She looked away. “No.”
“Do it. Do it right now.” Vince stalked back from the edge of the curb and heaved out a massive pissed off male sigh.
Fine. She could do this. She faced her reflection in the dirty streaked window of the corner store. Her heart hammered against her ribcage in distinct beats as she dialed Marsh’s number. It rang four times before she got bumped. “Damn.” Looking over her shoulder, she caught Vince’s eye. “Voicemail.”
“Just tell him you love him!” Vince dragged massive fingers through his close-cropped hair and looked like he wanted to crush something. Probably her.
“Marsh. I called to say…” Her voice was rough and sounded more angry than loving. She tried to clear her throat. “To apologize for everything. I’m sorry Dancer got arrested, sorry I got in the way of you doing your job.” The words I love you stuck on her tongue. She did love him. She didn’t want to but apparently this wasn’t something she got to decide. She licked her lips but words dried up. Maybe if they were face to face, she could squeeze them out, but talking to a cell phone?
She couldn’t do it.
A car engine revved down the street.
Pissed, Vince threw his hands wide and began crossing the junction as the lights changed.
Tires squealed and a horn honked as a vehicle peeled away from where it was double parked and raced toward the intersection. Josie didn’t even have time to scream as the SUV plowed straight into Vince and threw him high into the air. The car braked sharply and he slid off the hood.
Time stopped.
Her body was in motion though her mind was still screaming back on the sidewalk. She dialed 911 as she ran toward him. “I need an ambulance. Someone’s been hit by a car on the corner of Sullivan and—”
Someone was pulling her shoulders. She tried to shake them off, tried to give the operator exact details about where they were and Vince’s condition. His leg was bent awkwardly beneath him. Blood poured from his thigh and a head wound. She touched his face, careful not to move him. He was unconscious.
Hands grabbed her but she pulled away. “Get off me!” She turned to shake off whoever the hell was manhandling her, but froze when she recognized him.
Red hot anger surged through her veins. “You hit him with a car!”
He grabbed her but she fought him. He wrapped both arms around her waist, trapping her arms to her sides and holding her to him, walking backwards to his SUV.
“You should be grateful.” A hate-filled whisper seared her ear as she kicked wildly. “I was going to shoot the moron, but he was standing right there.”
She started to scream and someone shouted at him to stop. But they were too late. He threw her in the car. Stabbed a needle into her ass. It hurt as he slammed down the plunger.
He ran around the hood, flashing a gun to keep passersby back. Josie grappled with the door handle but her fingers felt spongy and couldn’t grasp anything. Vince lay in an ever-increasing pool of blood. Her vision wavered in and out and then started fading at the edges and she knew she was about to pass out. He’d got her. The man who’d killed her mother. He finally had her exactly where he wanted her. She was as good as dead.
Chapter Eighteen
___________________
“Just tell him you love him!” Vince’s voice was distinct against a background of traffic noise.
Marsh and Sam Walker were back at St. Mary’s Church going through records. All of a sudden this investigation had so much freaking evidence it was going to take weeks to process and something told him this wasn’t a coincidence. They didn’t have weeks.
He listened to Josie’s message, knew she was struggling. Apologies were not her strong point. Revealing emotions was not part of her persona. The heaviness around his chest lightened because he’d been about to phone her.
Just tell him you love him.
But instead, after a long silence, she hung up.
Shit. Groaning, Marsh ran his hands over his face. The woman was tearing his heart to pieces. Goddamn her for not saying the words he was desperate to hear. Needed to hear. But who was he to talk when he hadn’t been upfront either?
He hit call return and didn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated when it was busy.
“I love you. We are not done talking about this.” He hung up and saw Walker staring at him strangely.
“She dump you?” Walker asked.
“Not for the first time.” Marsh met his gaze head on. “Make a move on her and I’ll re-arrange your face.” He’d turned into a jealous ass.
Walker shrugged. “It’s her call.”
