize this side of Hannah. Delicate. Vulnerable. He didn’t like it at all.
She dropped her hands and glared at him, still puffing away. It made Jack replay his last words, wondering how they could possibly have warranted this reaction.
“You’re going to keep me on the case,” she said between gasping breaths.
“No. I can’t.” He couldn’t do his job efficiently while babysitting Hannah, and he would have to babysit. It wasn’t as if he could trust her safety to someone else if she went all free-range on him. “You need to be gone. At least until we have some idea of what’s going on.” Her cheeks had flushed beet red by now, and she was seriously worrying him.
“I know what’s going on,” she said. “That’s why I need to stay on the team.” She narrowed her eyes. “I understand how I can’t lead the team. I’m the target. But it’s my life, Jack, and if this perp kills me, I don’t get to come back a year later for a do-over.” He flinched. “It will take you a week at least to be up to speed on this case, and I don’t have a week.” She closed her eyes again, this time holding her breath. When she opened them again, she released her breath slowly, sounding like she’d managed to control herself. “Our perp’s pattern is three days max after the emailed message, sometimes less, but never more, and I don’t have time to cater to Lieutenant Pepperidge’s fears for my safety.”
“That’s unfair,” he said. “Pepperidge is thinking of you. And yes. The case. No one has the time to cater to your ego.” She squeaked with outrage, sitting up ramrod straight. “Admit it,” he said. “If the target was Vivian or Ferguson, you’d have their ass in protective custody so fast their head would spin.”
“It’s not the same and you—”
“Stop!” The job was the only thing he was good at. “Hannah, let me do this!” He didn’t trust anyone else to keep her alive. Any chance they had of being together died a slow death even before he was offered the Coppola syndicate case last fall, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t give his life for hers.
Hannah lowered her chin, and though her breathing was under control, her hand shook as she lifted the coffee. “If you don’t agree to my continued involvement in this case,” she said, “I’ll still refuse protective custody, and then take what vacation days I have left to run an investigation on my own.”
Her threat chapped his ass. “Typical.”
She sipped, and then set the coffee aside. “How would you know? In case it’s not abundantly clear”—Jack was horrified to see her chin quiver again—“I am not the person you left. I’m…stronger. I have more to lose.” She looked everywhere but at him.
More to lose, huh? What the hell did that mean?
Ferguson glared at them through the incident door’s glass panel. He looked possessive. And in love. Jack glanced between Ferguson and Hannah, wondering if this is what she’d meant by “more to lose.” Was she in a relationship with the detective? Jack couldn’t believe it. Not after what just happened in the lieutenant’s office, but…maybe.
I am not the person you left, she’d said. Well, he believed her. He’d done a considerable amount of growing up, too. Enough to realize he was a fool when it came to Hannah.
“I won’t agree,” he said. “You’re a target now. The killer is coming for you. We need to be ready for him, and you running around the city only makes it harder to protect you. You’ll make it more likely he’ll find an opportunity to kill you.”
She shook her head, dismissing his concern. “Let me worry about that.”
“I’m heading this task force. Not you. It’s my call.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a bastard. Do you know that?” she said.
Yeah, and so did she. He could see the moment Hannah realized what she’d said, and its connotations. He wondered if she would apologize, and waited for it. He felt no pain from the accusation, felt no ownership of the moniker, but he was curious to see where her brain was at. Did she care enough not to hurt his feelings? The old Hannah would be horrified at pushing his buttons.
Ferguson’s patience seemed to be at its end. The detective pushed through the door and walked to Hannah’s side. Vivian trailed after him. “You okay?” Ferguson exchanged glances with Hannah, while Jack stewed over Hannah’s silence.
She had no problem calling him a bastard. Duly noted.
Ferguson was glaring at him, and some small part of Jack’s mind wondered if the detective would clock him. He was a bit surprised at himself for wishing he would. After Hannah’s mind-fuck, he was in the mood for a good brawl.
Hannah stood and indicated Vivian should move closer and join them at her desk. “This is how it’s going to go. Special Agent Benton will lead the task force and I will consult. The perp’s pattern is to strike three days after the emailed warning, but because it was sent so late last night, it messes with our timeline. It could be three days from when I would most likely be expected to receive the email, or three days from late last night. Either way,” she grimaced, “I’m dead soon, so let’s get to work.”
