Her Last Chance

by Toni Anderson

  Marsh’s cell phone rang and she used the opportunity to head toward the ferry terminal. His hand snaked out and grabbed her before she’d gone two paces.

  “Hayes,” he answered the phone. “When?” He paused for a second and Josie knew something bad had happened from the way his eyes sliced to her. “Yeah, she’s here. I’ll bring her right over.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “Did they find my mother?”

  Their eyes locked, his febrile bright. “No. There’s been another murder.”

  ***

  Marsh negotiated traffic toward Federal Plaza, one hand gripping the wheel tight as he blasted the horn at a cabby trying to cut him off.

  Josephine sat beside him, pale, tense, withdrawn.

  “They have any leads?” Vince asked from the backseat.

  “They wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone.” Tension rose within him triggering an ache in his jaw and a fear that ran all the way to his fingertips. And he had to go to freaking Savannah.

  He glanced at Josephine’s stark profile.

  “Come with me.” The suggestion was out of his mouth before he could stop it, but now he thought about it, it was a damn good idea.

  She shook her head, blonde hair brushing her slender shoulders. Too slender to carry the weight of this monster.

  “Your flight is in less than an hour.” Her voice was subdued. Sad. “If we’re ever going to stop this man I need to go through everything I can possibly think of with Agent Walker.”

  Marsh bit down on what he was going to say. She could do all that tomorrow after she’d spent the night with him in Savannah—and that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with keeping her alive.

  But what if this bastard killed another woman in the meantime?

  Marsh filled his lungs with a deep breath and tried to relax. He caught Vince’s dark stare in the mirror, read the unspoken pledge in his eyes. He nodded.

  Working his shoulders to loosen the stiff muscles, he checked the time and knew he had to pull out all the stops if he was going to get to the airport on time. “Promise me one thing,” he spoke to Josephine.

  The fragile look disappeared. Instead, suspicious eyes turned on him, reminding him she didn’t normally do promises.

  “What?”

  “After you’re done with Walker, go home with Vince and don’t leave his side for anything. And I mean anything.”

  “Anything?” Josephine smirked with her trademark pissy attitude that Marsh finally figured out was a front to cover fear. “Showering will be fun, but I’m game if you are, big boy.”

  He met Vince’s eyes in the mirror and recognized the determined glint in his wide smile.

  “Sure thang, Missy, you think you can handle me, that is.” Vince put on a Southern twang that made Josephine scowl and then laugh.

  She did have a sense of humor. She just tried to bury it.

  Then they were there, Vince getting out and opening Josephine’s door, scanning the area even though Special Agent Sam Walker stood there glowering through the windshield. Marsh grabbed Josephine’s hand before she got out.

  “Be careful.” He wanted to say something else, something meaningful but he didn’t know what. Instead he stared dumbly into wary blue eyes. “Please?”

  She nodded, got out and slammed the door behind her. Marsh winced, grateful for solid German engineering.

  Sam Walker stuck his head through the open window. “I need you inside too.”

  Judging from the guy’s appearance, he’d had another rough night. Marsh glanced at the clock on the dash. “I can’t.” BAU saw more burnout than all the other fields, but if anybody could help catch this killer, it was those guys. “I have a job to do in Savannah. I’ll be back late tonight or tomorrow morning. You can schedule an appointment then.”

  Ignoring Walker’s glare and shout, Marsh rolled up the window. Jesus. What was wrong with the guy? Was he back to being a suspect? Walker stepped back, turned to Josephine and smiled briefly at something she said.

  Marsh pulled out and maneuvered the car through heavy traffic. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the anger, the ache and the desperation that crawled along every nerve fiber. He had a job to do. Vincent was more than capable of keeping her safe. The trouble was—he finally admitted to himself—he didn’t want anybody else getting too close to her and that bugged the hell out of him too.

  His cell phone rang, a welcome distraction. Turning on the hands-free, he wove in and out of lanes, heading for the Manhattan Bridge. Did a full body cringe when a female voice announced the director was on the line.