Yeah, didn’t he know it.
He looked across the small room at the agents carefully laying the church papers three deep on two tables. Anything with a date on it was being filed by the year. Anything without a date was being read and separated into an African pile, missionary pile, charity organizations, personal correspondence, etcetera.
They were all doing everything to catch this asshole and get their fellow agent released. Aiden glanced up. “I think I’ve got something.”
Marsh strode to his side. “What is it?”
“Receipts for an apartment rental in Queens the year Josephine was attacked.”
Walker hovered behind them. “Local PD checked with the building’s owners, but it was prior to computerization and they didn’t keep records that far back.”
There was no name associated with the document aside from that of the church. Marsh picked up a sheaf of papers, handed a stack to Walker. “We need to find this guy fast. I have a sick feeling Pru Duvall was the appetizer.”
They worked as quickly as possible. Scanning documents as the cold air blasted them from the street through the open window.
And then he saw it. The name that pulled it all together.
Joshua Faraday.
“Father Malcolm.” His voice cut through the din of the small room crowded with federal agents and cops.
“Yes?” The father squeezed past two agents and stood beside Marsh, peering over his elbow.
“Joshua Faraday?” Marsh watched the man’s face as his memories bloomed. Excitement lifted his mouth. “Yes, yes, that’s the man. I’d forgotten his name, but now you’ve said it, it was definitely him.”
Aiden stilled beside him. He got it.
“How old was he?” Marsh asked.
“He wasn’t a young man, maybe late forties?” The priest seemed hesitant.
It was a little older than the profile estimated, but that could be wrong. Or… “Did he have any family?”
The priest scowled down at the stained carpet, his mouth tight. “I do believe his whole family came with him—wife and children.”
“Philip and Gloria?” Aiden asked from Marsh’s side.
A smile spread over the priest’s face. “Why, yes, and I believe his wife was Nancy, lovely lady.”
Philip Faraday fit the profile exactly. A quiet rage filled Marsh. The asshole had been under his nose the whole time. Worse, Aiden had handed him back the painting a few short hours ago. Faraday might not get the full fifty million but he had the connections to get enough to disappear.
He looked at Walker, “Find out where Joshua Faraday is today. If he’s still alive. We need an arrest warrant for Philip Faraday, and bring his sister in for questioning.” The agent turned away to make the call.
Cochrane held a phone to his ear and barked out, “Senator Duvall just reported that his wife cleared out her bank accounts before she died.”
“It’s the bastard’s getaway money.” Marsh’s mouth went dry. The killer—all indications pointed to it being Philip Faraday who also fit the general description of the attacker—had probably been Prudence’s lover and had somehow convinced her they were going to run away together. She’d met Steve Dancer for lunch because the bastard had wanted to set Dancer up, maybe punish the FBI agent for his involvement in confiscating the painting, or to screw with Marsh as he was protecting Josie. And the bastard had killed h
er as easily as he’d murdered all those other women. The guy had no conscience, no empathy, not even for a woman who was willing to give up everything for him.
Facts were starting to come together. How the killer accessed Josie’s address even though it wasn’t in the public domain. If he had access to people in the NY art world it was merely a question of bribing the right person for the information.
Marsh took out his cell phone and dialed Vince. Sweat broke out along his brow. If they could keep Josie away from Faraday until he was picked up, this whole thing would be over.
“So you think Joshua Faraday was fucking Margo Maxwell and the son found out?” Walker was also on his cell, obviously waiting for information. He winced as he glanced up at the priest’s face. “Sorry, Father.”
Marsh held up his hand as the call to Vince went through. “Who the hell is this?”
“EMT on the way to Downtown Hospital. I’m afraid the person you’re calling was involved in a hit and run—”
Sweet Jesus. “What about the woman with him?” Marsh’s voice cracked, his breath so tight in his chest he thought he might be having a heart attack.
“I’m sorry sir. There wasn’t anybody with him when we arrived.”
