Marsh finished the lousy coffee, crushed the paper cup in a tight fist. “But he’s not a killer. Dancer loves women.”
“Yeah, so did Bundy.”
Fury rose in Marsh’s chest with each particle of oxygen he drew in. He got in Walker’s face. He used to be able to control his temper but in the last six months his control had evaporated.
“Hey, no fighting unless we all get to play.” Cochrane cut it. “Preliminary DNA evidence is in.” The expression on Cochrane’s face made Marsh’s heart freeze. “DNA from the semen matched Special Agent Steve Dancer.”
Everyone in the squad room had turned to face them.
This couldn’t be happening…
Turning away Marsh placed both hands against the opaque glass of the precinct’s window, spread out his fingers. He ground his teeth and felt the pressure build behind his eyes. “This UNSUB is a pro. He’s been doing this all over the world for twenty years and who knows how many people he’s set up to take the fall for him.” Marsh turned back to face Walker and Cochrane, ignoring other prying eyes. “We have got to catch this man before he kills again.”
“You really don’t believe your guy did it?” Cochrane lowered his face. “Not even Prudence Duvall?”
“You think I couldn’t get your semen if I wanted it?” Marsh held the detective’s gaze and watched him lose all color.
“Jeez, there’s a visual I didn’t need,” Cochrane rubbed his bald spot and backed away a step.
Prudence Duvall had invited Steve Dancer to lunch. If she hadn’t ended up dead he’d have suspected her of setting him up. Something inside Marsh’s mind clicked and suddenly it started to make sense. To understand the crime, you had to know the victim.
“Dammit.”
“What?”
“Maybe Pru Duvall knew this guy.”
Cochrane paled. “Oh, shit. I can tell I’m not going to like our next move.”
Marsh grinned at him. Walker looked on, watchful but impassive.
Grieving or not, future president of the US or not, he needed to talk to Brook Duvall.
***
About to knock on the huge double doors to the Duvall’s Gramercy Park apartment, Marsh heard raised voices inside and stilled his hand.
“I want that damn painting!”
“I don’t know anything about your painting you selfish bastard. My wife just died!”
He exchanged a glance with Cochrane. Did they stay and listen and maybe learn something, or knock on the door and reveal their presence?
The scrape of furniture and the crash of something fragile against an unyielding wall forced them into action. Marsh unclipped his holster and Cochrane pulled his weapon as he stood to one side. Ignoring the gleaming polished brass knocker, Marsh hammered hard against the solid wood with the base of his fist.
“FBI, NYPD. Open up.” He upped the volume, repeated, “FBI, NYPD. Senator Duvall, open up, please. We know you’re in there.”
There was quiet, broken by the sound of footsteps slowly approaching the door, the indiscernible sound of whispered instructions.
“You too, Admiral, don’t bother hiding. We need to talk.” How screwed up was their investigation about to become with so many politicians and bigwigs watching their own backs?
The lock clicked and the door swung open to reveal a disheveled Brook Duvall, wearing the same clothes he’d had on earlier. Iron-gray hair stood on end and a puffy red mark cruised one cheekbone. Eyes were bloodshot from both tears and alcohol. Marsh smelled the whisky on his breath.
Although if ever there was a day when a man deserved to drown his sorrows, the day of his wife’s murder would be it.
“May we come in?” Marsh asked.
Brook nodded, rubbed his throat.
Admiral Chambers had two decades on Duvall. He hovered beside an overturned table, fists clenched, murderous rage glittering in his eyes. He took an unsteady step, crunched fine porcelain beneath his Rockport shoes.
“Admiral Chambers, so nice to see you again.” Marsh felt anything but amused.
The admiral grunted.
“The admiral happens to be my father’s best friend.” Marsh gave Detective Cochrane his most plastic smile and was pleased that the detective grinned at him as they holstered their weapons.
“So you’re up shit creek with everyone, huh?” Cochrane laughed, a deep cynical sound that said he’d been there, done that.
