Deadly Lies

by Cynthia Eden

  He didn’t free her. Wouldn’t. “Good,” he said bluntly, “because if you hadn’t come back, I would have found you.”

  And some of the shadows seemed to lift from her face. “The others all looked at me like I was going to break apart. They expected me to fail.” Her eyes searched his. “You looked at me in that bar, and you just saw a woman.”

  A woman he’d wanted more than breath. “That’s what I see right now.” No, he saw that she was strong. So much stronger than he’d realized.

  “I have to do my job, Max.” Her chin tipped up a bit. “I have to prove that I can do my job, no matter what comes at me.”

  Why did those words sound like a warning?

  “My job brought me to you. It took me to that bar,” her smile held a bitter edge, “but I never expected this. I thought I could be safe, that…”

  No one would know. Though she didn’t speak, those words hung between them. “Then hell came crashing in,” Max said.

  A grim nod. “And now we have to pick up the pieces.” Her sigh slipped easily from her lips. “So you know. You know it all now.”

  “And you know my past.” A killer and a victim. Christ, talk about two worlds colliding. No wonder she’d been afraid when she first found out about him. The real surprise was that she’d ever let him touch her again knowing what he was.

  But she’d taken him into her bed so sweetly and given so much. In bed, she’d never shown fear. Just passion.

  “You killed to protect.” She shook her head. “You were a kid. You were trying to save your mother.”

  He was a man now, and he’d do the same damn thing again. If that bastard who’d hurt Samantha was in front of him, he’d destroy the asshole.

  Her hands rose up, slowly, and curled around his neck. “I just—I thought you should know. If you want us to be together, you deserved to know.”

  His lips skimmed the top of her cheek. The light, flowery scent of her shampoo teased his nose.

  “We can start fresh now,” she said. “No more secrets.”

  His eyes closed, and he held her. Her heart thudded so fast and hard that he could feel the beat against his chest. She’d bared her soul to him.

  He lowered his head and took her lips. Trust. Yeah, he knew how delicate it was.

  Hard to give. So very easy to break.

  Max waited in Interrogation Room Two. His brother Quinlan sat in Room One. And the two other victims, Curtis Weatherly and Scott Jacobson, were scheduled to arrive any moment. Beth Dunlap hadn’t shown yet, but an agent had gone to the Malone house to collect her. Apparently, Beth wasn’t that interested in walking down memory lane.

  Too bad. The walk wasn’t really optional.

  Sam took a deep breath, pressed her sweaty hands against the front of her pants, and then knocked on Hyde’s office door.

  When she heard him bark, “Come in,” she twisted the doorknob and poked her head inside.

  “Sir,” Sam sucked in another deep breath, “I need to talk to you.”

  His dark brows snapped together. “I thought you were supposed to be in interrogation.”

  She pushed the door closed behind her. “You know—you know I’m seeing Max Ridgeway.” And that’s why she hadn’t understood when she’d been given her assignment that morning. “I can’t do an interrogation with him.”

  His shoulders rolled back. “I thought that was just the cover.”

  “No, sir, the relationship,” Is that what they had? “is real.”

  Hyde dropped the pen that he’d been gripping in his hand. “Then you’re off the case.”

  What she’d thought he’d say. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders. “I understand.”

  “Officially.”

  That one word froze her. “Ah, sir?”

  The leather squeaked softly as he rose from his chair. Hyde came around the desk, his steps slow, deliberate, and his eyes never left her face. “We’ve got a problem. Quite a few problems, actually.” His head inclined toward her. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

  That twist in her stomach said yes, she did.

  “I don’t like this case, Kennedy. I don’t like any of these damn kidnapping cases. We got all our perps tied up for us—not just tied up—dead.”

  Quite a body count.

  “That’s a little too neat for me,” he said. “When everyone is dead, no one’s left to point the finger of blame.”

  With an effort, she kept her hands at her sides and hoped she looked relaxed. Hoped.

  Hyde’s gaze weighed her. “We have questions that we need answered. Those victims who were dodging us for weeks, now their asses have finally been dragged home by their parents.”