  Shit.

  “Marsh, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Brett, good to hear from you—”

  “This isn’t a social call.” Brett Lovine sounded harassed and pissed. Not a good combination for an FBI Director, though probably not an uncommon one.

  “Then what can I do for you, sir?” The names they’d called each other as kids echoed through that short title. Enough to have Brett blowing deeply into the receiver.

  “I am just off the phone after talking to Montgomery Able. You know him?”

  “Ahhh—”

  “Senator Brook Duvall’s lawyer, Special Agent in Charge Hayes.” Brett’s tone edged toward a sarcastic snarl.

  Ahhh. “Director, I have solid evidence connecting Pru Duvall to a stolen painting. I have to investigate the lead.” Checking his mirror, he changed lanes, roared onto the expressway and put his foot down. “Just because Brook is odds on favorite to win the party’s nomination is not a reason to back away from this. In fact, I’m doing him a favor by investigating the matter thoroughly.”

  Brett snorted, but Marsh plowed on. “We have reason to believe Admiral Chambers’ stolen painting is actually a missing Vermeer that could be worth as much as fifty million dollars at auction and will cause an explosion in the art world when it’s revealed. Any hint of impropriety will sink Duvall like a stone.”

  The line went quiet.

  Brett was obviously weighing the good publicity the FBI might garner if they recovered that painting, versus the bad karma associated with pissing off a potential future president.

  “We both know Chambers is such a crazy old goat he might have given the thing away and changed his mind the next day,” Bret said slowly.

  Marsh acknowledged the truth of that statement. “But he has photographic evidence the painting was in his collection and he reported it stolen to the FBI.”

  His boss seemed to be listening. “I don’t want a word of this leaked to the media. Not one word. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Marsh smiled. Nothing like getting your own way with one of the most powerful people in the western world.

  “And what the hell are you doing involved in this serial killer fiasco in New York City?”

  “The case involves a close personal friend of mine—”

  “Yeah, I saw the photos.” Back to being his friend, Brett scoffed. “Just your type. Do us both a favor, screw her and get the hell out of that sit—”

  “Or what? You’ll fire me?” Fury forged his tone.

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Do it.” Marsh cut the connection.

  Heat poured from his body as a wave of adrenaline fed the rage that simmered like lava inside his brain. Suddenly his wool jacket was suffocating. He lowered the window and let the cold breeze whip around the interior of the car and flay his senses.

  Brett had never questioned his professionalism before. He counted to ten as he contemplated turning the car around and heading back to Manhattan.

  Controlling a coarse exhalation he took his foot off the accelerator and considered what had gone down. The all familiar stench of politics and power, poking meddling fingers into law and order, stirred up the murky water. It stank.

  But Brett hadn’t fired him.

  Yet.

  Until he did, Marsh was going to track down the thief of Admiral Chambers’ painting and hope like hell the evidence w
as compelling enough to stand up in a court of law—no matter who’d stolen the damn thing. And Josephine?

  Brett’s words had struck a raw nerve. Picturing her clear defiant gaze made him pause at his over-the-top reaction to the Director of the FBI. Her distaste for authority was rubbing off. She’d had a bad effect on him from the moment he’d first met her—spitting nails at everything he represented. But he wasn’t quitting on her. Ever. He just didn’t quite know how to get her to trust him.

  He pressed his foot to the metal and sped toward duty and the job.

  Josephine was safe.

  That was all that really mattered.

  ***

  Nelson bent over the photographs on his desk. It had taken fifty bucks and some genius detective work to discover the ID of the latest chick to get sliced and diced by the Blade Hunter. Lynn Richards—the woman he’d snapped two nights ago attending an art gallery opening with SAC Marshall Hayes. Nelson couldn’t believe his luck.

  The babble in the office was cacophonous. The atmosphere in the city starting to buzz with fear and paranoia and all of a sudden Nelson’s mundane dealings with death, drugs and despair were getting the sort of attention normally reserved for movie stars and pop icons.

