With one last, appreciative inspection of his newest artwork, Wallace trudged back to his car parked nearby. He needed to get a few hours of sleep before he had to report to work.
* * *
Rolling over, Sean grabbed his ringing phone from the nightstand in Grace’s bedroom, silencing the ringer so it wouldn’t wake her up. It was just after 6:00 a.m., and they’d had very little sleep last night—not that he was complaining. They’d gotten around to taking that shower together sometime after midnight, then gotten all sweaty again around 4:00 a.m.—which resulted in a second shower—and it didn’t surprise him that he wanted her again right now.
Tossing the bedcovers aside, he stood, pulled on his boxer briefs, and then wandered out to the living room. Rico passed him in the hallway, snubbing the man who’d kept him from his new mistress all night, and made a beeline for the now partially-open bedroom door.
Sean’s phone call had gone to voicemail, but instead of listening to it, he just hit the callback button. Matt Griffin’s voice came on the line and he didn’t bother saying hello. “We’ve got another one. He dumped this one on the beach at the north property line of the Pea Island Refuge. I’m on my way, and so are Brad and the coroner. I’ll call Brian and Rafe next.”
“Shit.” Sean ran a hand down his face in frustration, trying to bring his mind to full attention. “I’ll be right behind you.”
He disconnected the call as he returned to the bedroom to find Grace sitting up in bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Rico was by her legs, kneading the covers with his claws.
“What time is it?” Grace asked while stretching her arms over her head. Sean groaned when the sheet she’d been holding fell down, exposing her naked body. And just like that, his morning wood was back. Damn it.
“Just after six.” He held up his cell phone for her to see he’d been on it and searched for his pants as he tried to ignore the urge to dive on top of her for some quick relief. “Sheriff Griffin just called. I have to run.”
“Oh no, does that mean there’s been another murder?”
Zipping up his pants, he found his shirt. Thank God he always had a go-bag in the trunk of his car. He’d change into a clean T-shirt before heading to meet Matt. At least after taking two showers last night that was covered. He’d have to swing by the beach house after he was done at the crime scene. “Yeah, but I don’t know more than that.”
Making sure he had his cell phone, gun, keys, and wallet, he bent over and kissed Grace on the lips. “I’ll call you later. I’m not sure when but I will.” He kissed her again. And again. Cupping her jaw in his hands, he deepened the kiss. Her lips were soft and warm, and he vividly remembered what she’d done with them a few hours ago. Of course, the body part of his that had also been involved was now hard as a fucking rock. “Shit. I want nothing more than to climb back into bed with you.”
Another peck. A lick. A nibble. Damn, if he didn’t stop, he was never getting out of there. He was quickly becoming addicted to Ms. Grace Whitman and her delectable mouth.
Twenty minutes later he parked next to a sheriff’s department SUV and walked up a path between two large sand dunes. Griffin lifted a hand in greeting as he talked to someone on the phone, then pointed at a white sheet covering something in the sand about thirty feet away. Sean acknowledged him and made his way to what was most likely the dead body of some poor woman.
There were several uniformed deputies already on the scene. One was pounding wooden stakes into the beach to string up the yellow, “Crime Scene – Do Not Cross” tape. Another deputy was speaking to an ashen-faced, elderly gentlemen with a fishing rod, folding chair, and tackle box sitting at his feet. The guy had obviously caught something other than fish today.
Sean eyed the area around the white, cotton sheet as he slowly approached. He didn’t envy the crime scene techs, who hadn’t arrived yet. They’d be sifting through the sand for a few hours with sieves to make sure no evidence had been buried under the ever shifting grains.
Squatting, he took a deep breath then lifted a corner of the sheet. Fuck! It was official. The bastard had struck again. And Suki had been right—this one was sooner than expected, based on his prior timelines. It took Sean a few moments to realize the dead blonde looked familiar and then he realized where he’d seen her before. Dare County’s victim number four was none other than Jessica Daly. Karma was definitely a bastard at times—the death of the aggressive reporter would be breaking news on every channel in the area.
Like the last victim, Jessica’s stagnant, unseeing eyes were fixed on the clouds and seagulls overhead. A shiny 1993 penny was head up between her plucked eyebrows. Sean lifted the sheet more and was surprised to see the word “bitch” instead of “slut.” The carved wounds had clotted long before the sheet was placed over her naked body, and the ligature marks on her neck and wrists were several ugly shades of purple, in sharp contrast to her pale, blue skin. Another prominent bruise discolored her left jaw and cheek, but nothing else immediately stood out to the seasoned agent.
“She must have ticked him off with her commentary the other night,” Matt said from over Sean’s shoulder. “She’s the only one with that tag.”
“If I were him, I would have been ticked too, but that doesn’t mean she deserved this.” He lowered the sheet again and stood. “Well, at least, it answers our question about whether or not he was going to move on after three kills.”
Voices had them both looking toward the dunes to see Brian, Rafe, Detective Lynch, the coroner, and three crime scene techs come single file through the pass. The latter four carrying equipment duffels and boxes. One of the techs immediately pulled out a video camera and began shooting the scene. When that was done, he would begin on the still photos.
