The image of Isadora Campbell wearing a toe tag was his fucking problem.
She’d refused to go to the hospital so Frazer had insisted she go to bed instead. Doctors really did make the worst patients. She’d looked tired and wrung out and he didn’t need the distraction. The fact she was becoming a distraction was another reason he was pissed off.
When she’d clung to him earlier, molding her soft curves and long limbs against his, he’d held her not to give comfort but because she’d felt good in his arms.
He flexed his fingers into fists. Other people crossed lines. He drew them.
When he’d seen her heading outside earlier tonight, he’d deliberately turned away. He’d decided she was probably letting her dog out, and hadn’t trusted himself to follow her out onto a moonlit beach.
Instead she’d walked straight into the arms of Helena Cromwell’s killer and his “feelings” could have gotten her killed. The fact the killer had been so close was both frustrating and curious. Frazer watched the CSU tech dusting the tool shed and its contents for prints. Randall had another evidence tech photographing tire impressions from whatever motorbike the unsub had used to get away.
Izzy had positively identified the shovel used in last night’s attack, which told him a couple of things.
The killer was probably local. And he’d made some sort of mistake.
Had the unsub stolen the Campbell women’s shovel simply because their house was on the edge of town, and the shed was easy to break into? Maybe the killer had known the doc was on duty at the hospital on New Year’s and wouldn’t be around. Frazer had a suspicion the unsub hadn’t meant to leave the shovel behind at the crime scene yesterday so it might yield something useful.
The guy had made a miscalculation coming back here tonight. Frazer wanted to capitalize on that error. Could one of the Campbell women be involved? They both had alibis, neither had motive and neither were strong enough to simultaneously overpower both victims.
But Kit’s new boyfriend was an unknown factor…
Frazer needed to pin down an exact timeline of Kit and Ridgeway’s activities because they’d ended up getting stoned right next door. Ridgeway might have had the means and opportunity to commit the crime. Even if Ridgeway wasn’t the killer, he or Kit might have seen something useful. They needed to talk to the kid ASAP and run thorough background checks on all three of them.
Presumably the killer had returned here because he worried someone might recognize the shovel and had come back to wipe away any potential evidence he’d left—which pointed away from Kit and Izzy. It was their shovel, their shed. No need to pretend they hadn’t touched it.
The tech stood back. “There’s blood on the railing behind you,” she noted.
Frazer glanced behind him. “Dr. Campbell’s, but you should sample it anyway.” She’d hit her head pretty hard, patched herself up with butterfly sutures and declared herself “fine.”
Stubborn.
He moved out of the CSU’s way. He still had Isadora’s Glock in his pocket. If she hadn’t been armed, there was a good chance she’d be dead. The thought of what might have happened only yards from where he sat, trying not to think about her, was beyond disturbing. This was why he didn’t get involved. It took away his focus from the killer while he worried about the prey—but wasn’t that why he did what he did in the first place? Because he worried about the prey?
“I’m finished.” The crime scene tech packed up her kit and he nodded his thanks as she headed back to her car. Hopefully she’d find something that would nail the guy. Finish this thing.
The good news was, Frazer now had a lot of information to digest to build a profile—it wasn’t an easy process and it wasn’t magic. Getting it right wasn’t about guessing correctly. He used some inductive reasoning, drawing on years of research and data. The problem with inductive profiling was it relied on the subsample of criminals who’d been caught, which immediately produced bias in the data. It also assumed behavioral consistency—that an offender behaved in the same way over a period of time even while committing different crimes—and the homology assumption—the assumption of similarity between different offenders who commit similar crimes.
Neither were proven.
But Frazer was pretty sure he could conclude that the killer’s ego would be huge. Fantasy would play a large role in how he committed and refined his murders. The killer would have average to above-average intelligence. Be sexually competent. Probably be an older or only child.
Deductive reasoning was more accurate but took much longer to build into useable information. Common sense also played a part—the offender was likely to be strong enough to hike through the dunes, wield a shovel, and ride a dirt bike, which narrowed the suspect pool a little.
Now that he’d realized Helena’s shoes were missing, he’d started running ViCAP searches to see if any links to other crimes could be found. Then he’d get Felicia Barton working on a geographical profile and the theory of distance decay—and see if they could figure out where this unsub was most likely to live.
Intuition and instinct from years of hands-on experience played a much more intangible role in his profiling methods. Frazer didn’t think this killer would be easy to catch. He had the horrible feeling this particular killer had been flying under the radar for years.
What did Ferris Denker have to do with this case? If they were compatriots, it put the age of the killer in the upper part of the range—forties to sixties—old for a serial killer who’d never been caught. But if the unsub was a disciple all bets were off, although he was likely to be younger and more easily influenced.
Frazer didn’t like guesswork. He liked facts and needed to concentrate on what he actually knew.
Frazer shoved his hand in his pocket and touched the doc’s pistol. Better give it back to her before he called it a night. He headed up the wooden steps of her deck and let himself in through the French doors. The lamp in the corner blazed. Barney came over and he gave the dog a scratch. The rustling of blankets drew his eyes to the couch as someone sat up. Isadora.