  “Landry!” His pre-menstrual bitch of an editor stood at the door to her office and yelled across the floor.

  He looked up uneasily, unable to measure her mood by anything except the glint in her eye. “Yes, boss?”

  “Got anything new on the latest Blade Hunter vic?”

  “Yup. Everything from her parents being at a VIP dinner at the time of the murder, to her dating a fed.” He waved Saturday’s NY News at her and pointed out Lynn Richards’ picture. Sweat dripped down the side of his face because this story could put him back in the game.

  “That’s the vic? You’re sure?” Stalking over to his desk she examined him with a distrustful expression. Her natural look.

  “Yup.”

  There was a pause that spread across the whole office, everyone holding their breath.

  “Get me copy in fifteen minutes and I’ll hold the front page.”

  He grinned. “No problem, boss.” Excitement hummed through him even as he started typing his piece.

  “What about the other girl?” She pinned the other woman on the front of The NY News with a crimson nail.

  Nelson shrugged. He hadn’t got anywhere with that yet. “I don’t know who she is. I’m working on it.”

  “The fed?”

  Gonna wish he’d never fucked with this particular reporter. “Not available for comment.”

  Her finely plucked brows arched. “I have my own sources. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Chapter Nine

  ______________

  “Do you ever sleep, Agent Walker?” Josephine eyed the deep lines gridlocking the fed’s face.

  Sam Walker stretched his mouth grimly, shook his head, blue eyes lacking any real spark. “Not anymore.” He called Nicholl to say they were on their way back inside.

  Vince hovered as her shadow and suddenly she was grateful. They started walking toward the concrete-and-glass building, flags snapping behind them with sharp cracks in the brisk wind. Walker touched her elbow with his hand and all Josie could really think about was the big gap at her side where Marsh should be.

  And that freaked her out.

  “There was another murder?” Vince’s deep voice rumbled like a bulldozer.

  Walker glanced over his shoulder at the ex-SEAL. Nodded, but didn’t give any details. Cold stole over her flesh. Maybe if she’d remembered sooner, or admitted following her mother all those years ago, none of these women would be dead.

  They passed through security, where Vince surrendered his weapon, before entering the building’s atrium. The doors of an elevator opened and a group of people poured out. One woman sobbed openly, her pale blonde hair raining down in an untidy mess. Josie sidled away, unable to bear witness to such raw hurt.

  The woman saw her and stood rooted to the spot, oblivious to the people crowding behind her. “You.” Her face froze in a grimace of anguish that morphed into rage. “You know who did this. You know who killed my baby!” She launched herself, and for all her street-smarts, Josie stood there, immobilized by the hatred in the older woman’s eyes.

  Bracing herself for the rake of nails down her face, she was stunned to be pulled backwards and placed firmly behind Vince’s broad back, unable to see a thing.

  Bodyguard.

  She’d forgotten about him.

  The weakness in her knees surprised her. She leaned back against the wall as the poor woman was hustled away, the ensuing silence loud and echoing as people stood and stared.

  Vince herded her into the elevator. Agent Walker got in beside them, rubbing his forehead. Maybe it was her fault. The killer’s malignant spirit was an essential part of the flames that had forged her.

  “Sorry about that.” Walker sounded pissed.

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  Getting off the elevator, Walker said, “Wait here for a moment.” Then he left them hovering in the corridor like unwanted guests at a party.

  She and Vince watched him approach Special Agent Nicholl at the coffee maker, then pull him by a narrow lapel through an open doorway and out of sight.

  “Looks like trouble.” Vince bobbed his eyebrows toward the doorway.

  “What d’you mean?” Josie frowned at him—not getting it. Until suddenly the fog cleared. Nicholl had orchestrated that little scene downstairs.

  But why?

  To knock her off balance? That seemed the most likely reason, but why? What the hell could she tell them that she wasn’t already moving heaven and earth to remember?