  Because their parents thought they were safe now. Was anyone ever really safe?

  “Until I’m satisfied with the resolution of the serial kidnapping case, it stays open.”

  Sam forced herself to nod. “Of course.”

  “And I need you.” His eyes glittered at her. “I still want you to watch the interrogation with Max.”

  She was already shaking her head.

  His hand rose. “Hear me out.”

  Her head stopped shaking.

  “I want you to watch him, and let me know if you think he’s lying.”

  “Sir, I don’t—”

  “You’re the one who knows him.” Hyde crossed his arms. “Officially, I can’t let you to go into that viewing room…”

  But unofficially, he wanted her to spy on the session and report back to him. “I just told you he was my lover.” Her gaze didn’t waver from his, and she kept her spine straight.

  “And if Ridgeway doesn’t have anything to hide, it doesn’t matter. There’s a lot of money at stake here, Kennedy, and even good people can get tempted by the promise of millions.”

  But Max didn’t care about Frank’s money. Max had built his own way in the world.

  “If he’s hiding something,” Hyde continued, “then wouldn’t you want to know anyway?”

  Damn him. “Max isn’t hiding anything.” She’d finally found someone she could trust, and she’d be damned if she violated his trust now. Even for the job.

  “We’ll see,” Hyde said.

  Sam turned away.

  “I want you to watch that interrogation,” he said again with steel beneath his words. “Do your job, Kennedy.”

  Fine, but she’d do it her way.

  • • •

  “Are we going to get started any time soon?” Max flicked a glance at the black watch that circled his wrist. “I’ve got contractors waiting on me.”

  “We won’t keep you too long, Mr. Ridgeway,” Luke Dante murmured as he pulled out his chair. He dropped a fat stack of folders onto the table. “We just have a few questions.”

  Max’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve already asked me a shitload of questions.”

  “And I’m going to ask some more.” A sharp smile from his least favorite FBI agent.

  “Where’s Samantha?” His gaze tracked to the mirror behind him. Was Samantha in there, watching him? He’d left her place before dawn so he didn’t know if she was even at the Bureau yet.

  “I’m certain that Agent Kennedy is on the premises.” Luke flipped open a folder while the other agent, Kim Daniels, leaned near the back wall, her arms crossed over her chest. “Now, if you’ll be so good as to answer my questions?”

  He threw his hands up. “Go right ahead.”

  “And you don’t want a lawyer?” Daniels pressed.

  “Don’t need one.” Because he hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. Not this time.

  Quinlan Malone looked like death. Sam stared through the two-way mirror, her eyes on the man as he sat hunched at the small table in Interrogation Room One.

  “Mr. Malone,” came Monica Davenport’s smooth voice, “are you certain you don’t want a lawyer present?”

  “I’m the victim.” He rocked forward a bit in his chair. His bandaged hand rested on the top of the table, a silent reminder of his
hell. “Not a damn criminal. I don’t need a lawyer in here with me.”

  “Right.” Monica opened one of her files.

  Sam adjusted the volume control. The interrogations were being video-recorded—they always were at the FBI office—but she didn’t want to watch from the control room. She wanted to watch here, where she could see every move and catch every flicker of expression instantly.

  “Please tell me about the night of your abduction,” Monica said.

  Quinlan drew in a shuddering breath. “I-I was at The Core. My brother was there—”

  “Max Ridgeway?”

  “Yeah, yeah, he was there… with his new girl.” Quinlan’s lips twisted. “That agent.”

  “You’re referring to Samantha Kennedy?”

  “I’m referring to the redhead with the sexy smile.” A shrug of his shoulders. “Didn’t get her name then.”

  Sam stared at him. Both of his hands were flat on the table now, and the bandages appeared a stark white.

  Monica didn’t bat so much as an eyelash. “I’d like a list of the people you talked to at that bar.”

  Another shrug. “After my brother left, I hooked up with—with—a woman.” Quinlan’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “Blond hair, I think. And she was… she had on a black dress.” His breath huffed out. “I know I met a girl but I can’t remember her, not really.”

