Her Last Chance

by Toni Anderson

  “I’ve never seen her before.” She bit her lip. “Who is she?”

  Agent Walker slid the cover of the yesterday’s NY News in front of her nose.

  A glossy photo of her and Marsh leaving for this building two nights ago was emblazoned front and center.

  “I was on the cover of The NY News? I still don’t get—” But then her eyes slid to the picture beside it, and she picked up the photograph of the dead woman and placed it next to the picture of Marsh attending a gallery opening earlier that same evening.

  “Oh, no.” Her eyes swung from Walker to Vince. “Does he know?”

  Vince lumbered to his feet. Leaning heavily on the table, he stared down at the picture. “I doubt it—he wouldn’t have gone off like that if he did.”

  They both turned their gazes on Walker, but Josie got the question in first. “You really think he’s capable of this?” Marsh was the most decent human being she’d ever met. He was so decent it was nauseating. “Marsh would never do this to anyone.” He was going to be devastated—blame himself for putting the girl in a killer’s bull’s eye. “And why would I be within a thousand yards of him if he were the guy who attacked me—”

  “You said you didn’t see his face.”

  Walker’s reply was stony—like she’d blown his most viable suspect. Well, the FBI must be grasping at straws to want to nail one of their best.

  “You don’t need to see someone’s face to recognize them—it’s in the voice, the shape and breadth of someone’s shoulders.” She opened her palms wide. “It’s in the feel of someone’s hands, the scent of their skin.” Holding Agent Walker’s gaze, she willed him to believe her. “The guy who attacked me wasn’t Marshall Hayes.”

  Vince straightened and moved back to his orange seat. “You know she’s right, Walker. You just don’t wanna let go of your nice juicy bone.”

  Walker pulled his lips up in a bitter smile and shrugged as if conceding the point.

  “Fine,” he shuffled the papers, “I ran your mother’s Social Security and driver’s license numbers through the system—neither has been used since she disappeared the night of your attack.”

  The breath whooshed out of her body like she’d been slammed against a wall. “So she’s dead.” She stared down at the table, noticed graffiti marked the well-worn surface.

  “Not necessarily…”

  Josie jerked up her head. “What do you mean?”

  “She could have moved abroad. Or be living under an assumed identity.”

  Josie frowned. “The guy she was with was a missionary from Africa—”

  “Africa?” Vince straightened up, suddenly attentive.

  “Didn’t I say so yesterday?” Josie frowned.

  Walker shot Vince a glare that told him to be quiet, then bent to check his notes. “You just said some guy from St. Mary’s Church.”

  “He’d only been in the country a couple of weeks.”

  “Where in Africa?” Vince demanded.

  Walker glared at him again and looked like he was about to curse, but he glanced at the tape as if remembering it was on.

  “I don’t know.” Josie shook her head, thoughts moving so fast they were spinning. Vince stood, all six-foot-seven of uncompromising muscle and stalked over to the recorder and turned it off.

  “What are you doing?” Walker spluttered and then stopped as Vince shrugged out of his jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt, the holster where his Desert Eagle pistol usually sat empty, dangling beneath his left arm.

  “Putting a different perspective on things.” Vince spread his shirt wide open, revealing a magnificent ebony chest and marks that made Josie’s heart knock against her ribs.

  Six long deep scars ran over each side of his torso emphasizing his ribs. A tiny row of dots punctuated the top of each scar.

  “A few years ago, I traced my family history back to a small village in Mozambique.” Satisfied he’d made his point, Vince pulled his shirt front back together and started redoing the buttons. “I went to visit and they tried to pressure me into a scarification ceremony—told me I wouldn’t be a real man unless my body matured in the way of my ancestors.

  “I told them there was no way I was letting them near me with their old rusty knives.” He laughed, a boom of sound and shrugged his massive shoulders. “But I got sterile instruments from a nearby clinic and let them cut me—not because I wasn’t already a real man, you understand, but because I thought it looked cool.” He cocked a brow and tucked his shirt into his pants. “Lucky for me, I was already circumcised.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Josie tried to wipe the shock off her face, but failed. “So that,” she placed her hand on her ribcage, beneath her breast, “is common in Africa?”