“Never a dull moment.” Marsh turned to the senator. “Is there somewhere we can discuss things like civilized gentlemen?”
The senator’s PA barged through the door behind them and glanced at the shattered vase on the dark hardwood floor. “What happened?”
“Geoffrey, can you get the gentlemen a drink please, and clear up this mess?” Senator Duvall patted the other man’s arm and looked up at Marsh. “I gave the housekeeper the night off. She was devastated.” Tears welled up in his eyes again and he looked away, stumbled toward his office.
Marsh followed, doubting the senator would get to the White House now, but who knew? If Duvall wasn’t implicated in the murder of his wife, the sympathy vote alone might rocket him into the Presidency. Now there was an angle to investigate—if he wanted to get strung up by his balls.
The admiral followed, tailed by Cochrane.
Cochrane was his new best friend because the rest of his team was busy going through the church records and NYPD wanted him under the microscope. He needed to find the killer and get Dancer out. Then he’d deal with Josephine.
In the office, Brook poured himself a tumbler of single malt and Marsh wished to God he could have one too.
“I need to know what’s going on,” Marsh said quietly.
Duvall sank slowly into a wingback chair as if his body was so weary he might collapse. Admiral Chambers helped himself to a shot of whisky and then leaned against the oak mantle, warming himself before the fire.
“Nothing’s going on,” the admiral sneered.
Miserable old goat.
“Try again, Admiral.”
Cochrane was wandering around the study, selecting and examining books from the dark bookshelves.
“Want me to arrest him for assault, Senator Duvall?” Marsh asked the bereaved man.
“You wouldn’t dare…”
“Try me.”
The admiral’s mouth dropped open as he stared at Marsh, the crimson in his cheeks fading to reveal parchment-like white skin.
“But it’s up to the senator,” said Marsh.
The admiral glanced down at Brook Duvall who stared sightlessly into the flames. “Can’t prove a damn thing.”
“The same way you can’t prove Prudence stole any painting from you. Do you know about this painting?” Brook looked up at Marsh. “He says my wife stole it from him years ago and he picks today to come and claim it.” His head swung round to face Chambers. “Did you kill her for it?”
Brook leapt out of his chair and tackled the admiral to the floor, the whisky glass crashing into the fire with a shattering hiss of flame. Both men landed with a hard thud, but Brook had the advantage of surprise and age on his side and straddled Chambers, gripping the old man’s throat. “Did you kill her?”
Marsh looked on. If it looked like Duvall was going to do serious damage he’d step in.
“I haven’t even seen her in years.” Chambers’ hands fought for purchase on Brook Duvall’s fingers, but the senator wasn’t giving up easily.
“You’re lying!” Tears started to flow again and Brook looked up and seemed to realize what he was doing, or maybe who his audience was. He stumbled off the older man and crawled onto his chair, wrapped his arms over his head and wept.
Chambers sat up, loosened his tie, undid his top shirt button and wheezed out a breath before he could speak. “You’d know all about lying, wouldn’t you, you fucking queer.”
Oookay.
Marsh scraped his fingers over his eye sockets as he stared at the broken figure of the next would-be president. There had never
been a hint of scandal. “You’re gay?”
Duvall said nothing, sat with his face hidden against his knees, shoulders shaking.
“Did you ever do her?” The admiral asked with a leer. “Because she was rabid by the time she got to me.”
“She’d need to be,” Cochrane muttered under his breath.
Chambers climbed to his feet, wobbling unsteadily. Duvall sobbed harder and Marsh noted the PA stood at the door, directing a vicious look at Chambers.
“So Pru was a beard?” asked Detective Cochrane.
Duvall sat up straight, his gaze going to Geoffrey in the doorway and Marsh put the final piece of the puzzle together.
“It was her idea.” Duvall palmed the tears off his cheeks. “We met in Savannah when her father was still alive.” He glanced up and caught Marsh’s gaze. “I think he abused her, but she never talked about it. She never talked about much.” He gave a bitter laugh, “She caught me with Geoffrey in a compromising situation at some house party the Huntingfords threw.” Brook closed his eyes.
