Die for Me: A Novel of the Valentine Killer

by Cynthia Eden

  “I told you. I’m Katherine Cole.” Say it until you believe it. “And I just want to help you find out if this is the Valentine Killer or if it’s just some wannabe trying to grab a headline.”

  His gaze searched hers. She wondered what he saw there. No emotion, surely. She’d gotten very good at burying her emotions.

  “This wannabe tortured a woman for hours.”

  She didn’t blink.

  “He drove his knife into her chest. Sank the blade into her heart.”

  Her own chest ached. Katherine swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. Sweat slickened her hands. “Call your medical examiner. If he hasn’t already done it, then get him to count the slices on her arms.”

  He grabbed her wrist. His hand was warm, almost hot, and when his long, strong fingers closed around her, she thought the usual fear would hit her. But it didn’t, and that fact shocked Katherine to her core.

  Detective Black gazed into her eyes. “I get the feeling you’re a dangerous woman.”

  She didn’t even have the breath to speak right then.

  He pulled her toward the small table, pushed her into the wobbly chair. Katherine sucked in a deep breath that she really needed and tried to calm her racing heartbeat.

  Then she saw the flash of silver handcuffs.

  “Wait!” Katherine began, frantic. “What are you—”

  He locked one cuff around the wrist he still held. Then he locked the other cuff to the leg of the table. “It’s bolted down,” he told her, giving a half grin that flashed the dimple in his left cheek, “so you’re not goin’ anywhere, lady.”

  “I’m trying to help you!”

  His fingers stroked over the skin of her inner wrist, an almost absent gesture, then he pulled back, taking that seductive warmth with him. “We’ll see.”

  He turned toward the door with his broad back stiff.

  Katherine realized he was going to just leave her there. Cuffed. “You can’t do this!” She knew her fear broke through the words.

  “Watch me,” he tossed over his shoulder without glancing back.

  “Please.” The plea slipped out, but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t stand confinement. Being cuffed, yeah, that sure counted as confinement to her. And she felt like she was far too close to freaking out.

  He stopped and looked back. A frown pulled his dark brows low. “Relax,” he told her, his voice softening just a bit. “I’ll visit that ME and be right back for you.”

  He was checking out the story about the number of wounds. Okay. That was something. “Just hurry, okay?” Katherine tried to calm her racing heartbeat.

  His gaze held hers. Then he left her. The door clicked closed quietly behind him.

  She glanced around the room and finally saw the long mirror that ran the length of the left wall. A two-way mirror, she was sure.

  So the cops could watch her.

  She stared at the mirror and saw the dark-haired woman with too-pale skin staring back at her.

  Katherine Cole.

  Say it until you believe it.

  A thin, white sheet covered Savannah Slater’s body, hiding her from the chest down.

  Dane gazed down at her, his jaw tight. “Ronnie, how many slices did you find on the victim’s arms?”

  Dr. Veronica Thomas glanced up at him. Freckles stained her cheeks, and her bright blue eyes were narrowed behind her glasses. “I’m working on the report now. It’s only been four hours. And do you know how many stiffs I’ve got down here?” She lifted her pointed chin. “Go back upstairs. Get some coffee. Yell at a reporter for leaking the story, but give me some time, got it?”

  He crossed his arms. “Eleven slices on her left arm.” Be wrong. “Ten slices on her right.”

  “You counted on-scene, huh?” She pushed up her glasses. “Well, why ask, then? She was—”

  “I didn’t count on-scene.” There’d been too much blood covering her, and he hadn’t wanted to touch her until the techs had a chance to do their job. By the time the techs got to work, he’d been busy keeping the press away from the victim. He’d busted ass, and someone had still gone behind his back and leaked info to the vultures.

  She blinked. “Then how’d you know?”

  Every muscle in his body seemed to lock down. “I’m right.” Not a question.

  She nodded. “Yes, you are.” Ronnie picked up a clipboard. “The wounds on her arms are meticulous, every slice exactly one inch apart. Like the killer was following some kind of pattern.” A sad sigh drifted from her lips.

