Safe and Deputized with Ecstasy [The Heroes of Silver Island 4] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Tonya Ramagos

  “It’s still the best place to start.” Drake smacked his friend on the back of the shoulder. “And this is the last time I’m going to tell you, if you don’t stop with the mental ass kicking over Walsh getting to Kimberly, I’m going to beat the memory out of you.”

  “If I thought that would work, I’d stand here and let you beat more than that memory out of me now.” Rhett’s gaze shifted to the body and different recollections from five years ago flashed through his expression like an old-fashioned slide show. “She looks like Alex.”

  “Like the Alex we thought we knew, yeah.” Drake silently damned his friend putting it to voice. He hadn’t needed Rhett or anyone else to beat Alexandria’s memory from his mind. He’d spent five long years letting what she’d done to them taint those memories until he’d been able to move on with his life.

  Except, he hadn’t really moved on, had he? There wasn’t another woman in his life, no other woman that ever visited his dreams, and still no other woman he wanted if he couldn’t have her.

  Fucking hell.

  He’d been with women since Alex, both with and without Rhett in the picture. When he’d started dating again, he’d gone back to doing it solo until he’d realized nothing about going after a woman on his own felt right after those three weeks he and Rhett had spent together with Alex. Since Rhett seemed to be having the same problem, they’d joined forces and shared other women, all of which had turned into one disastrous relationship after another because she wasn’t Alex.

  Double fucking hell.

  “Jane’s a bit younger than Alex would be now.” He pointed out the differences in hopes Rhett would let the subject drop once he did. It had been more than a year since he and Rhett had discussed Alex. He wouldn’t have a problem if they went another ten before her name came up between them again. “I’d say this girl is twenty-two or twenty-three. The facial features don’t match much when you look closer, and she’s a good ten pounds heavier.”

  “I know.” Rhett’s tone sounded relieved, though it was laced with a pain of losing the woman they’d loved that he’d never gotten past. “Still threw me for one hell of a loop when I saw her.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” It had nearly stopped his heart. Geezus, he might hold a grudge toward Alexandria for the way she’d left him and Rhett, but coming up on her lifeless body the way he’d come up on Jane’s this morning would have brought him to his knees.

  He spotted Dr. Kip Weller making his way down the beach toward them with Sheriff John Cabelly at his side. Drake hadn’t thought it possible, but the island doctor’s expression was more somber than anyone’s on the beach, likely because this would be the first time he’d been called upon to perform his dual role as the island’s coroner. The sheriff, a man who always had a song for almost any occasion, damn sure wasn’t singing one today. Gabe Holly and Mindy Slovak, the firefighter/EMTs on duty today trailed behind the men with the stretcher and body bag needed to remove Jane Doe from the beach.

  Kip Weller stopped at Jane’s head, kneeled, and tipped his head back to look at Drake and Rhett in turn. “Is this how she was found?”

  “She hasn’t been touched,” Drake confirmed.

  Weller removed his sunglasses as he turned his attention back to Jane. “This is why I left the mainland. There’s no excuse for someone this young dying this way. Hell, there ain’t a damn one of us standing here that’s much older than her.”

  More out of reflex at the comment than thought, Drake looked over the faces of the three men before settling his focus on Jane. Weller was right. All four of them were in their early thirties, making them no more than ten years older than Jane.

  “Her throat was slit,” Weller announced, and shielded his eyes with a hand to his forehead as he looked up at the sheriff again. “Though I guess I don’t have to point out the obvious.”

  John Cabelly kneeled behind Jane’s head. “Knife?”

  Weller nodded. “Most likely.” He shifted, shoved his sunglasses in the breast pocket of his shirt, and held a finger over the mark. “It’s a clean slice.”

  “Meaning she apparently wasn’t struggling when her attacker slit her throat,” Rhett stated.

  Weller leaned over Jane, studying the back of her neck, shoulders, and arms. “Help me turn her over, Sheriff.”