  “What is the first thing you remember after being at The Core?”

  His head rose. For a moment, his gaze flickered toward the mirror, then back to Monica. He lifted his left hand. “Some asshole cutting off my finger.”

  It would be hard to forget that.

  “I passed out after a while.” Rough, gravelly. He cleared his throat. “Woke up a few times, and it was always dark. I think—I think I must have been blindfolded. I never saw anyone, just heard their voices.”

  “Their?” Monica pounced.

  “Yeah, yeah, some guy who always whispered. The bastard kept saying he’d ‘see how much I was worth,’ and there was a girl with him, a woman. When he went to work on my hand, I think she tried to stop him.” Softer, he said, “I think she tried to.”

  “So you heard her voice?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I heard a woman. I know I did.”

  “And what did she say?”

  He stared back at her. The moments ticked by in tense silence.

  Then quietly, “Tell me this, Mr. Malone,” Monica leaned toward him. “Did you know Adam Warrant?”

  Quinlan reached for his glass of water. The guy nearly drained it dry in two gulps. “You already know I did.”

  “What about Jeremy Briar?”

  “I—”

  “Here’s his picture.” Monica slid a photo across the table at him. “It’s a picture of him, with you. Taken last year at a frat party at Melline University.”

  His gaze was on the photo. “He’s dead, too.”

  “Three dead victims, three survivors.” Her nails tapped on the table. “You’ve read the stories, so I know you’re aware of the other two survivors.” Monica waited a beat then asked, “Do I need to show you the photos or are you going to admit that you knew them, too?”

  His gaze jumped to the mirror once more. Anger tightened his features. “I know what you’re doing. I’m not the fucking criminal!” He shot to his feet. “I’m the one those assholes tied to a chair. I’m the one they tried to cut open! Look at me!”

  Monica was looking. So was Sam. Looking and seeing rage and fear.

  “You knew them all,” Monica said softly. “Isn’t that a big coincidence?”

  The chair fell backward and hit the floor with a clatter. “I don’t remember Scott Jacobson.” His voice fired out at her. “Yeah, I remember having a class with Greg Tyler my freshman year, but I haven’t seen the guy since.”

  “You’re the only link we’ve found between the victims so far.”

  “I’m not the one you need for this.” His breath expelled in a frustrated rush. “Maybe we all hooked up with the same girl. Maybe we pissed off the same psychotic asshole.” He spun away and headed for the door. “It’s not just me. There’s another link. Do your job and find it.”

  “I have more questions, Mr. Malone.” Monica’s voice remained low and calm, and she didn’t get out of her chair.

  “I’m done answering your questions.” He tossed back a tight smile. “At least, not unless my lawyer gives the all-clear, and after I tell him about this conversation, he won’t.”

  Now she did rise. Slowly. “I want a sample of your DNA. It will help us to clear up—”

  “No, no! You’re not getting anything else from me.”

  Monica’s head tilted to the right. “I thought you didn’t have anything to hide.”

  “Yeah, well, that was before I realized you don’t give a shit what I’ve been through. You’re just looking to make your damn case.” He wrenched open the door. “You don’t get it, do you? I thought I’d die in that shithole. And when they started working on me, I wanted to die.”

  Then he stormed away. Monica turned around to look at the mirror. No, to look at me.

  I wanted to die. Quinlan’s last words. Words she understood too well.

  Sam rushed for the door. She stepped into the hallway and appeared right in Quinlan’s path. He stumbled and nearly plowed into her. She threw up her hands, stopping him, and freezing them both. “You’re going to get past this.” Her words blurted out.

  He gave a rough laugh. “Bullshit.” Quinlan tried to brush past her.

  Sam’s right hand curled around his arm. “You survived.” She’d been told all of this once, too, but…

  I didn’t understand then.

  “I killed my father.” His eyes glittered at her. “I wake up every night, and you know what I hear? That gurgle he made when I drove the knife into his throat. I hear that sound, and it makes me sick.”