  “Not as much as it used to be, but yeah.” He nodded his head. “Tattoos don’t work well on black skin.”

  “Did it hurt?” Walker couldn’t hide his distaste and she caught the look on his face. His eyes dropped to her chest. An involuntary male response? Or was he thinking about her scars? She looked away.

  “Like crazy, but women love it.” He winked and his diamond stud flashed.

  Josie snorted, “Probably says more about the women you date than your sex appeal.”

  “My point is…” Vince suddenly turned serious, “the cutting could be a link to Africa. I didn’t mention it before because I didn’t want anyone jumping on the race bandwagon. But even if this dude is white, he could have a connection to Africa,” Vince concluded.

  Walker pulled on his lip with his thumb and forefinger. “If I recall some of my basic anthropology courses, scarification is also big in other indigenous populations in Australia and South America.”

  All the moisture in her mouth dried up. “He uses those women like they’re a canvas to work on.” She shuddered.

  Walker turned the tape back on. “Josephine. Let’s go over everything you remember about the man you believed ran off with your mother.”

  ***

  The headache raging in Marsh’s skull had nothing to do with the naphthalene that radiated from Pru Duvall’s business manager’s office and everything to do with the staggering humidity of a brewing storm. Although, come to think of it, his head hadn’t stopped hurting since he’d found out Josephine was the target of a serial killer.

  Despite being early October, the temperature was in the high nineties and the humidex was off the charts. Moisture clung to his upper lip and rolled a pathway down his body.

  His hand tailored wool suit might be perfect for the insidious cold of the eastern seaboard, but was like wearing a wet blanket in Savannah, Georgia. He took off his jacket, waited for Thomas Brown to finish pouring a glass of iced tea. The cool liquid condensed on the outside, pooling on the dark wood for a moment before Brown handed it over.

  “Thank you.” He took the glass from the neat little man and swallowed half of it in one gulp. His body temperature dropped a fraction of a degree.

  “You’re welcome.” Brown smiled back. “More?”

  Marsh accepted gratefully.

  Brown was nothing like the hotshot Marsh had expected. The guy had the look of indentured manservant about him. Meek, mild, nothing like Pru Duvall.

  “Is it always this hot in the fall?” Slowing down, he sipped politely. The cool brew slid down his throat with icy welcome.

  A ceiling fan whirred softly overhead, sending waves of hot air back to the ground and providing all the relief of a hairdryer. A curtain twitched in the light breeze. The sound of children’s laughter rode the sultry atmosphere with featherlike snatches of delight. Marsh was impatient for answers, but experience told him a little small talk and courtesy would get him further, faster, than barking demands. Especially in the south.

  The room was stuffed full of period clothing and antiques. Enough to start a store. Mothballs, musty and pungent, were scattered around the place like little white marbles. Marsh surreptitiously dug one out from beneath his thigh, dropped it to the floor, wiping oil
y hands onto his pant leg.

  “Keeps the cats off the chairs and moths out of the clothes.” Thomas nodded toward the railing full of old dresses that looked like they came from the film set of Gone With The Wind.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The mothballs.” Brown’s eyes crinkled softly in amusement. “Keeps the cats from damaging the fabric.” On cue a fluffy Persian stalked out from behind the desk, tail straight up in the air as it sashayed past Marsh.

  “Are you some kind of collector?”

  “No, sir.” Thomas smiled. “The opposite in fact. This all belonged to Miss Pru’s parents and grandparents. She asked me to get rid of the lot.” He took a seat behind the small desk that was cluttered with papers and files, a big hulking computer monitor and an old ring dial telephone.

  “Does this house belong to Mrs. Duvall too?”

  The house was a moderately-sized Regency, painted a ghostly pale-blue. Shutters and intricate iron balconies added to its visual appeal and it faced onto a square with a stone fountain at its center and giant oaks providing shade and shelter from the relentless heat.

