Shit! What the hell…? Pulling his zipper closed, he rifled through his pant pockets frantically searching for his cell phone. Where was it?
Giving up, he staggered to his knees, relieved when the giddy sensation receded and he was able to raise his head.
A strong scent hit him and he gagged. He knew the pungent odor of violent death. He might only be a glorified technician, but he’d been involved in some serious cases—not least Elizabeth being pursued by the mob last spring. And he’d been right there when scumbags Andrew DeLattio and Charlie Corelli had had their faces blown off.
Bracing himself he turned around. He wished he hadn’t. He wished he hadn’t woken up that morning. He wished he’d kept on sleeping like a baby, lids welded shut for as long as it took.
Prudence Duvall lay stretched across what would have been the sanctuary of the church, immediately beneath the altar. Duct tape covered her mouth. Handcuffs restrained her wrists above her head.
His handcuffs.
Sirens wailed in the distance, but they didn’t pierce the fog of his brain.
Blood streaked her body, escaping from deep wounds that crossed her chest and abdomen. Her blouse was shredded and hung like a rag from one of her arms. Her skirt was bunched around her hips, leaving her completely, brutally exposed.
Blood dripped slowly down one side of her torso. In a daze, Dancer moved toward her.
Was she still alive?
How could she be?
He knelt by her side and checked her carotid. Noticed the knife lying beside her thigh one second before a voice called out, “Freeze!”
A flicker of something moved in her eyes, he was sure of it.
“I’m with the FBI, I think she might still be alive!” Jesus.
“Get away from the body, spread out on the floor and don’t move a friggin’ muscle.” The voice boomed in his ear so loud he flinched. Shit.
Dancer eased away, his ears ringing, but repeated quietly, “I’m with the FBI.” He lay on the floor, slowly. Tasted dust and shit in his mouth. “I think she’s still alive.”
“Shut your mouth, dickwad.” One officer patted him down hard enough to hurt, but Dancer simply stared at Prudence and wondered what the hell had happened between the restaurant and here.
Another cop knelt beside her and put his fingers on her neck the same way Dancer had. “Nah, she’s dead.”
Dancer started to struggle as the cuffs snapped against his wrists, catching flesh. He didn’t give a shit about the pain. “Give her CPR, you stupid prick! Get the EMTs in here! She’s still alive—”
The first officer nailed him with a punch.
“Like to cut up women, do ya?” The beat cop blasted him again and pain shot through his skull as his nose split open and he collapsed to the floor.
As he lay face down in the dirt, blood dripping steadily from his broken nose, he knew he’d been set up and these bozos wouldn’t listen to a word. “I need to make a phone call.” He spat out dirt and blood and tried to breathe through his mouth. He was from South Boston; it wasn’t the first time he’d taken a beating.
The police officer spat on him.
How can you be so fucking dumb?
“Give me a phone—”
The boot connecting with his kidney did what the first two blows had failed to do. Blackness dragged him, pulled him under even as Marsh’s name slipped past his lips.
Chapter Fifteen
_________________
Nelson Landry turned off the police scanner, laughing. He couldn’t believe his good luck. He blew on his cold hands, wished he had time to make coffee before he wrote his piece, but he didn’t. This was fate. This was God smiling and taking down the bastard who’d ruined his topnotch journalism career. They’d see how much weight all that FBI power got him today.
He could see the front page now. The BLADE HUNTER—a knife-wielding G-man?
It was better than TV.
Typing frantically, glancing at his watch, he used one finger to dial his editor.
“What?”
Either she had caller ID or she never gravitated from bitch mode.
“We need a second edition out ASAP,” he said.
“What have you got?” The switch from pissed to hungry was palpable in those four little words.
“I’ll email it,” he glanced at his watch, “ten minutes. Tops.” He cut the connection, cracked his knuckles. Christ, it felt good to be back at the top. Pleasure surged through him. He was about to get even with Marshall Hayes and he’d enjoy every second of the bastard’s fall from grace.