“Where’s Kit?” he asked quietly. He’d assumed the younger woman would be here too. A chaperone of sorts, a barrier.
“She was wearing earphones and didn’t wake up. I let her sleep.”
His lips tightened. The younger woman needed to understand what was happening and indulging her wasn’t going to do that. Sheltering the girl was dangerous for both of them. He’d talk to her himself tomorrow.
“Did you find anything useful?” A yawn took her mouth as she stretched her arms wide. “Sorry,” she said as she covered her lips.
“Samples have gone to the lab. You and Kit will both need to give fingerprint and DNA samples so we can rule them out.”
She nodded. “What’s next?”
She sounded pensive and he looked at her, really looked. There were dark circles under her eyes. Despite the thrust of her jaw she looked fragile. When was the last time she’d slept? She’d worked the night shift the previous night and hadn’t even had time for a catnap today. “You should rest,” he told her.
She started to shake her head, so he took her hand, dragged her to her feet, ignoring the fact she tried to resist.
“Bed.”
She gave a husky laugh, false and designed to deflect his attention away from the fact she obviously didn’t want to go to sleep. “You’re a little fast for me, Agent Frazer.”
The fact she kept demoting him was interesting too. She understood rank and the associated levels of power. Was she trying to annoy him? If so she’d be disappointed. Rank meant nothing beyond the ability to give orders—which he took full advantage of. The most important thing for him was getting the job done. Being the best was important too, but not because of his ego. It was because of his promise to the victims and the people of this country. He rarely gave a thought to anything else.
Her laugh bothered him more. The deep sound of it grazing over his flesh like fingernails just biti
ng the skin.
Get over it.
He propelled her in front of him, trying not to look at the curve of her hips or her ass. He usually kept his thoughts locked up tight—including the occasional flares of attraction he experienced on the job. Good thing Parker wasn’t here, he realized. He’d get the wrong idea. Frazer’s reputation was one of ice, not fire. It was ironic he was attracted to someone exactly like him. Not someone who broke down and cried in the face of adversity, but someone who straightened their backbone, looked you in the eye, and told you it didn’t hurt.
There was definitely fire beneath Isadora Campbell’s aloof exterior.
Damn.
He hated that he saw that in her. He knew why he kept people at a distance. What was her excuse? And what would it be like if they both let go of their armor for just one night?
He didn’t need this. She didn’t need it either. He was one night stand material and she was part of a case. Neither had time for anything but getting this killer off the streets.
The door to her bedroom stood wide open. He handed her the weapon, then the bullet clip, and urged her inside. He pointed to the bed. “Get some sleep. I’ll lock up when I leave.”
She put the Glock and ammunition in the drawer of her nightstand, tugged the baggy sweatpants down, hooking them up into her hands to fold them neatly and put them on a chair beside the bed. He didn’t think she’d undressed in front of him to seduce, it was more the act of someone who was used to getting changed in the company of others and was completely unselfconscious about her body.
But olive drab had never looked that good before. The t-shirt came halfway down her thighs and revealed a long stretch of pale slender legs. He’d managed to keep his eyes on her face earlier. Now, as she tugged the hem of her shirt, it molded the material over her breasts and her nipples stood out like beacons.
Was it cold, or was she thinking what he was thinking?
He dragged his eyes from what looked like a perfect body as she slipped beneath the covers. Sexual awareness sizzled through the air.
She cleared her throat and looked anywhere but at him. “Thanks for dealing with the crime scene people.”
“It’s my job.”
She flinched at his harsh tone.
Damn. He’d made her uncomfortable. He turned to leave.
“Was that the person who killed Helena, hiding under my deck tonight?”
He hesitated. The air held a different kind of tension now. “Probably.”
“Why did he steal my shovel?” Her eyes pierced him, but he had no answer. “Are Kit and I in danger? Will he be back?” Her eyes drifted toward the Glock’s hiding place.
“It pays to be vigilant.” Christ. He sounded like the cold-hearted prick he really was.
She sucked in a noisy breath and then clutched her arms around her bent knees. “Most of these killers have a specific type, don’t they?”
Frazer turned to face her again. “I don’t know enough about this killer to say.” Yet.
She nodded and winced. Touched the bump on her head. “Hopefully you catch him before he attacks anyone else.”
A reminder he hadn’t done his job properly. “We were right next door—why didn’t you pick up the phone?” And maybe that was why he was pissed off. She’d heard a noise, but rather than reach out for his help she’d investigated on her own and gotten hurt in the process.
“I didn’t want to look like a fool if it was just a raccoon.”
“You’d rather keep your dignity than your life?” He took a step back into the room.
She laughed. “Not my dignity…”
“Independence? I’m an FBI agent.”
“And I was a soldier,” she said sharply.
“That doesn’t mean you have to do everything yourself.” He sat heavily on the side of her bed, reached out a hand and eased her hair aside to check out the gash there. Her hair was soft and the color of spun sunshine in the lamplight. The breath he blew out contained all his frustration.
She held his gaze. “Don’t pretend you’re any different from me.”
Shock moved through him that she’d recognized him the way he’d recognized her. He shut it down.
