She reached out and patted his shoulder. Patted. “You deserve it, Ruben. You put in all the legwork.” After giving his arm a little squeeze, she turned for the door.
Once she was past the profiler, Harbinger winked at him. “I wouldn’t wait up.”
Ruben tried to count to ten, however he couldn’t even think of what came after the number one. Glick came up from behind.
“Is Nicole leaving with the profiler?” Glick asked. All Ruben could do was nod. The captain squinted into the night. “And isn’t that your car they’re taking?”
“Yep.”
Why was it that on the night of catching his first serial killer, Ruben felt like the loser?
“Guess it’s best they get to know one another,” Glick said, clearly not in tune with Ruben’s inner landscape. “Harbinger’s requested to transfer here as a consultant.” Of course he had. Glick continued, “And the FBI has already approved it.” Of course they had. “The serial killers of this city are going to have to sit up and take notice,” Glick finished.
As the captain moved off, Ruben stared out past the knot of police vehicles and watched the lone car leaving the crime scene until it disappeared behind the trees. Ruben doubted that serial killers were the only ones that needed to take notice of the profiler.
Damn it.
PLAIN JANE – The full length novel that started it all!
PROLOGUE
The man forced himself deeper into the darkened storefront. He could not chance the brunette spotting him as she approached.
Joann was late. The man knew her schedule because he had watched her office from the roof of an adjacent building. Watched that boss of hers give the brunette a new account right before seven. The lazy bastard knew that Joann would stay hours to input the client’s information, then run a full set of actuaries before she left. Not because the brunette had to, but because Joann would never leave a task unfinished.
That sense of responsibility was only one of the many, many traits that attracted the man to her. You only had to glance at the brunette to know that she was worthy. Worthy of his time. Worthy of his attention.
As Joann drew closer and closer to his position, any sense of frustration over the long, cold wait melted. The sight of her dark brown eyes, slightly drooped from long hours in front of the computer, was why he risked positioning himself so close to her route home.
He needed to be near her. Near enough to smell her Obsession perfume. The fragrance he had sent her. Of course Joann did not know it was from him. The brunette thought she had won it from the Avalon Woman’s Week website contest. But he knew. Knew a piece of him caressed her skin. Lingered at her throat.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the man closed the chasm.
Close enough that he noticed the night chill force one of her delicate hands into her coat pocket, while the other clasped her jacket tight around her neck. Joann had been rushed this morning due to a call and had forgotten her scarf. The long purple one. Her favorite.
The man noticed such things. Knew such things because, unlike every other male in her life, the man took the time to discover such things.
Breath caught in his throat as she neared. The man could not let his excitement reveal his presence. His fists tightened as the urge to reach out and caress her skin felt near to overwhelming him.
To many Joann might have seemed average, perhaps even plain, but the man did not care what others thought. He knew her to be perfect. Had the brunette used a bit of rouge, or was the flush to her cheeks brought on by the crisp night air?
As she hurried along, a small plume of fog punctuated the brunette’s every breath. Even this act of breathing was perfect, just as she was.
So petite and delicate.
Joann could not be taller than five feet three. Short enough that if the brunette ever kissed him she would need to stand on the tips of her toes. Slender enough that he could encircle her waist and pull her against him with a single arm.
The man felt a slight buzz as his body urged him to take a breath, but he could not. Not while she passed. Passed so closely that if the man wished, he could have reached out and stroked her shoulder-length hair.
He could have touched the tender flesh beneath her ear then trailed down the curve of her shoulder. But that would not do. He could not let Joann know he watched her, followed her. He could not let her know that he even existed, not until he was ready. Not until she was exactly where he wanted her.
The click of her low heels carried the brunette down the street, but the man did not follow.
He knew exactly where she headed.
Just like last night and the night before, he would wait until Joann crossed the street at the light and disappeared around the corner to her apartment building before he caught up. The man could not take the chance that she would spot him on the empty street. Not before he found the perfect moment to introduce himself. Not a single moment before then.
Letting out his long-held breath, his vision became obscured by the cloud of fog. As it cleared he found Joann looking back over her shoulder. Panic gripped him. Had she seen him? Felt his warmth from the shadows? The brunette’s lips turned down, eyes scanning the street behind her, but they were not yet fixed on his position.
Holding his breath, the man watched as Joann abandoned her survey of the street behind her. Clearly, though, the brunette had become alarmed.
You could see it in her shoulders, in her rushed step, in the way she clutched her purse to her body.
The man hissed out an exhale, slowly enough to keep the steam from betraying him. His eyes were glued to the back of the brunette’s head.
Keep walking, just keep walking.
Movement across the street diverted his attention. Lively chatter filled the otherwise-deserted avenue. He had forgotten it was Thursday, Midnight Movie Night at the Crestview Theater.
The opposite sidewalk filled with Tim Curry wannabes and enough black leather and red velvet to choke a transvestite. The man’s eyes flickered to Joann. She moved at a near run. But still he hung back. Safely tucked away from prying eyes.
Their relationship needed to stay secret, at least for a little while longer.