***
“Say that again.” Marsh couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He rubbed his temples as the information was rapidly repeated back to him.
“What is it?” asked Josie. Sitting up in bed, she looked like she’d spent a wild night having hot sex, all tangled hair, reddened lips and heavy eyes, which was exactly as it should be. But while they’d been trying to exorcise their demons and maybe forge a new relationship for themselves, the Blade Hunter had carefully set up his next move—orchestrating their lives as effortlessly as marionettes on a miniature stage.
Marsh turned away from her. Revulsion and shame burned him, blazing away the bubble of contentment that last night had wrapped around him. Sheets rustled behind him, then he heard Josie getting dressed.
“A broken nose?” This should not be happening in his country, damn it. Not to a good agent like Steve Dancer. Anger coalesced into something stronger, harder, meaner. “Contact Benedict Colavecchia.” He named the best criminal defense attorney in NYC. “Tell him he has a new client and to get his ass to Brooklyn right now. And get me a flight to La Guardia.” Marsh broke the connection to his secretary who’d called him even though it was four in the morning.
He needed to grab a shower and shave so that NYPD got the full force of his FBI status because this time he was using every ace up his sleeve, every favor he could pull in, every dollar at his disposal. Steve Dancer was not a killer. He’d stake his life on it.
Whatever Josie saw in his eyes made her swallow, but she narrowed her gaze, lifted her chin and stared him out. “What happened?” She’d dressed in dark cords and a roll-neck sweater that covered her almost entirely. She wrapped her arms tightly against herself, hunching slightly as if chilled.
He was cold to the bone.
“Someone murdered Prudence Duvall last night.” His voice was gruff and he cleared his throat. Josie carried on staring at him as if somehow knowing that was only a small part of the story. “The Blade Hunter killed Prudence Duvall—or a copycat—and the NYPD found Special Agent Steve Dancer at the crime scene covered in blood.”
“Is he hurt?” She picked up her knapsack and held it to her breast like a shield.
“It wasn’t his blood.”
Shit. He sat on the bed and cupped his face in his hands. He’d been too busy screwing Josephine to protect his team. Fuck! This was not how the law was supposed to work. Blind justice didn’t have to be deaf, dumb and stupid, did it?
“Tell me exactly what’s going on, Marsh.” Her words were forceful and determined.
“The NYPD found Dancer inside an old church in Brooklyn after an anonymous tip was called in.” Her eyes flashed, but he carried on, holding down a fury that was starting to feel cold and deadly inside him.
“Pru was stabbed and mutilated.” God, he was going to puke and he hadn’t even liked the woman. He braced his hands on his thighs. “Cops first on the scene arrested Dancer and beat the shit out of him—the stupid bastards thought they’d caught the Blade Hunter.”
Josie slumped beside him, but he shifted away a fraction of an inch, unable to bear the thought of anyone touching him, anyone tapping into that valve that might make him explode.
“You’re angry,” she put her hands on her hips, “because we were together while Dancer was being set-up? Because we were busy banging each other when that bastard was cutting up his next victim?” She gave a harsh laugh that ended on a broke
n sob. “Welcome to my dark ugly world.”
Swinging her knapsack over her shoulder, she jumped up and strode to the door.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Marsh’s voice was little more than a growl in the darkness, but he couldn’t soften it. Couldn’t bring forth an ounce of empathy or sympathy to the surface.
“I’m going back to New York, so we can finish this thing—”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“We’re both going. You know that.” She was undaunted by his anger. He’d forgotten that this was how she’d grown up; with anger and fear and pain. With shouting and violence and plain old-fashioned ugliness. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but that part of himself was wrapped up tight by guilt and self-recrimination. If he let go now it would destroy him.
Her eyes were bright with tears, but it wasn’t sadness in her eyes; it was rage every bit as powerful as his.
“It’s me he wants, Marsh.”