  An image of Katherine Cole floated through his mind. Pretty face. Golden eyes. Full red lips.

  Cold-blooded killer?

  Or, at the very least, she could be an accomplice to a killer.

  A woman that gorgeous would be deadly.

  Ronnie walked around the table. “How’d you know, Dane?” Now suspicion had entered her tone.

  “Because a woman walked up to my desk five minutes ago and told me.”

  “You’re kidding.” Ronnie’s voice had risen two octaves.

  “No, not this time.” He shoved his hand through his hair. “This case is priority, Ronnie. Get me the full report and get it to me yesterday.”

  She nodded, eyes wide.

  He turned away and pushed open the door that would take him away from the ME’s office. The scent of bleach and death followed him. Hell, he didn’t know how Ronnie could stand that place.

  He hurried up the stairs, not bothering with the elevator. The ME’s office was located in the building right behind his precinct. “The death rooms,” as the cops called the place.

  Please. Katherine’s voice drifted in his mind. Breathy, sexy, and almost…desperate.

  Killers could be very, very desperate indeed.

  The sunlight hit him as he raced between the two buildings, burning bright and hot as it always did in New Orleans. He hurried inside the police station, grunting a greeting at the uniforms he passed.

  When he reached the homicide unit, Dane found Mac sitting on the edge of his desk.

  Mac pointed toward the interrogation room. “There a particular reason you got that kid guarding the door?”

  Dane spared a quick glance at the door in question. The uniformed cop was exactly where Dane had stationed him.

  Squaring his shoulders, Dane said, “He’s keeping an eye on a suspect.”

  Mac arched a brow. “I saw the suspect.” A low whistle escaped him. “I would have kept an eye on her for you. You could’ve just asked me nicely.”

  Yeah, he was sure Mac would have been only too happy to keep company with Katherine Cole. “I think she knows who killed Savannah Slater.” He paused a beat. “Or maybe she even did the deed herself.”

  Surprise slackened Mac’s face. “You’re shitting me.”

  But Mac didn’t actually sound disbelieving. More like sad. After working together for eight years, both men knew that even the most innocent faces could hide killers.

  Dane started rolling up his sleeves as he headed for the interrogation room. Mac fell into step behind him.

  “So who’s good cop?” Mac asked, voice flat, as they neared the door.

  Dane thought of Savannah Slater’s broken body. “Neither one of us.”

  After one look at Dane’s face, the uniform quickly moved out of the way.

  Dane opened the door.

  Katherine looked up at once, and she was just as damn beautiful as before. Heart-shaped face. Glass-sharp cheekbones. Tiny slip of nose. Lips made for sin.

  And those eyes. One look into them, and he’d felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

  But he knew all too well just how deceptive innocence could be.

  Such a perfect face. But was it the face of an angel or a sadistic killer?

  Time to find out.

  – 2 –

  Valentine was back.

  Katherine got her answer from the look on Detective Black’s face.

  Twenty-one slices.

  When Detective Bl
ack came back into the room, his eyes glittering with a barely contained fury, Katherine knew her carefully constructed world was about to be ripped apart.

  “How did you know?” He was trying to sound cool, she got that, but his eyes revealed the truth.

  Another man followed behind him, a guy about two inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than Detective Black. Both men were in their thirties, but this guy’s face was much softer than the other—

  “How did you know?”

  Katherine swallowed. “I told you, that’s what Valentine did. He always left that exact number on his victims.”

  Detective Black sat in front of her. He’d rolled up his sleeves, and she could see the black edge of a tattoo on his right arm. It seemed to twist around his flesh like a snake.

  “And how would you know what Valentine did, miss?” The other guy wanted to know. His voice was carefully curious, a little bland, but she could feel his tension, too. “I mean, those crimes happened all the way up in Boston, and we’re way down—”

  “I’m from Boston.” That truth just slipped out.