Shit, shit, shit. He held the phone down as he pressed his hands against the surface of the table, every muscle in his body screaming with tension, papers scattering around him as he struggled to breathe. He put the phone back to his ear. “Is Vincent going to make it?”
“We don’t know. He’s pretty badly injured and needs surgery—we need to get in touch with next of kin…”
“I’ll deal with that.” Marsh rang off and noticed the silence.
Everyone in the room was staring at him expectantly. The smell of rot and decay crawled around inside his senses and made him feel sick. Do not think about Josephine. Do your job.
How could he not think about Josephine being at the mercy of a killer? He knew the guy had her. “Vince was involved in a hit and run and is seriously injured.” He swallowed to get the words out. He tried Josie’s number again. “Josie isn’t answering her cell and wasn’t with him when the paramedics arrived.”
He stared at Walker. “Get a trace on her cell. We need to pick up Philip and Gloria ASAP.” Saying the words made him want to puke—why hadn’t they found that clue ten minutes earlier? “I need Steve Dancer out of jail now, helping me get Josephine back.” His nerves twanged, strung so tight it would take one small push to make him snap.
He needed to hold it together. The law had to be enough to get Josie out of this alive. And Vince… Please God.
“Aiden.” He worked through his cell phone address book, pulled out one for Vince’s girlfriend, Laura. “Get in touch with Vince’s girlfriend and get her to the Downtown ER.” He held the man’s gaze. “Stay with her and with him. We need to know if he saw anything, or heard anything or…” In case he dies…
Aiden was dialing his cell as he grabbed his jacket and disappeared.
“This doesn’t let Dancer off the hook—” Walker started.
“We know who the Blade Hunter is.” Marsh shrugged into his tailored jacket. “I bet with a little detective work we can place Philip Faraday at all the locations of the murders and I know he knew Pru Duvall, even though she lied about the fact.”
“How do you know that?” Walker asked.
“Because the day he tried to kill Josephine, Pru Duvall was at the same gallery opening as Lynn Richards and Steve Dancer. His gallery opening.” Marsh was running out of patience. “The same gallery opening where I confiscated his fifty million dollar insurance policy.”
That painting had never been for sale for eighty thousand dollars no matter what the price tag said—it had been on display to some of the most powerful art connoisseurs in the world.
Why the hell hadn’t his brain been working? Marsh shouldered past Walker, stood outside and inhaled huge lungfuls of fresh fall air.
God. Please, let him find Josephine alive. Don’t hurt her. Don’t fucking hurt her.
Marsh needed a cigarette even though he’d given them up months ago. Walker followed him out onto the street and they stood looking at each other as Walker held his phone to his ear and repeated whatever he was being told.
“Joshua Faraday died in Africa in 1996, no details. Nancy Faraday died in England a couple of years later.”
Walker stared up at the bare branches of the silver birch. “Officially I cannot get Steve Dancer released…” He put his hands on his hips, determination obvious in his stance.
“Wait.” Marsh held up his hand. “I know what you’re going to suggest, but before we get everybody’s ass screwed to the wall, let’s see if I can do something.”
Marsh dialed Brett Lovine, the Director of the FBI, on his private cell.
Lovine didn’t bother with small talk. “I’ve fielded calls from a senator, a retired admiral and a retired general this morning. The latter two want you sacked immediately, one of whom is your own father.”
“Brett—”
“Marsh—”
“Shut up and listen! None of it matters.” Silence on the end of the phone told him he finally had his friend’s full attention. “We know who the Blade Hunter is. We know he set up Agent Dancer to take the fall for Mrs. Duvall’s death and we know he has taken Josephine Maxwell hostage.”
Walker’s eyes bulged because they didn’t have proof of any of it, but Marsh knew. Marsh was silently praying. Praying the guy he’d grown up with trusted him. Praying the woman he loved survived long enough so that he could actually say the words to her.