  Monica had left the interrogation room, and she stood back, watching them. Sam ignored her. “You need to see a shrink. Start therapy right away.”

  “Screw therapy.” Quinlan wrenched away from her. “Some things, some people, can’t be fixed.”

  “And some can.” She took a deep breath. “You’re not alone, Quinlan. Your brother cares about you. He’ll be with you every step of the way.”

  He threw a glance back over his shoulder at Monica. “What do you care? You got the bad guys. Go slap yourself on the back and leave me alone.”

  Not that easy. “Don’t you want to know why?” she asked. “Why they picked you? Why they did all of this to you?”

  “I know why.” His lips twisted. “I’m an unlucky asshole. Always have been.”

  Quinlan walked down the hallway, his wounds slowing his steps, but he kept his head up. Then he was gone.

  “Is that what you wonder?” Monica asked softly as she moved up close to Sam. “Do you wonder why the Watchman took you that day?”

  Sam met her gaze. “I wonder a lot of things, but not that.” Right place, perfect victim. He’d been ready for her, but she definitely hadn’t been prepared for him. She glanced at her watch. Max would still be in interrogation. Well, maybe. “Excuse me, I need to—”

  “Do you still have nightmares?”

  Was that her friend asking? Or was it the senior agent who reported directly to Hyde? Sam swallowed. “This isn’t about me.”

  “You can’t get over hell so fast. You can’t, and Quinlan can’t.”

  True. “I have to go.” Sam hurried down the hallway and almost missed the soft—

  “I can’t.” The words slipped from Monica’s lips.

  “Did your brother tell you how he came to be in possession of the knife?” Dante asked.

  Max stared back at him. “I didn’t ask. The guy hasn’t exactly been in a talking mood. He lost his father, and he’s grieving.” And Quinlan shouldn’t be at the station. The press would be out there, waiting like vultures to catch the money shot—a photo of Quinlan’s damaged hand to splash in the papers and ma
gazines.

  Dante stared down at his notes. “The surviving victims indicated they were tied at all times.”

  Max rolled his shoulders. “Then I guess they were, but Quinlan must have worked loose.” That was the only thing that made sense. “He found the knife they’d been using on him, and he got ready for some payback.”

  But Quinlan hadn’t got his payback. Frank. Talk about screwed up timing.

  “The only fingerprints on the knife were Quinlan’s,” Kim Daniels said. “We also found traces of his blood on the knife. Frank’s blood, of course, and Quinlan’s.”

  “Because they used it to carve him up, and they were smart enough to wear gloves while they did it.” Come on, they knew this. The agents weren’t idiots.

  “Our ME noticed something… odd about the slashes on your brother’s chest.” Dante slid a picture across the table. A photo of Quinlan’s torso that must have been taken at the hospital before the wounds had been bandaged. “Do you see this…?” He pointed to the lower left-hand side of Quinlan’s stomach. “The wounds are deepest here, then as the line angles up diagonally, the wounds become shallow.”

  “So?” Damn, there were at least five long slashes on Quinlan. His brother hadn’t complained of the pain. Not once.

  “The wounds weren’t deep enough to hit any major organs—”

  “So either the bastard got lucky or he knew what he was doing,” Max snapped and shoved the picture away. He didn’t want to look at his brother’s torn body.

  Dante steepled his fingers together and leveled a hard stare at him. “Based on the entry depth of the wounds and the angle, our ME thinks it’s possible the wounds were self-inflicted.”

  Red coated his vision as Max leapt to his feet. “That’s bullshit!”

  The door squeaked open behind him. Max spun around and found Samantha standing in the doorway. Her gaze darted from him to Luke.

  “Did you know about this?” Max demanded and stabbed a finger at the gory photograph. “Did you know they were going to say Quinlan cut himself? Hell, I guess he kidnapped himself, too, huh?”

  Silence from Dante and Kim.

  “What are you talking about?” Samantha asked and she stepped toward him. “I haven’t heard—”

  “Brantley took a look at the photos for us,” Kim finally said. “He thinks the wounds could have been self-inflicted.”