“Geoffrey and Pru are…were second cousins. She knew I had political aspirations, and as she found me,” he glanced at his PA, “us, literally in the closet, it didn’t take long to convince us that we could actually make a marriage of convenience work. Plus, I was in the Navy…” He looked away from Marsh into the flames. “You know how the military loves homosexuals.”
“So lying to the American people is an ethical way to start your political career and an okay way to win the Presidency?” Marsh questioned.
Cochrane snorted while Admiral Chambers sank stiffly into the second chair with a smirk.
Geoffrey came over and poured himself a large one. “All those years…” He turned and looked at his boss, his lover, shaking his head as if they’d lost everything. “I never thought it would end this way.”
“Did you kill your wife?” Detective Cochrane asked, a hard expression closing down his features.
The senator looked surprised. “Me?”
“Yeah, you. She get fed up of the arrangement? Threaten to spill the beans?” Cochrane had a viable suspect in his sights, and leverage to make a powerful man talk. “Spouses are always top of the pile when it comes to murder.”
“But I thought a serial killer murdered her?” He didn’t know they’d ruled Dancer out as the Blade Hunter. Duvall’s eyes ricocheted violently, a pinball gone crazy. They came to rest on Geoffrey and he held out a shaking hand that the other man took.
“You lovebirds got an alibi for last night that doesn’t involve each other?” Cochrane’s New York accent got thicker with each word.
The senator and his PA looked at each other frowning. “We were in the Hamptons.”
The admiral laughed, a nasty ugly sound.
“What about you, Admiral? Got an alibi?” Marsh’s words stopped him cold.
“Me?” The old goat had the gall to look affronted.
“Yesterday, you find out Prudence took a painting that might be worth as much as fifty million dollars.” Marsh watched the old man’s faded brown eyes grow cold. “You have an alibi for last night?”
“I wouldn’t have killed the bitch until after she’d told me where the painting was.” His lips twisted as he looked into the fire.
“But the bitch, as you so politely put it, is dead,” Marsh said quietly. “And I think she knew her killer.”
Everyone spoke at once.
“What?”
“Oh my God…”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Hey! One at a time!” Cochrane pointed at Geoffrey. “You said, oh my God, like you knew something?”
Geoffrey sat on the arm of Brook’s chair, stiff as cardboard. “It’s just…”
“Spit it out,” Detective Cochrane ordered. Marsh let him lead.
Geoffrey glanced uncertainly at Brook. “Pru was heavily into S&M and I know she was seeing someone, but I don’t know who it was.”
The admiral snorted. “She was a sick bitch. Wanted me to whip her. If she was still alive I’d be happy to oblige.”
“Shut up! That’s my wife you’re talking about and no matter what kind of marriage we had, I loved her.” Brook sat up in his seat, vibrating like he was about to go for Chambers’ throat again.
“Where’d she keep her stuff?” They might have a solid lead.
“Stuff?” Brook was oblivious, but Geoffrey knew exactly what Marsh was talking about.
“In her room.” Geoffrey stood up and walked to the door, visibly shaking. “I’ll show you.”
The PA led them down a corridor, to a bedroom dressed in deep crimson and gold. Opulent drapes, a king-size four-poster bed with a painting of a naked woman curled up against a red backdrop on the wall above it. An ornately carved trunk sat behind the door, sporting a big fat padlock.
“I could shoot out the lock.” Cochrane started to unclip his weapon.
“I think someone might know where the key is?” Marsh tilted his gaze to Geoffrey.
The man squeezed his eyes shut. “She wanted me to try it on. That was all. She wanted to tell me what she was into.”
“She tell you a name?”
He shook his head. “We were friends even as children but lately she’d drifted away…”
“Just get us the damn key.” Cochrane looked nervously around the bedroom. Marsh felt it too; a creepy sensation trickling through his bones as if Pru’s ghost lay curled on that bed purring, beneath the painting that shared an uncanny likeness with her.