  Drake moved back a step as the men carefully and gently rolled Jane onto her back. He spotted other differences between Jane and Alexandria in an instant. Jane had a tattoo of an angel just above her shaved pelvis. Her belly button sported a silver bar stretching through it and her nipples had matching silver hoops hanging from them.

  Weller continued with his assessment of the killing wound. His lips thinned as he dragged a fingertip just above the mark on the side of Jane’s neck that had been against the sand. “The wound is shallower beneath her right ear and gets deeper as it stretches to her left, suggesting she was either facing her attacker”—he lifted his right hand, his fingers fisted as if he were holding the handle of a knife, and imitated slicing the sheriff’s throat—“or her attacker was left handed and reached around her from behind. I’ll be able to tell you more and determine the kind of knife used when I get her—” He stopped abruptly and frowned at Cabelly. “Well, hell, make that the ME on the mainland will be able to tell you more when he gets a look at her.”

  Drake understood the man’s frustration. Working on Silver Island had been a change for all of those who’d held jobs in their chosen professions on the mainland. Going from the New Orleans PD to the Sheriff’s Department had been a huge adjustment for him and Rhett and he knew the same applied to the sheriff, the firefighters, and Weller. Kip Weller might be the island doctor and coroner now, but he’d been a medical examiner for the state before coming to the island. For a man with the forensic pathologist knowledge and degree, he might have left the mainland because he’d seen too many young deaths, but it stuck in his craw now that he didn’t have the equipment necessary to perform his own autopsy when he needed to. Drake figured after today the Winters trio who had developed and owned the island would make sure the man’s lab was stocked to the hilt in the near future.

  “I want you there, too,” Cabelly told Weller. “Let me know who I need to call to make sure you’re in on the autopsy. If my word doesn’t work, Marcus’s or Kenneth’s will.”

  Yeah, no doubt about it, Marcus and Kenneth Winters had connections that reached far and wide. Drake didn’t know how they’d gotten them and frankly didn’t care. All he, and any of the rest of the men and women who worked to keep the island safe, cared about was being able to call on them to get a job done when his own resources failed them.

  “How long will it take you to get me a positive ID on this girl?” Cabelly asked Weller.

  “I’ll have it for you as soon as I get her to the lab.” Weller pushed to his feet. “If your deputies are through with the body, I’ll take her now.”

  All gazes turned to Drake. Unless Jane magically returned to life, he’d gotten everything he could from her. It was up to Weller to see what her body could tell him about her killer now. “She’s all yours, Doc.”

  Drake stepped back as Holly and Slovak moved in to take Jane away. He let his head fall back on his shoulders and squinted at the sun. Almost every day on the island offered a gorgeous paradise of cloudless skies and perfect temperatures. For three years, Silver Island had been upholding the task it had been developed for, offering a place of open-mindedness and peace for those who lived alternative lifestyles. Still, the island had seen its share of trouble from outsiders who protested what their community stood for to people holding grave grudges against some who had come here for solitude.

  As Holly and Slovak started up the beach with the lifeless Jane Doe concealed in a body bag between them, Drake got a niggling sense the island and its residents were about to be put through one hell of a test.

  * * * *

  Waterston, MS – One Week Later

  Alexandria stopped outside the closed door of Adam Cooper�
��s office, squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and knocked. Calm, cool, and collected. She couldn’t exude anything more when she faced off with the badass FBI team leader who didn’t accept anything less than perfection.

  Nerves jittered in her stomach, kicking into a whirlwind of tension that threatened to settle in her bones at the curt bellow that beckoned her to enter. At twenty-nine, she’d been with the Waterston branch of the FBI for four years now. After being chosen the top of her class at Quantico, she’d moved on to become a special agent in the Criminal Investigations Division. Immediately after finishing her instruction, she’d been assigned to Waterston where she’d dived right in, proving herself to be a valuable member of her CID team. That hard work had apparently caught Adam Cooper’s eye.