  Wrong story. Say it until—

  “Are you now.” Detective Black leaned toward her, seeming to swallow all the space with his bigger body. “Why doesn’t that fact surprise me?”

  She lifted her hand, only to have it jerked back by the handcuff. “Is this confinement necessary?” Katherine glanced down at the cuff. “I came here to help you.”

  “Is Valentine killing in my city?”

  I think so. God help us all. “You need to call Detective Sean Hobbs. He worked the case up in Boston. Talk to him. He can—”

  “Did you kill Savannah Slater?” Detective Black’s cold question blew right through her words.

  “No, of course not!” Fury hardened her voice.

  His eyes narrowed on her, and she almost felt as if he could see right into her soul. Almost, until he asked, “Were you present when she was killed?”

  “No!” Not for this kill. Not this time.

  “Then where were you? Because, Ms. Cole, we’re sure as hell gonna need an alibi from you.”

  Her lips trembled. She didn’t have an alibi. She’d been alone all weekend. At home. And she had no close neighbors. No one to vouch for her.

  The interrogation room door flew open. “This interview is over,” a familiar voice blasted.

  Katherine looked up and found her handler standing in the doorway.

  Detective Black leapt to his feet. His chair slammed to the floor behind him. “Who the hell are you?”

  Her handler yanked out his ID. “I’m Anthony Ross, and this woman is coming with me.”

  The detective snatched the ID for a closer look while the man Katherine assumed was his partner cursed. Black and Ross were about the same size, and they were standing toe to toe.

  “You’re a U.S. marshal?” Detective Black asked, and there was no missing his shock.

  Ross reached for her hand. “Come on, Katherine.”

  “I can’t.” She lifted the cuffs.

  Ross closed his green eyes for a moment. “You are kidding me.” His gaze snapped open and locked on the detectives. “Why is she cuffed? Why?”

  “Because she knows far too much about my murder victim.” Detective Black wasn’t backing down. “Either she was there or she knows—”

  “Katherine wasn’t there. I can verify her whereabouts for the last forty-eight hours.”

  Sweet of him to lie. But the marshal had ulterior motives.

  He wanted to get her out of the precinct.

  Ross held out his hand. “The. Key.”

  But instead of handing him the key, the Detective Black stalked around the table and knelt beside Katherine. She tensed. Too close.

  She stared down at him. His head was tilted as he stared at the cuffs. His hair was dark, so thick, and a little too long. His profile was strong, and from this angle, there was no missing the fact that someone had definitely taken a few swings at his nose.

  And he smelled nice. Not a cologne scent. Just…man.

  He slipped the key into the lock and the cuff opened with a quick snick, but the detective didn’t back away. Instead, his fingers smoothed over her wrist, stroking lightly, right where the cuff had bitten into her skin.

  Now his head tilted back so that he met her stare. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on,” he said, his gaze searching hers, “then how am I supposed to keep you safe?”

  Safe. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure what that word meant anymore. Her tongue swiped over her too-dry lips. “You can’t.”

  His fingers tightened around her wrist. “You don’t know me well. Not yet.” Why did that sound like a promise? “But believe me when I say that I could protect you from anyone or anything out there.”

  Detective Black was a good cop. She’d heard the stories about him before. Seen his high-profile busts on TV. Not a glory hound, but a cop the media seemed to love.

  So her smile was sad when she stood and pulled away from him. “I have to go now.”

  “Damn straight,” Ross said, and then he was the one catching her hand. “And if you have any other questions for Katherine, you route them through me.”

  Detective Black rose slowly. “You’re not a lawyer.”

  “And she shouldn’t be your suspect,” Ross snapped right back. “So do your job and get out there and find the killer.”

  He tried to pull her through the doorway.

  Katherine dug in her heels. She glanced back at the detectives once more. She’d come here for a reason. “Call Boston. Talk to Sean.”

  “Dammit, Kat,” Ross muttered. “We need to go.”

  This time, she went with him.

  And she hoped that the cops would be ready to face the hell coming their way.