Abruptly, Joann crossed the street and melted into the growing throng. His stomach twisted. Why had the brunette done that? Was she going into the theater to make a call? The man knew Joann did not have her cell phone because she had forgotten to charge it the night before and had been forced to leave the phone at home.
Risking exposure, the man stepped out from the deep shadows. He had to take this calculated gamble if he wished to keep her within sight.
Even so exposed, the man could barely make out Joann’s beige coat amongst the sea of Rocky Horror red and black. To cross the street could raise suspicion. Not crossing might mean losing her forever.
Shrugging his collar up as if to protect him against the gaining wind, the man trotted across the street, trying to act as if he were meeting someone casually after the film. Perhaps to apologize for being late. At least that was the impression he wanted to project as Joann made her way through the thick, rambunctious crowd.
Abandoning his usual disdain for others, the man dove into the mass of laughing, giggling revelers. He could not lose her. Lose Joann.
Yet for every step he made forward, the brunette seemed to make two. How he wished Joann had remembered her bright lavender scarf now. In the second it took to right himself as he tripped over a drunk in heels, the man lost sight of Joann.
Not bothering to contain his urgency, he brusquely pushed aside the moviegoers, making for the far side of the crowd. Finally the throng parted, and he stumbled onto the empty pavement.
Desperately, he searched the street. No Joann. He swung left, then right, then back toward the crowd. But not a single clue as to where she had disappeared.
Joann was gone.
CHAPTER 1
Officer Mickey Macaine’s elbows settled against his duty belt as he shifted his weight onto the heels of his
boots. This was going to be a long-ass night, most of it standing on Crestview Avenue. It was only two-thirty in the morning and they already had three noise complaints from the neighbors about women and men dressed in fishnet stockings, arms linked, singing some piss-poor tune from the damned homo movie.
“Keep it down,” Macaine intoned for the fifteenth time, certain that it would take another fifteen before this rowdy crowd dispersed.
His attention became piqued, though, when a mascara-smeared woman staggered toward him. These moviegoer get-ups made the working girls down the block look like cloistered nuns. Therefore, Mickey let the chick bump into him before he spoke. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You need to exit off Fremont.”
The blonde’s words slurred as she leaned heavily against his puffed-out chest. “But my car’s down there…somewhere.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s a residential—”
“Sarah! The car’s down here!” a man yelled.
The cop was slightly disappointed as the woman pulled away. Mickey could have squeezed in another few minutes of contact with her before sending her along.
“Oops. My bad,” the girl slurred, then flashed a smile that totally made up for any inconvenience.
Maybe he might come to one of these midnight movies himself. With his attention focused on the chick’s skirt, so short that you could see the rounded crescents of her ass, Macaine ignored a sound from behind.
Who cared when you had a view like this? But a louder clang made Mickey prick up an ear.
Did one of these yahoos get past him?
His lieutenant would have his head if the Neighborhood Watch lodged another loitering complaint. But had he really heard a sound? Or was it just the rush of blood leaving his crotch after his close encounter with the blonde?
Halfway to the intersection, Macaine heard it again. This time he was certain. Certain that the sound was metal against pavement.
The cop clicked on his flashlight. The sounds were definitely coming from the alley. Way down the alley. And was that a gasp? Panting?
Maybe he would get lucky enough to catch a couple banging away. Besides the thrill factor, it would make a great story for the bullpen.
Still, Mickey unhooked his nightstick.
Not because he thought he was going to need it, but because it always looked cool. “Police! Show yourself.”
More heavy breathing. Maybe he should call for backup? But his hand did not reach for his handset. Not while there was still a chance these noises were some S&M couple going at it like dogs in heat.
“Police,” Mickey growled. “Last chance to keep this out of the public record.”
Another sound. That did not sound like sex. That sounded like pained. Anger. This time Macaine unhooked his gun.
Not because it looked cool, but because he might actually need to use it.
There it was again. Definite sounds of a struggle.
Instinctively, the cop changed his stance.
Gun out, arm forward.
“Police. Step out, now!” Macaine stressed that last word. He needed them to know he was serious. Besides the for-shit lighting, a Dumpster blocked his view. Carefully, Mickey picked his way around it.
Sure enough, it was a couple. Girl on the ground, guy on top. Relief swept over him, until the cop realized that the glistening pool on the ground was not rainwater…it was blood.
“Step away!” Macaine grabbed his handset. “I need backup in the alley behind Crestview and Van Wheller.”
The man not only ignored him but continued beating on the brunette. And the more Mickey’s eyes adjusted to the dark, the more blood he saw. So much. Too much.
“Step back, or I will be forced to shoot.” And Macaine meant it.
But not only did the man stay on the ground, he leaned over the woman’s face. Was he kissing her bloody lips?
Sick bastard.
Mickey popped the safety off. This guy only got one more warning. “Last chance.” Macaine cocked his gun. Was this really going to be his first shooting? Was it really going to be tonight? The man went back to beating on the woman.
Yep, he guessed it really was.
The cop’s finger tightened on the trigger.
“No!” A woman’s voice shouted from behind.