  She twisted the doorknob with a hand that wanted to shake and stepped inside the office. Adam Cooper sat behind his desk, his posture relaxed in his dark Italian suit. Everything about the man screamed he’d earned his reputation as a badass agent, from his muscular build to the rough features of his face. Power and control pumped off him in waves. Though she’d passed him in the halls of the bureau from time to time over the last four years, he’d never spoken a word to her. She’d heard all there was to hear about him, though, and didn’t wonder about the speculation that had been flying around the bureau between agents as to whether the man was even mortal.

  “You asked to see me, sir.”

  A quick flash of a warm smile unfolded on his lips as he got to his feet and rounded the desk. “I did. Close the door, please.”

  Alexandria did as he asked, wondering how often a man like Cooper said please to anyone for anything.

  “We’ve never formally met.” He extended a hand. “Adam Cooper.”

  Alex had learned long ago how to shake a man’s hand without giving him the impression she was a dainty female. She held Cooper’s vivid blue gaze as she gave his hand a firm squeeze. “Alex Sykes.”

  He nodded once and let his hand fall to his side. “You prefer to be called Alex rather than Alexandria, then?”

  “Most men seem to prefer to call me Alex. It’s been that way since I went through the police academy.” She gave him an unconcerned shrug. “Joining the FBI didn’t change that.”

  “I’m not most men, Special Agent Sykes.”

  Alex snorted before she could stop herself. “No, sir, you aren’t.”

  He gave her another flash of that warm smile and gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Alex, and I’ll tell you why I called you in here.”

  “Yes, sir.” She moved to the chair he’d indicated, studying him as she sat. Broad shoulders, sculpted biceps, and a well-defined, muscular back told her he didn’t spend as much time behind his desk as his position implied. A man in his mid-forties got that kind of body from working in the field and from disciplining himself to keep it that way.

  Rumor had it among some of the agents in the bureau that Adam Cooper was a solid prick. She’d gotten an unapproachable vibe from him in the past, but had chalked it up to his hard-ass leadership and demand for near perfection. The man who returned behind his desk to sit in his high-back swivel chair gave her the impression he was going out of his way to make her feel comfortable in his presence.

  A file sat on the desk in front of him. He pulled it closer, flipping it open. “I’ll start by informing you that I’ve had my eye on you for quite some time.”

  Satisfaction and pride surged through Alex’s veins even as her heart gave a hard thud against her ribcage. There wasn’t much she could say to that without sounding eager, conceited, or dull, so she kept her mouth shut and waited for him to go on. His gaze dropped to the file and she realized as he went on that it was her employment record.

  “You graduated at the top of your class in both high school and college, receiving your bachelor’s degree in three years rather than four. Your history with the New Orleans PD was stellar.” His gaze flicked up to meet hers. “I’m sure you know the rapid way you moved up the ranks is nearly unprecedented?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Seemingly pleased by her simple answer, he returned his attention to her file. “You’ve brought that same drive and determination with you to the bureau and have made quite a name for yourself in the CID. Galbreth isn’t happy I’m talking to you now, but he’s not one to hold back such a promising agent.”

  Robert Galbreth was her superior in the CID. Though she still didn’t know where Cooper was headed with his summary of her career, hope tingled through her system. Adam Cooper led a select and elite team of special agents. While most divisions of the FBI focused solely on one area of crime, Cooper’s A-team handled whatever assignments were thrown at them and topped the charts of solved cases.

  Cooper propped his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers as he looked at her. “You investigated a homicide during your time with the New Orleans PD. A young woman, suffocated and disposed of in the Gulf.”

  “Abigale Brigdon.” Alex remembered the case as if it were yesterday. She’d barely been a year older than the victim.

  Twenty-two-year-old Abigale Brigdon’s body had been discovered at Breakwater Park with no evidence as to who she was or where she’d come from. The autopsy had given Alex the girl’s name and the cause of death, but no real clues to go on. Her extensive investigation into the girl’s life hadn’t turned up much more. She’d been a shy college student with no friends to speak of and parents who hadn’t given a damn. Alex hadn’t been able to find a single person who had seen Abigale with anyone the day of her murder. By all accounts, she’d attended her classes on Friday, had kept to herself as she’d always done, and no one had seen her again until her body was found the following Sunday night.