  Thomas nodded. “Yes, sir. Was her grandmother’s house originally, but Miss Pru had all her things moved here when her mother, Miss Virginia, died. She grew up in one of the big mansions on Abercorn Street, but she sold it. It’s a hotel now.”

  Marsh nodded. He could see Pru growing up in decadent style and splendor, much like himself. But what he didn’t see was Pru selling up and moving to this house, which though beautiful and historic, wasn’t magnificent or grand like her childhood home must have been. Mansions were good for entertaining political cronies.

  “Any idea why she sold up?” Marsh queried.

  The whites of Thomas’ eyes were tinged with yellow. “I don’t rightly know, sir. Miss Pru doesn’t confide in me, just pays me to look after her property down here for which I’m very grateful.”

  Thomas Brown was at least fifteen years older than Pru—Marsh wondered what family skeletons he knew about. Had they been lovers?

  “How often does Miss Pru come down here, Thomas?” Marsh asked.

  The other man looked down at his brown leather shoes that stuck out the side of the desk. They were well worn, but not shabby, a bit like the man himself.

  “Not often.” Thomas glanced over, squinting his eyes as if considering. “Maybe twice in the last three years…well, she’s been living in Australia on and off for the last little while.”

  The lovers angle seemed a bit of a stretch.

  Marsh pulled out a photograph of Admiral Chambers’ painting. “You sold this painting to a company called Total Mastery NY about six months ago. Do you remember it?”

  Thomas sent Marsh a look that suggested he was an imbecile.

  “Of course, I remember.” Thomas folded his hands across the front of his belted pants. “I was mighty pleased to get such a good price.”

  Marsh didn’t tell the man that it was worth many times what he’d received for it—or nothing at all if it was stolen.

  “Where did you get the painting, Thomas?”

  “From the mansion.” Swollen knuckled fingers rubbed slowly through close-cropped black hair. “Miss Pru told me to sell anything that wasn’t needed to furnish this house. She’d already taken any pictures she wanted to keep.” The man nodded toward the clothes and porcelain that cluttered every space. “It’s taken me five years, but that’s all that’s left of it now.”

  This wasn’t helping. “Do you remember when that particular painting first arrived at the mansion or how it got there?”

  Chocolate eyes gleamed. “I don’t even recall exactly where I found it,” he said, frowning. “But I figured when I did find it, it might be valuable because it looked so old. I sent it off to a local firm to get it cleaned.” He shrugged, bony shoulders stretching the thin cotton. “When it came back it was almost unrecognizable. All that black dirt gone.” Those wide lips smiled. “The only thing I cared about was getting the money back for the restoration and making a tidy profit. What’s all this about, Agent Hayes?”

  The painting had been cleaned since it was stolen from the admiral. “Do you know if Mrs. Duvall saw the painting after it was cleaned, but before it was sold?” Marsh scrubbed his hand over his face, recognizing a looming political nightmare. Establishing provenance was going to be much trickier than he’d anticipated. Could there be two identical paintings in circulation?

  “I don’t rightly know, sir.” The gentle eyes held a hint of pity. “But I don’t think so.”

  “Do you have any proof of provenance?” Marsh asked. This was rapidly turning into a waste of time.

  Thomas smiled, cheeks balling into tight brown apples. “All the important papers were lost in a fire after the War Between States.” Thunder rolled in the distance and white light flickered around the room. He pushed back his chair and peered out the window as the clip-clop of horses’ hooves passed by. “Ironic to be spared by Sherman only to be brought low by a scullery maid, don’t you think?

  “Here comes that storm,” Thomas commented.

  Marsh nodded. His whole life felt like a storm right now and here he was sitting in Savannah learning absolutely nothing. His phone vibrated in his pants pocket.

  He checked the number—shit.

  He returned the unanswered phone to his pocket. He had one more question. “How do you sell the items, Thomas? At an auction house?”

  “Miss Pru sent a shipment of finer antiques and such to a fancy auction house, left me to deal with the rest.” Thomas nodded toward the computer. “I put them on the web.”