“Which is why you should stay here and let the law deal with it,” he told her.
“They’ve done such a great job so far.” She planted her hand on her waist, cocked her hip. “I’m not putting your family in danger as well as your friends.”
He started to rise to his feet. “Steve Dancer is a trained professional. You didn’t put him in this situation—”
“Tell me you don’t blame me, blame us,” she pointed at the bed, “for getting him caught up in this mess—”
“I should have been paying more attention!” His voice bounced off the walls. Shit. He sank back onto the bed. Dropped his face into his hands. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Josie looked away, swallowed hard and nodded. “Exactly.”
***
Marsh’s FBI creds had got them seats on the first flight to NYC, but wedged between Vince and Marsh, she was squeezed tighter than a burger in a bun. They were in cattle class because these were the only seats available.
Josie knew Marsh was angry. She knew he felt guilty. But she was terrified of the feelings he’d evoked and he’d done nothing except ignore her for the last three hours—and that after a night of incredible mind-blowing sex and real honest intimacy.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” The stewardess asked Marsh. She was perfectly made up, white teeth dazzling and totally uncaring about anything except getting the job done. An automaton. Like Marsh.
Josie glanced at him, but he had his laptop open and was engrossed in work. He glanced up at the flight attendant’s question and gave an infinitesimal shake of his head.
“How about you?” The woman lifted her coffee pot and smiled at Josie, vermillion lips clashing against pink gums.
Josie couldn’t even remember if she’d brushed her hair. “No. Thanks.” Couldn’t even drum up a smile.
Marsh’s fingers paused over the keyboard for one fraction of a second as if he’d just remembered she was there.
Vince’s legs were too long to fit in the tiny space in front of his own seat and so he’d shoved them sideways, into her space as the trolley moved past. He accepted a black coffee and received the type of smile from the attendant that was banned in religious countries.
Josie hated flying. Her hands shook. That’s why she said no to coffee. She’d spill it all over the place…maybe even over Marsh’s spanking new laptop.
Tucking her hands beneath her backside, she closed her eyes and leaned against the headrest as the air pressure played havoc with her eardrums.
“You okay?” Vince asked her quietly.
She opened her eyes and he shifted his legs back out of her space. As if unable to help himself, he turned his head to appreciate the physical attributes of the flying waitress as she moved past them.
“Men.” She rolled her eyes.
Marsh’s fingers paused on the keyboard even though he was pretending to be absorbed in his work. A hiss escaped her lips. To think she’d nearly fallen for him.
Who was she trying to kid? She’d taken a running jump off the highest building and ended up splattered on the sidewalk.
It hurt.
He was treating her like she was a casual acquaintance, like someone he knew well enough that he couldn’t ditch her there and then, but not intimately enough to actually work up an interest in how she was feeling.
Not enough to pretend he cared.
And so what if she was being stupid and bitchy? She hadn’t wanted to get involved period. Now Pru Duvall was dead. Steve Dancer was in jail and it felt like Marsh was blaming her—blaming them—for what had happened, when she hadn’t wanted to get involved anyway!
She understood the weight of guilt.
She carried it in her backpack on a daily basis.
And when she’d finally begun to work out what all the fuss was about with relationships and sex, wham bam! Shut out and isolated like the nobody she really was.
Dammit. Worse than before because she should have known better. People left. People died. People were murdered and she’d never been able to do a damn thing to stop it. But Marsh did. He spent his life trying to stop the darkness swallowing the world. He deserved a better person than her in his life and she knew exactly how to prove it.
“So are we through fucking each other or should I make myself available later?”
The woman in front of them twisted around, shock making her eyes wide before she remembered her manners and turned back to face the front.
Marsh’s hands froze over the keyboard, but he didn’t look up. Vince raised his table and tried to get the hell out. But an elderly woman with a stick made her way slowly past him and he was stuck.