  Alex fought the urge to squirm. She’d never found Abigale’s killer. She’d left the New Orleans PD with the case unsolved and, as far as she knew, it had remained that way. Of everything Cooper had said about her employment record, having him bring up that failure squashed her previous feelings of satisfaction and pride to smithereens.

  “I spoke with your former sergeant. He told me you believed Abigale Brigdon’s death wasn’t a random murder, though you were never able to prove it.”

  “I ran a check for similar open cases. I found one with a few commonalities to Abigale Brigdon. The victim, Bella McDonald, was found off the coast of Galveston six months before Abigale was found in New Orleans. Eight months after Abigale’s body was discovered, another victim, Patty Smart, was discovered in Pensacola, Florida. The few commonalities I found between Bella McDonald and Abigale Brigdon were present in Patty Smart’s case, as well. All three women were in their early twenties, strawberry blondes, and each of their bodies were disposed of in the Gulf. Due to the stretch in the times and distance between the murders, the facts that each girl’s background differed greatly, and the cause of deaths weren’t the same, they were deemed by my superiors and the FBI to be unconnected.”

  “I have agents in Alabama investigating the murder of a female whose body washed up on the coast of Gulf Shores last year.”

  Alex blinked at the shift in subject and then sat up straighter as adrenaline started kicking through her veins. “You think her murder could be connected to the others?”

  Cooper didn’t answer. “Another female body was discovered last week on Silver Island.”

  “That’s off the coast of Mississippi, correct?” She vaguely remembered hearing about the development of the island on the news sometime back. Though the premise of the island had created a shit-storm in the media, she’d paid it little attention. It hadn’t affected or pertained to her or her job in any way. At Cooper’s noncommittal nod, she asked, “Aside from being dumped in the Gulf in different states, do those women fit the other commonalities of the women found in Texas, Louisiana, and Florida?”

  “Both were strawberry blondes in their early twenties.” Cooper flattened his hands on the desk as he leaned back in his chair. “However, the two recent victims were
killed in the same manner. Their throats were slit from ear to ear.”

  “That’s a difference that sets them apart from the first three.” Her mind reeled as she sorted through the new information. “He could be escalating.”

  “Or the commonalities in victims four and five could be coincidence.”

  “Bella McDonald was poisoned, Abagail Brigdon was suffocated, and Patty Smart drowned. Each method, though equally horrible and effective, left no physical bodily marks or evidence that could be traced. What was used to cut the fourth and fifth victims’ throats?”

  “A thin serrated blade, most likely a kitchen knife.”

  Because she thought better on her feet, Alexandria stood and stared at the utilitarian tiled floor as she started to pace. “If these two are connected to the others, he’s going for the throat. He’s not taking the care with them he did before. Unless he was already at the water when he drowned Patty Smart, he had to drive her there before he killed her. He injected Bella with insulin, which is lethal to a person who isn’t diabetic. If he isn’t diabetic, he had to get the insulin from somewhere. And he used a pillow to suffocate Abagail.” She lifted her head, realized her pacing had brought her to the side wall of the office, pivoted, and retraced her steps. “Of the three, Abagail’s murder was the only one that could’ve been spontaneous. The other two would’ve required forethought.”

  “The last two victims could’ve gone either way, provided that they were killed somewhere that gave the murderer access to a knife. So far, we don’t have any leads on where either woman was actually killed. We only know they weren’t killed where their bodies were discovered.” Cooper sat forward, shuffled through a stack of papers, and slid two photos across the desk toward her. He pointed to the first one. “Kelli Darcy, our Gulf Shores victim.” His finger slid to the second one. “Lynette Cross, our Silver Island victim.”

  Alex stepped to the desk and peered down at the pictures of the women. Though strawberry-blonde hair had always been a commonality between the victims, seeing the photos of the murdered women had never given her such an eerie sense of familiarity. The photo of Lynette Cross chilled the blood in her veins. Hazel eyes, much like her own but for the shape, stared back at her from a face splattered with freckles. It was almost like looking in a mirror.