“What do you need?” Brett said. The quiet tone and somber pitch told him he had his friend’s attention.
“I need Special Agent Steve Dancer released immediately. Drop the charges and give me my best man back, so we can find Josephine.”
Silence. The hesitation was killing him. Doubt booming inside his chest with each beat of his heart.
“If it turns out Agent Dancer was involved in any way I’ll have your badge.”
“If Dancer was involved you can have any damn thing you want, Brett.”
“Dangerous promise to make to a politician, Marshall. I thought you’d have figured that out a long time ago.” Brett laughed, but it was a hollow bitter sound.
“Some things are worth selling your soul for.”
***
The knife was sharp. Not as familiar in his hand as the last one, but it slid through the outer layer of his skin like he had no more substance than water. He sucked in a breath. Watched the blood slide over his wrist and drip onto Josephine’s olive green t-shirt in ugly dark blotches.
Her chest rose steadily, fell gently on a silent exhale. He’d thought he’d have had more trouble getting her away from her FBI handlers, but one fake call and a little fast thinking and it had been brutally simple. He’d intended to lure them both inside one of his friend’s galleries and kill the bodyguard and anyone else who got in his way. He’d set up in position to watch them and make sure it was just the two of them and then WHAM! Literally.
Placing a finger against the soft skin that covered her carotid, he felt the calm settled beat of her heart. Her skin was warm to the touch.
She was still unconscious.
Good. He didn’t want to rush this.
Breakers crashed on the beach. A seagull screamed and he looked out of the darkened window, feeling the energy of an incoming storm, excitement and poignancy competing inside him because this would be the final chapter of this part of his life.
He had money to aid his escape and transform into someone new. He’d stop killing for a while and see if he could tame the beast that raged within him in other ways.
He had the painting back.
Since the gallery showing he’d had several offers from people who wouldn’t care how bloody his hands were. Their greed had fewer morals than his bloodlust.
He felt an unexpected ache of loneliness in his chest. He missed Pru.
When they�
��d met there had been that sexual spark. He’d always been attracted to things he wasn’t supposed to have, and to doing things he wasn’t supposed to do. He’d sensed a kindred spirit and their affair had crossed continents without anyone ever suspecting. Poor Pru.
She was still serving him well.
Pru had first brought him here to the senator’s North Fork hideaway one weekend not long ago when Brook had been in D.C. It was secluded, nestled between two vineyards. This was where the big butch senator came to relax with his gay lover. No neighbors close enough to spy and no staff except for the woman who cleaned once a week.
She was going to get a bit of a shock this week.
It was isolated but less than two hours drive from NYC. The perfect kill zone. Pity he couldn’t stay longer.
Light from the hallway sparkled in Josephine’s pale hair, made it translucent beside her fair skin. So beautiful. He’d killed her once. The bitch who’d seduced his devout father and destroyed his family.
She had been dead for a long time.
He’d enjoyed that day. The shock on her face when his father had left and he’d found her still in the apartment across the hall from where they were staying. They’d used the place to fuck, not twenty feet from where his mother was cooking dinner. He’d killed her and then spotted the shadowy figure on the fire escape. She’d been asleep. He’d planned to kill her too, but when he’d grabbed her she’d been so frail and thin. So miserably unloved. He’d let her go and always wondered why he’d been so weak. Now he knew. It wasn’t weakness, it was some divine plan.
He’d never been able to recapture the pure adrenaline rush of that first time, but now… Now he was going to get his revenge, close the circle and finally be free.
Philip picked up the knife again and ran it along his flesh, sucking his teeth as he sliced his skin.
He walked over and picked up the canvas. The one he’d taken from her apartment in Greenwich. The color shone with vivid light. Intensity, passion and hatred visible to the blindest onlooker. It was unsigned. He propped it against the bed and took up a hammer, standing over the woman’s limp body. His shadow fell across her as he felt the weight and brought it down hard against the nail on the wall.
Her Last Chance Page 23