Mickey’s eyes darted over his shoulder. A brunette ran full tilt toward him. Even before he saw the gun in her hands, held out to her side in perfect academy position, Macaine knew that she was a cop. She ran like a cop. Sounded like a cop.
“Don’t shoot!” The gold badge clipped to the petite woman’s belt sparkled as she put a hand on Macaine’s out-stretched gun arm and urged it down as the fucked-up guy still beat on the woman.
“He’s FBI.”
CHAPTER 2
Detective Nicole Usher forcibly pushed the uniform’s arm down. She could not let him shoot Kent. At least not before she got the chance.
“He’s one of us,” Nicole reassured the cop, although he did not look close to believing her. She did not have time to convince him. Not with a woman down and the profiler performing CPR in a urine-soaked alley.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” a new voice came from behind. “But don’t shoot.”
By the baritone timber and obvious disdain, Nicole knew the newest arrival was Ruben Torres, her partner, and least favorite fan of Kent Harbinger.
The beat cop’s arm wavered, but Ruben’s wide frame convinced him to finally lower the gun.
Despite her hope that Joann was still alive, the closer Nicole came to the grisly scene, the more obvious it became that the brunette was well past saving. Blood pooled around the woman’s head and ran down her side. The slick lake did not end until it washed up against the brick wall. Deep red saturated Joann’s clothes. Kent’s shirt was smeared with it.
The most telling sign that Joann was beyond any of their help was her blank, glazed stare. Unblinking. Pupils fixed and dilated. Nicole had seen it too many times before.
Seventeen times in the last two years. Five times in the last four months. Now twice in three weeks. The killer was accelerating his behavior, becoming reckless and all the more dangerous for it.
“She’s gone, Kent.”
Sirens wailed in the distance, like nails on a chalkboard. It was the sound of their defeat yet again.
For a moment Kent stopped his compressions, then leaned over and continued giving Joann mouth-to-mouth. Could he not see he was too late? Could not he see that no amount of CPR would bring Joann back?
To anyone else Nicole might have offered a compassionate word, a reassuring pat on the arm, but Harbinger was not just anyone. He was an FBI profiler known for his ability to immerse himself so completely into the perversion of a serial killer’s mind that he could select and stalk a victim before the madman could.
Yet a price had to be paid for such a talent. Each time the profiler went this deeply into a case, he lost a part of himself. How could he remember the concept of love when his job demanded that he pick a woman and hunt her down like prey?
This focused on a task and so detached from reality, Nicole couldn’t trust that Kent knew friend from foe right now.
She firmed her tone. “It’s over.”
Harbinger rose up from the brunette’s mouth and put his hands back on Joann’s sternum as his own breaths came in great heaves. Nicole feared he would start compressions again. Finally his head tilted forward in defeat. His eyes squeezed shut. His pain palpable.
“She’s gone.”
Nicole chanced a tentative hand on his shoulder.
Two years ago the gesture might have meant more. Now, she just needed to get Kent away before he contaminated the crime scene any further. This was the freshest kill to date. If they were going to gain any new insight, they needed to vacate now and turn the body over to forensics.
They owed it to Joann.
Ignoring her, Harbinger pulled the brunette’s blouse up.
“Kent!”
The profiler appeared far beyond listening to anyo
ne, let alone her, as he ripped the buttons from Joann’s shirt. The wailing sirens merged as if singing a lament. Crying out to stop the sacrilege that was about to occur.
He jerked open the stained silk to reveal a huge gash deep into Joann’s pale abdomen. Blue and red lights flashed as the patrol cars descended on their position, casting bright splashes of color on the otherwise dreary alley.
It felt all too surreal.
The unnatural position of Joann’s legs. The huge, bloody gash across her belly. The look of obsessed determination in the profiler’s eyes. Nicole dug her fingers into Harbinger’s arm.
“Damn it!” Nicole tried to pull the profiler from the brunette before he not only contaminated the autopsy but desecrated the body as well. Had Harbinger lost all sense of himself? Of basic human decency?
“The ME will tell us if he took his trophy!”
Seeming oblivious to the fact that she had his arm, Kent prepared to force his bare hand into Joann’s bloody wound. Short of shooting the profiler, Nicole was helpless to stop him.
Her partner, however, had no trouble grabbing Kent by the collar and hauling the profiler to his feet.
“Oh no you don’t, you sick fuck,” Ruben growled.
CHAPTER 3
Ruben’s hands shook with rage as he slammed Kent against the rough brick wall. Enough was enough.
He might only have an associate’s degree from a community college versus Kent’s cum laude graduation from Yale, but that did not mean the profiler was always right.
Or even sane.
“I’ve put up with your ‘I’m so brilliant that no one can even try to understand me’ crap.”
He searched the profiler’s face for some reaction, but found only boredom. Kent acted as if he did not have the academy’s champion boxer’s hands at his throat. Shit, he acted as if he did not have anyone’s hands at his throat.
Fine. If Ruben could not physically intimidate the prick, he was not above pushing some hot buttons.
“And your ‘let’s pretend coming back doesn’t hurt Nicole routine is getting stale…”
The Harbinger Collection: Hard-boiled Mysteries Not for the Faint of Heart (A McCray Crime Collection) Page 6