Geoffrey left and quickly returned, lowered his voice to a whisper and glanced at the door to make sure the admiral and the senator were out of earshot. Neither man had followed them and Marsh hoped they didn’t kill each other while they were gone. He inserted the key and the mechanism opened easily.
“She tried to get me to dress up in this stuff.” He looked up, eyes wide. “I was curious, you know? Not about the sex.” He shrugged. “About the gear.”
He opened the lid and inside was a black leather whip, crops, paddles, masks and leathers.
Geoffrey reached out as if to touch something and Cochrane slapped his hand. “That’s all the S&M I’ve got in me. Touch anything else and I’ll shoot you.”
Geoffrey backed away. “But, oh my God, my DNA is on that stuff.” Geoffrey started to cry and Marsh felt like growling in frustration. Because the Blade Hunter was still out there and had given them more evidence than they could process in a week.
Unless it was good old Geoffrey, which wasn’t impossible but didn’t seem likely. Although the women weren’t raped, merely tortured.
He closed the lid, careful not to touch anything with his bare hands. “We need to get this to the lab.”
Cochrane nodded.
“We need Pru’s telephone records and address book.” Marsh frowned. “What about email?”
Geoffrey’s shoulders drooped and he swept a quick look around the room. “She had a laptop, but I don’t see it here.”
“Are we going to need a warrant to get this information?” Marsh asked.
Geoffrey shook his head. “No. Brook might not have loved Prudence in the traditional sense, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to find the bastard who killed her. And so do I.”
***
“How far we gotta walk and why can’t we take a cab?”
“I walk everywhere. It’s good exercise.” Josephine smiled up at Vince, glad to be out in the fresh air. Being protected was stifling. Living in fear was crippling. This guy wasn’t going to attack her in broad daylight. There was no reason not to pretend some things were normal.
The streets were full of dead leaves. An overfull trashcan rolled and littered the street. Metal fire escapes snaked up walls, parked cars lined the streets, and tall trees competed with concrete lampposts for the sun. Manhattan at its finest.
“I guess you were too poor to take cabs when you were younger, huh? And now even with a psycho after you, you’re too tight?” said Vince.
“Ha.” She liked the fac
t Vince didn’t baby her. She’d rather be baited than coddled. But what she really needed was movement and space. She needed endorphins and she needed a physical release. They were walking down Sullivan Street in SoHo. Not far from where she was meeting her client. She wasn’t ashamed of her poor roots, took pride in having actually made something of herself with a little help from her friends.
“After my mother left, even food was a luxury in our house,” she told him. Then she remembered the kindness of Marsh’s parents, and their generosity. It was nothing to do with how much money they had—although that helped—it was to do with a goodness of spirit.
Being poor wasn’t anything to be proud of. Surviving her childhood was.
Her mood dropped. Before they’d left the apartment, Walker had phoned her to ask for a DNA sample. They’d exhumed a body that might be her mother and needed to compare her DNA.
“I feel sick.” She needed to catch her breath. She sagged against the wall of a drycleaners, but the smell of chemicals coming from the vent was strong enough for a glue-sniffer to get high. Gagging, she moved on, leaned against a corner convenience store that carried everything except fossil fuel.
“You pregnant?” Vince grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him.
She shook her head. “I got my period this morning.”
“That explains a few things.” He raised his eyes to the heavens.
“Like what?”
“Like the tears. Like the bitchiness—”
“I wasn’t bitchy.” Tears welled in her eyes again. Shit.
“That’s right, and you’re not moody either. Come on, sunshine.” Vince hauled her along the street, stopped at the intersection waiting for the lights. She moved automatically, putting one foot in front of the other. What would it be like to be pregnant? To have a child to love and care for? To have a relationship with a man she loved, a family.
“I feel like this is my last chance…” The words popped out of her mouth.
“Did you phone him? Did you tell him?” Vince peered down at her, eyes darker than coal, full of compassionate irritation.
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