  Surprised, Marsh’s eyebrows stretched high. “You sold that painting online?” Holy crap.

  “Yessir.” Thomas slowly nodded his head up and down. “The beauty of the Internet.”

  Folding his jacket over his arms, Marsh thanked the man and said goodbye. There were no answers to be found in Savannah. Only another layer of old wealth and a mystery that was screaming at him through the distance of time and space. The journey here was nothing but a waste of time. Marsh’s cell rang again and this time he had to answer it.

  He stood on the front steps overlooking a moss-draped Savannah square. “Hayes here.”

  “Marsh…”

  It was Josephine, and his heart was kicked into high gear by a bolus of adrenaline and then jolted by a crack of thunder overhead.

  “Are you all right?” He told himself not to panic. Vincent wasn’t some chump.

  “I’m fine. Vince is right here beside me.” She lowered her voice, the words becoming muffled as if she’d put her hands over her mouth. “Did the FBI talk to you about the latest murder yet?”

  “We can’t talk about this over the phone.” They were on an unsecure channel. He didn’t intend to give anything away to some bastard listening in.

  Josephine’s swallow was audible—more of a gulp. “It was your date. The girl you took to the art gallery opening. He killed Lynn Richards.”

  Chapter Ten

  _____________

  Darkness filled the unlit stairwell. A thin strip of light shone beneath one doorway, but the others were black and empty. Propping a hand against the doorjamb, Marsh concentrated on breathing. In and out. Deep calming breaths that slowed the blood in his veins to a stultified roar.

  The murder of Lynn Richard had shifted something fundamental within him, like the slow grinding of a tectonic plate at a geological precipice.

  He’d caught the last connecting flight back from Atlanta. And though it was nearly midnight, he’d gone straight to the Richards’ home to express his condolences. It hadn’t gone well. Their daughter was dead—because of him. Marsh balled his fists with rage. Targeting Josephine was bad enough, and Angela Morelli, and all the other women the bastard had brutalized. But he’d planned the sadistic murder of that young woman based purely on nothing more than her photograph on the front page of a newspaper…

  She was so young.

  Christ. In the Navy he’d lost men unde
r his command and regrets over their loss sat like shrapnel in his chest. But this? He rubbed his eyes, wanted to rage, but instead pushed himself upright and slipped the key in the door. It swung open, Vince’s Desert Eagle pointed directly at his heart.

  “Good thing I called first, huh?” Marsh recognized the empathy in the other man’s gaze. Vince had done god-knows-what, in more war zones than they had states and he understood loss. They stared at each other for a silent moment before Marsh looked away.

  “Pays to be extra vigilant in the kill zone, Marshall. And now is the time to remember that.” Vince holstered his weapon, picked up his overnight bag and slung it over his shoulder. “See you in the morning.”

  “Watch your back, Vince.”

  The other man nodded sharply. Walked away, his rapid footsteps echoing off the walls with clipped efficiency. Marsh closed the door behind him and locked up. Rested his head against the cool wood as emotion washed through him.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Josephine said out of the darkness.

  He spun at her voice. Watched her shadow hover uncertainly beside her bedroom door.

  “Yeah.” His voice was gritty. “It was.” He rubbed his throat, hoping to rid himself of the knot that threatened to choke him.

  Josephine crossed over to the windows and looked out into the dark street beyond. Footsteps echoed faintly along the street, probably Vince hurrying back to his other life. “You can’t control everything.”

  “I never even wanted to go out with her.” The memory of how he’d treated her, because she wasn’t Josephine, because his mother had set them up, ate at him. He’d been a spineless prick and now she was dead.

  His eyes followed her movements hungrily in the dark. The moon caught the edge of her nightshirt, rimming her profile in silver. The outline of her body was visible through the backlit fabric, her shape filling him with an aching need. Bitterness ripped through him; self-loathing crawling through his body. Even Lynn’s death couldn’t turn off his desire for her; if anything it made it worse. These hours might be all they shared. She might never be his and although he’d die to protect her, there were no certainties in life. The only certainty was death.