Jack stepped in front of Hannah, glaring, his hands on his hips. Yeah, that pushed aside his black suit jacket, exposing his holstered 9mm Glock. Yeah, he looked ramped up and aggressive, but she was purposefully being insubordinate, contradicting what he’d declared had to happen. He could throw her over his shoulder and toss her ass in the hall. That would send the team a strong message. Or he could simply say no and have uniformed officers do his dirty work.
Every eye was on him. They wanted what Hannah said to be true, but she’d clearly transferred her authority to him, so they waited for his agreement or denial. He could tell from their tense expressions that everyone hoped he’d give the green light to Hannah staying on the team, and Jack wasn’t stupid. Life within this team would be easier if he gave them what they wanted. Hannah had earned their loyalty, and that was no small thing.
“On one condition,” Jack said. “Nonnegotiable.” He saw her skepticism, and maybe a little unease. “You never leave my side. Ever.” Was her expression one of surprise, and maybe curiosity? The possible benefits of being effectively shackled for the duration of this case occurring to her? Jack licked his lips, and found he could still taste her. Hannah, he saw, was watching his tongue at work, so maybe her thoughts weren’t far from where his had gone.
Hannah shook her head. “Sergeant O’Neil said he’d allocate patrolmen to keep an eye on me. There’s two beefy, highly trained Boston’s finest guarding my apartment. I don’t need you, especially since you’ll be busy finding the perp.”
First Ferguson, and now…what did she say? Beefy? It was just raining men for Hannah in Boston. “Nonnegotiable.” He prepared himself for a sharp go to hell.
“Deal,” she said. The glint in her eye told him he’d been played. She’d hung the arrangement around his neck, and got what she’d wanted. Equal access to the case.
With one word she’d flipped the bird to a serial murderer and him at the same time. Now, that was the Hannah he remembered.
Chapter 3
Hannah told herself to be grateful Jack didn’t stick to his guns and send her packing, but instead of gratitude, she felt numb, exhausted from fending off her latest anxiety attack. She had to consciously move her facial muscles to project whatever the correct expression was for whatever was being discussed, all the while feeling as if everyone was staring. Breathe in, Hannah, breathe out.
“Jack, what did the lieutenant tell you about the case?” Hannah approached the murder board, turning her back to it, feeling like a schoolteacher rather than a trained FBI special agent. One look at Jack’s face and she could see he was angry about their deal, so why did he agree? He was all about control. How did giving in to Hannah’s demands buy him control?
“Our perp started killing four months ago, and—” Jack grimaced. “He likes poetry.”
“If he is a he.” The incident room’s door swung closed behind a gorgeous blue-eyed blonde whose red Kate Spade bag hung from the crook of her elbow. She approached the team, tall in her heels, dressed in a black haute couture pantsuit.
Hannah adjusted her plain, black, off-the-rack suit jacket, and told herself not to care that her hair was escaping the clip at the nape of her neck.
“This is Special Agent Cynthia Deming,” Jack said. “I stole her from Quantico’s Behavioral Sciences Unit.” Hannah couldn’t help but notice that Deming was the type of woman Jack usually dated. Or had before he and Hannah had become an item. “Deming,” Jack said, “this is Detective Ferguson, our point man in homicide.” Deming shook Ferguson’s hand. “And this is BPD’s tech, Vivian O’Grady.” Deming shook hands with the tech. “Where’s Special Agent Gilroy?” he said.
Deming tilted her head, giving a little shrug. “Since you gave Special Agent Modena the week off, Gilroy’s finishing the paperwork on the Coppola syndicate case.” Deming’s gaze settled on Hannah, who Jack had yet to introduce. “He should be here soon.” Deming stepped in front of Hannah, smiling. “Hello.”
Hannah nodded. “I’m Special Agent Hannah Cambridge.”
“Of course you are.” Deming smiled. There was a twinkle in her eye.
“Most serial killers are men.” Ferguson’s scowl was aimed at Deming. “Why would we assume otherwise in this case?”
“Deming is our profiler,” Jack said, “who specializes in serial killers. She didn’t get much sleep last night after poring over the files, so don’t give her a hard time.”
Deming’s cheek kicked up. She seemed, if anything, amused at Ferguson’s behavior, and gave no indication the detective had gotten under her skin. Hannah suspected Special Agent Cynthia Deming was a badass.
Deming indicated the room’s desks with a flick of her manicured nails. “Where do you want me?” Hannah could give a damn where Deming sat, so glanced at Vivian, who stepped forward.