  Walker came back into the corridor with the look of a man who’d planted a punch on someone who deserved it.

  “He really thinks I have something to do with this, doesn’t he? That I’m conspiring in some way?” Josie said. It was amazing that Nicholl could have such a low opinion of her.

  Sam Walker said nothing as he led them to an interview room much like she’d been in before. He held the door for Josie, but put his hand in front of Vince to stop him entering.

  “I’ll have to ask you to stay outside.”

  Vince gave him a no way stare.

  “If we’d done this at my apartment, Vince would have been there.” Josie pointed out. “Unless you want to take a break, Vince? Meet me back here later?”

  “I told Marshall Hayes I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, ma’am.” Vince stated in a monotone. “Bathroom breaks excluded, provided I clear the room first.”

  She crossed her arms and gave him a look. “Seriously?”

  He cocked a brow. “Seriously.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Walker muttered under his breath. “Hayes leaves you a bodyguard but can’t be bothered to answer some basic questions—”

  “What do you have against him?” She was baffled. The two feds were so alike—both dedicated, tenacious and so law-abiding they made her sick. She’d have thought they’d have been law-enforcement buddies.

  “Nothing,” Walker answered quickly, then nodded Vince into the room. “Don’t interfere, okay?”

  Vince settled his weight on one of the orange plastic chairs that had been born in the seventies. It creaked ominously, but Vince ignored it, braced his feet and crossed his thick arms.

  Putting her knapsack—complete with Marion’s ashes—carefully on the floor beside the chair, Josie sat, realizing from the way Agent Walker refused to hold her gaze that something terrible had happened.

  “Mind if I record this?” Walker asked.

  Josie didn’t give a rat’s ass.

  He flicked a switch and began by reciting the time, date and their names for the record.

  “Where were you last night, Josephine?” Walker looked down at the table in front of him, staring at the files as if they were the most interesting things he’d ever set eyes on.

 
“What?” She squinted at him. Hadn’t he been there at her apartment until Marsh had kicked him and Vince out? She didn’t even know what time it had been, she’d been too wrapped up in memories. “You know where I was.” Her fingers gripped the corner of the table, her nails scratching at the thin veneer.

  “Can you say it for the tape, please?” Walker looked innocent enough. Tired and weary. Maybe this was routine.

  “I was in my apartment.”

  “Did you leave your apartment at anytime last evening or before seven a.m. this morning?”

  She straightened her back, the edges of her vertebrae cutting into the unforgiving plastic. “No.”

  “Were you alone in the apartment?”

  “No.” She frowned, her fingers tapping a rapid tattoo on the table and wondered what that said in the police handbook on body language.

  Walker looked up, and she felt the temperature drop forty degrees. “Who was with you?”

  She stopped tapping. “Special Agent in Charge Marshall Hayes was there with me. You know all this.”

  “Marshall Hayes was in your apartment all last night? You’re certain?”

  Damn, what the hell was going on?

  “Absolutely,” she said loudly for the benefit of the tape.

  “You’re positive Marshall Hayes never left your sight?” Walker’s eyes bored into hers. After her and Marsh’s heated exchange last night, she’d locked the door and never come out. Marsh had knocked on the door at eleven and told her he was sleeping on the couch. She hadn’t seen him ’til dawn. She stared straight at Sam Walker’s tired eyes and lied. “Marsh spent the whole night right next to me.”

  Walker’s lips pinched together. Vince shifted, clearly ill at ease.

  Playing the slut suited her better than playing the victim and she’d found over the years, people would rather believe the worst anyway. “Why?” Josephine asked.

  Sighing deeply, Sam Walker pulled out a headshot of a young woman. The eyes were dull. Mouth flaccid. She’d been young once. And beautiful. “Do you know her?”

  Josephine picked up the photograph of the woman. Tears blurred her eyes. The bastard had done it again. Her finger hovered over the girl’s face. They could have been sisters. The woman in the lobby could have been her own mother…