“How’d I rate, Marsh? On a scale of say, Georgia O’Keefe to Rembrandt? Or am I more of a Jackson Pollock?”
“You want another rating?” His laughter was cruel, his tone tipped with biting sarcasm.
No, what she wanted was to get out of this mess and never see him again. She did much better alone.
“I always liked Jackson Pollock.” He couldn’t meet her gaze and that’s when she really got it. He thought this was all her fault…
She sat in silence and used years of experience to remain dry-eyed and emotionless. She was not doing this. Pain was something she avoided assiduously. She wasn’t having a relationship that would rip her to shreds. And maybe she was kidding herself about the relationship thing anyway, because right now he looked like he couldn’t stand sharing the same airspace.
God knew her father had always told her she was trouble, had been from the day she was born. Looked like Marshall Hayes had finally figured it out.
***
The corridors heaved with cops, press and Department of Justice agents. The buzz around Marsh spiraled as a couple of the reporters recognized his face. Marsh pushed through to the building’s atrium. A solid hand planted on his chest stopped him going any further. The cop’s pale blue shirt stank of BO, his matching blue eyes dared him to push any further.
Marsh flicked the desk sergeant a glare and flashed his badge. “Special Agent in Charge, Marshall Hayes.”
The cynical glare came with a sneer. “Doesn’t mean you can go back there.”
Detective Cochrane, the bald cop from Angela Morelli’s murder scene, tapped the big guy on the back, “Hey, Morris, we need this one.” As if Brooklyn PD could keep him away. “Let him through.”
Marsh nodded to Cochrane, caught a speculative gleam in the detective’s gaze as he shoved past the big cop.
“Where’s Special Agent Dancer?” Marsh asked. They were walking fast down bustling corridors filled with wall fliers, past excited uniforms, the air rank with the stale odor of under-washed, over-worked bodies.
“Back here.” Cochrane held a door for him, twitched his moustache to indicate Marsh went first.
“You don’t really think you’ve got the right guy, do you?”
“Your man was caught leaning over the still warm body of a senator’s wife and the murder weapon was right there with his prints on it—”
“It�
�s a set-up. Test his DNA and you’ll know it’s the wrong guy.”
“We’re running his DNA, but if it’s a set-up it’s a freaking elaborate one.” Cochrane shook his head.
“The perp’s trying to get to Josephine Maxwell—”
“Looks to me like he was trying to get to Mrs. Duvall, and succeeded…”
Shit. Another woman dead. In a city this big how the hell did he protect everyone? “How’s Brook taking it?”
As if conjured, the steely-haired politician walked dazedly out of an interview room. Next to Steve Dancer, under normal circumstances, Brook Duvall would be the top suspect on the law enforcement radar. Marsh moved toward him, sympathy warring with an inbuilt suspicion. It had nothing to do with his dislike of the man, and everything to do with the statistics of murder.
Maybe this wasn’t the Blade Hunter?
Maybe it was a copycat killer taking the opportunity to get rid of a liability. Both Brook Duvall and Admiral Chambers were right up there in Marsh’s sights—the admiral had found out Pru had probably screwed him out of a painting worth millions—a painting that could change his miserable life.
Detective Cochrane put a restraining hand on his arm. “He might not appreciate chatting, right now.”
Brook’s face was ashen, his eyes bloodshot from tears still visible on his cheeks. He had a lost quality about him, of someone whose world had shattered without them seeing it coming.
“We’re old friends.” Marsh shook Cochrane’s pudgy hand off his arm and walked over to the other man.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Brook.” Marsh squeezed the guy’s shoulder and studied him. Wearing jeans and a L.L. Bean sweater, he looked as if he’d been in the country.
“Were you out of town?” Marsh asked quietly.
Duvall nodded. “We have a house in the Hamptons.” And then he started to cry. Threw himself on Marsh’s shirtfront like they were brothers. “Pru hated the beach house, hated fishing and fresh air. Never wanted to come with us. Oh, God, oh, God…”
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