“Next time, call me.” He put one of his cards on her bedside table.
Her chin lifted, but she nodded. Then she swallowed nervously. The action rippled down her throat, and he couldn’t stop his eyes following the movement all the way down. She had the prettiest neck and collarbones. If they’d met under any other circumstances, he’d be doing his damnedest to taste her there.
He raised his gaze to her face. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone with that soft shade of green eyes before. Warm, deep green, unadulterated by any trace of brown or hazel. A heavy silence fell between them. One that pulsed with unspoken questions and messages. What did she taste like? What sound would she make if he kissed her?
He eased up onto his feet. This was dangerous and couldn’t go anywhere. “Did you take anything for the headache?”
She licked her lips, and he felt a corresponding reaction in his dick.
“I don’t like taking painkillers.”
“Of course you don’t,” he said dryly.
“What does that mean?” Her eyes flashed up at him.
He took another step back, disconcerted he wanted to pick a fight with her to gain a little distance. Distance was usually a given. “Nothing. Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” He closed the door on her pissed off expression and blew out a sigh of relief that he’d survived the encounter without doing anything stupid.
Not his usual MO.
He didn’t even fully trust Dr. Isadora Campbell, and he certainly didn’t intend to act on the attraction between them. He locked the French doors from the inside, lifted a key from the rack by the front door, and slipped outside. Waves washed against the beach. He didn’t like tonight’s developments on any level, personal or professional.
And worse than dealing with Isadora Campbell was the fact he could no longer put off calling his old boss.
Former SSA Art Hanrahan had retired from the BAU before Christmas, and they’d parted on bad terms. Frazer pressed his lips together. He’d have to suck it up because Hanrahan was the expert on Ferris Denker and his crimes. Hanrahan would know if the guy had ever taken the victim’s shoes. He’d know the most likely candidates for an accomplice.
The moon was already setting and he had to be at Parson’s Point at dawn. He may as well work for another hour. He had reports to read and emails from his team to address. He didn’t want to be stuck out here longer than he had to when there were so many things going on back in Virginia…
The image of Helena Cromwell’s pale corpse flashed through his mind—one of hundreds, maybe thousands. He already knew she was going to be one of the victims that stayed with him. Maybe it was the fact she’d been on the cusp of adulthood and had had it so brutally stolen away from her. Maybe it was the fact she looked like his mother.
He clenched his jaw. As satisfying as it was to catch a killer, he wished it didn’t come with the knowledge that they were always too late for the first victim. He’d give it all up to save just one person. His throat went dry as he thought about his parents, but he pushed the memories away. Suddenly, thinking about all the things he’d like to do to a naked Isadora Campbell didn’t seem like such a bad way to spend his time. Sure as hell beat reminiscing about his shattered childhood.
* * *
A FEW HOURS later, Lincoln Frazer stood looking over the dunes that guarded Parson’s Point. His work was too ugly for poetry, but there were rare moments when he could appreciate the charm of a situation. Moments when he paused in his hunt for predators long enough to acknowledge beauty. Sometimes it was something intangible, an emotion, a feeling—like the love he’d seen grow between Rooney and Parker. Or the belief in an ideal—like Scarlett Stone’s absolute faith in her father, a man the world had abandoned long ago. Sometimes it was physical—Isadora Campbell came to mind, and
that damned beauty spot of hers.
Right now, it was a swathe of land that lay half-submerged in the ocean. The bright yellow of the sun picking out the honey and gold of the beach. Peach and pink bleeding from the sunrise into the ocean. The wind had dropped and the air felt warm.
The islands held a fragile beauty that could be swept away with one angry stroke of the ocean, but their strength lay in their fluid adaptability.
Maybe the people who lived here were on to something. The sand in his shoes spoke of family vacations and laid back atmosphere. Of barefoot children playing in the shallows, wild horses prancing. He looked across the sand dunes. It was unfortunate his world had crashed into this one, bringing with it the ugliness that made up his life’s work. He had a horrible feeling it would get worse before it got better.
He stood in line between two other men on a boardwalk that ran between two sections of protected dunes, waiting for the search to begin. A shout went up and everyone began moving slowly forward. About twenty officers ranging either side of him. Officer Wright stood on the highest dune nearest the road, running the show. For now, Frazer was happy to let him. He walked steadily through the sand, systematically scanning the ground in front of his feet.
He’d sent Randall to interview the Ridgeway kid. Having talked to the other teens, he was most likely to pick up any detail that didn’t fit. But Frazer had done a little background check on the new kid in town. In trouble at his old school with disciplinary issues, raised by a single mother, who was devoutly religious if her monthly donations were anything to go by. Ridgeway was definitely worth a deeper look.
A shout went up to his right and they all stopped. A crime scene tech ran over to photograph and collect whatever had been found. Anything and everything. They started forward again. What had been a straight line of police offices was now broken up by the landscape. Some law enforcement officers on top of dunes, others hidden from sight in the valleys.
Periodically a shout went up and they all stopped for the evidence to be tagged and bagged. He doubted these scraps caught in the grass would mean much or be admissible in court, but he didn’t want to tip his hand about exactly what he expected to find today.
Cold Fear Page 10