  “Well, well, well…” Mac blew out a hard breath and shook his head as he stared out the open interrogation room door. “What the hell was that?”

  Wrong question. “We need to find out why the U.S. marshal’s office is protecting her.” He could still smell her sweet scent. All around him.

  Her skin had been softer than silk.

  A killer? He didn’t know, not yet. But now a marshal was involved, and that mixed up the case even more.

  A marshal. Protecting a woman who knew far too much about one of the most wanted men in the United States.

  He shoved by Mac and rushed back into the bull pen. His captain was coming out of his office. Harley Dunning’s round face was even redder than usual. “You want to tell me why I got the marshal’s office on my ass?”

  Dane grunted as he sat down at his desk. “Ten minutes, Cap. Just give me ten minutes…” Sweat trickled down his cheek as he grabbed for his phone. He hit the button for the station operator. “Yeah, yeah, look, it’s Detective Black, and I need you to connect me to the Boston PD, to one Detective Sean Hobbs.” His heart thudded in his chest. “Now.” He was connecting the dots as quickly as he could.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Harley demanded as he closed in on Dane.

  Mac answered, “Our suspect gave us a tip, right before the marshal with the shiny badge dragged her away.”

  “A tip?” the captain pushed.

  “Yeah.” Dane grunted as he waited for the connection. “And one we’re damn well checking out.”

  The marshal’s involvement meant the woman wasn’t just some bullshitter off the street. And her eyes—those beautiful, golden eyes—had been full of determination and fear.

  There’d been no missing the way her voice broke each time she mentioned Valentine.

  The marshal wanted to protect her, but Dane wasn’t about to let that guy stand in his way. He had a murder to solve, and if Katherine Cole was involved, she wasn’t getting away from him, marshal or no damn marshal.

  To stop a killer, Dane would be willing to use anything or anyone.

  No more blood. No more torture. He would do anything necessary to bring the killer to justice.

  “No more talking to the cops
, Kat,” Anthony Ross said. His hands tightened around the steering wheel as he guided them through the thick New Orleans traffic. “What the fuck were you thinking?” He stopped the vehicle, and a trolley whizzed past them.

  Anger stirred in Katherine’s gut, slowly breaking through the ice that had encased her ever since she saw the news footage earlier that day. “Don’t call me Kat. I told you that before.” Because he’d called her that.

  She saw him slant a quick glance her way.

  “And as to what the fuck I was thinking…” She sucked in a sharp breath. “I was thinking the cops needed to know who they were dealing with.”

  “So you put yourself up as a target? Dammit, Kat—Katherine.” He corrected himself quickly. “You know this can’t be some random attack. A kill like this, basically right on your front doorstep—”

  Her jaw dropped. “But you told me—when I called you—you said—”

  “I was just trying to keep you calm until I could get to you!” His hand slapped against the steering wheel. “I wanted to keep you safe.”

  Detective Black had promised to keep her safe.

  She glanced down at her clenched hands. “Savannah Slater had eleven knife wounds on her left arm and ten on her right.”

  Silence. She looked over and saw a muscle jerk along Ross’s jaw.

  “Would a copycat know about the number of wounds?” Katherine asked.

  He exhaled, and the lines on his face deepened. “Only if he saw the confidential reports from the bureau or the Boston PD. The press never knew about the exact number on the victims.”

  She’d thought as much. There were no coincidences in this world. She’d learned that long ago. The wounds…the rose…the bindings…“If he’s killing here, then he knows that I’m here, too.”

  “We don’t know that yet. Hell, we don’t know anything for sure at this point.” Ross wasn’t taking her straight home. They snaked through the city, following a route she knew was meant to confuse or lose any tails. Just in case anyone is following us.

  He wouldn’t want to lead anyone back to her house on the outskirts of the city.

  “I’ll drop you off, and then I’ll do some checking on my own. I’ll find out what’s happening here,” Ross promised. His knuckles whitened as he held the wheel. “But Katherine, if it looks like it really is him or even a copycat who knows about you…”