“My desk is over there.” Vivian pointed to the back wall of the room, toward a desk decorated with African violets and candy dishes. It was neat, stacks of manila folders and thousands of dollars of tech hardware all in their places. “You could take the one next to mine.” Vivian smiled sweetly.
Deming followed the tech to the proffered desk, dropped her bag on it, and then made a beeline to the coffee machine off to Hannah’s right. “Dunkin’s!” She opened the pink and orange pastry box, and then glanced at Hannah. “May I?”
“Of course. The lieutenant’s wife brought them. Help yourself.” Hannah could see Jack champing at the bit, impatient to continue the meeting. He looked rumpled, and it reminded her that she’d ripped his clothes off in the lieutenant’s office mere minutes ago.
When Deming had her coffee in hand and was nibbling on a doughnut, Jack arched a brow. “Are you ready, Deming? Or do you want to braid hair next?”
Deming bit her lip to suppress a smile. “You can’t wave a Dunkin’ Donuts box at me and expect me to pass it up, Benton. Give me a break.”
Jack grit his teeth. “Is there anything you’d like to share about the case?”
Deming gave no indication of being intimidated, solidifying Hannah’s suspicion that something romantic was happening between the two of them. And why wouldn’t there be? Well acquainted, worked hand in hand, both extremely good-looking...
Deming sipped her coffee. “Ferguson is right.”
“Of course Ferguson is right,” Ferguson growled, storming back to his desk.
Deming ignored him. “Our perp is probably a male, but lightning strikes once in a while, so we can’t rule out the perp being a woman.” She leaned back in her chair, getting comfortable. “He’s educated, smart enough not to get caught yet, lives in the Boston area or has lived here most of his life. Maybe a commuter. His choice of crime scenes—North End, adjoining wharfs—they’re easily accessible via the JFK Expressway and Causeway. Economic status still unclear, but from the files I was given to look over, I’m leaning toward middle class, upper middle class.” Deming glanced at Ferguson, and then smiled brightly. If the profiler did that to irritate Ferguson, mission accomplished. “Mostly because there are more working-class killers in the world than rich killers. And rich killers have more to lose, tend to be more educated, so rarely are caught.�
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“You sound like a bookie,” Ferguson said. “Playing the odds.”
Deming turned her attention back to Jack, who sat on the chair next to Hannah’s desk. “This guy wants us to catch him,” she said. “They all do. He’s obsessive, compulsive, asexual as far as the evidence shows, which makes this case unusual. Or, more likely, we just haven’t found the pertinent evidence yet.”
Jack arched a brow. “Clarify.”
Deming sipped her coffee. “If our guy is getting his jollies, it’s not with the victims.” She frowned, revealing her first sign of unease.
“That it?” Jack said.
“He likes poetry, or at least William Blake’s ‘Broken Love.’” Deming took a bite of glazed doughnut. “It is interesting that every kill is preceded by an email sent to the victim. He’s not as cryptic as…say, the Zodiac Killer, but he certainly wants to play.”
Hannah studied the back-and-forth between Deming and Jack, looking for more definitive clues to see if they were an item. As much as Hannah hated to admit it, it was a joy to watch him in action. Just listening to his voice calmed her. And it was reassuring to see Jack’s and Deming’s frustration, because it meant she and her team hadn’t missed anything.
“Someone tell me about this poem.” Jack adjusted his weight in the seat and leaned his elbow on the desk. “It might surprise you all, but my training at Quantico didn’t extend to poetry analysis.”
Vivian raised her hand, smiling. “It’s about death, longing, and regret. It’s gorgeous.”
That’s my cue. Hannah ignored the butterflies in her belly, opened the appropriate manila folder on her desk and found her list of pertinent information. “We contacted a professor at UMass Boston and he gave us notes. The most relevant being, ‘The narrator [of the poem] is a mysterious figure dealing with regret, talks of withholding love for fear of rejection, then losing that love to death, losing the opportunity to win the object of his affection and is tortured by it, forced to live with just the memory of her, and his broken heart. Struggling to move on. Her power over his heart stretching from the grave.’” Hannah felt her face flush as the words finally sunk in, though this had to be the hundredth time she’d read them this month. They perfectly described the fallout of her relationship with Jack; how it ended, Jack dead, Hannah struggling to move on. This couldn’t be a coincidence… But it had to be.
Catch a Killer Page 3