The two state detectives, Lynch and Dr. Peter Hansen approached and Sean saw his brother’s eyebrows go up when he noticed the dress pants and shoes paired with a Baltimore Orioles T-shirt. Despite the gruesome scene, Brian was most likely going to give him shit over it, as he’d surely figured out Sean hadn’t slept at home last night. Hoping to head him off at the pass, Sean held his hand out to the coroner, who shook it and his head at the same time. “Agent Malone, I know none of this is your fault, but I’m starting to get sick of you already. No offense.”
Sean’s mouth ticked up in a wry grin. “None taken. I’m hoping the killer just made a mistake though. He deviated from his norm.”
“Really?” Hansen bent down, lifted the sheet then whistled loudly. “Well, damn. Ms. Daly pissed in his cornflakes, now, didn’t she? Who wants to take bets she didn’t happen across our killer at a bar, club, or party?”
It had been a rhetorical question, to which no one offered a response. He carefully and completely removed the sheet from the victim, then pulled out a thermometer from is equipment bag to insert into her liver for a body temperature reading. He’d use that in determining the time of death.
Around the group of detectives, the crime scene techs began doing their jobs with utmost efficiency. After watching them for a moment, Sean pointed to where the uniformed deputy was still speaking to the fisherman. “Let’s find out what he knows.”
Rafe and Lynch stayed with the coroner and techs while Matt and Brian followed Sean across the sand. The FBI agent extended his hand to the witness. “Morning, sir. I’m Special Agent Sean Malone from the FBI.”
The man nodded and shook the proffered hand. “I saw you on the news the other day, although I never thought I’d run into you out here. Name’s Jeff Simmons.”
After introducing his brother and the sheriff, Sean said, “I know you’ve already told the deputy here what happened this morning, Mr. Simmons, but I’d appreciate it if you went through it again.”
“Sure. Although, there’s not much to tell. I’m retired, so I come out here to fish for a few hours three or four times a week. I’m usually here by 5:30 or 6:00 in the morning and gone by 10:00, give or take a half hour. It was about 5:40 when I got here today, and I actually didn�
�t notice her over there at first—was chatting with my daughter on the phone. I put my gear down here, hung up the phone, and that’s when I saw a bunch of gulls swooping down.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Thought I was hallucinating there for a minute. Got close enough to see she was a goner and called 911. My son is a detective up in Columbus, Ohio, so I knew not to disturb the scene.”
“And we thank you for that—” Sean was cut off by the uniformed deputy cursing and running toward the dunes. The other deputy was on his heels and they prevented a news team from getting any further onto the beach. “How the fuck did they hear about this?”
Their witness denied making any calls to the press and Sean was inclined to believe him based on the fact the man had referred to them as “fucking vultures.”
Matt scowled. “My deputies and dispatch did this all by phone. Nothing went out over the airwaves per my orders. So they didn’t get it from monitoring the police radio.” Which meant their leak still needed to be plugged, or the coroner had one in his office now, too.
Running a hand down his face, Sean asked, “Matt, do you have any judges on speed dial?”
“Yeah, why?”
“We need a warrant for Daly’s work desk and computer before her name gets leaked out. One for her home, too, but I want to hit her office before her bosses do.”
The sheriff pulled out his phone again and scrolled through his contact list. “On it.”
After Brian jotted down Mr. Simmons’s contact information, he and Sean thanked the man, then started walking back to where Rafe was talking to the coroner. Two assistant’s had arrived with a stretcher to transport the victim back to the ME’s office when the crime scene techs were done with the photographs and video. Brian pointed to where the deputies had pushed the news team back behind the dunes. “They didn’t get close enough for any shots, and none of us knew it was Daly until we got here, so we should be able to beat everyone to her office.” When Sean just nodded in agreement, his brother clapped him on the shoulder. “So, how was Grace this morning when you left her bed?”
Sean stopped short and glared at him. “Really, asshole? Don’t go fucking embarrassing her or blabbing about it—”
Holding up a hand, Brian cut him off. “Come on, you know me better than that. Busting your chops is one thing, but I would never do anything to hurt or embarrass Grace. Damn, bro. You’ve fallen hard, haven’t you? You’ve never gone off on KC or me like that when we’ve teased you about any other woman.”
Taking a deep breath, Sean let it out slowly. “Yeah, well, no other woman has ever had me thinking long-term before. And shit, it’s been just over a week since she showed up at the beach house and I’m already thinking about asking her to move in with me. I’ve never wanted to live with a woman before.” It was true. But one night in bed with little Gracie Whitman had told him what he’d already suspected—he would never get enough of her.
His brother grinned broadly. “And another Malone brother bites the dust. I just thank God it isn’t me.”
CHAPTER
16
Sean sat down at Jessica Daly’s desk and shuffled through the piles of paperwork with gloved hands. Beside him, a computer forensics tech was packing up the reporter’s hard drive to take back to the BCI office to look for evidence. Another tech had already picked the lock on a cabinet in the reporter’s cubicle and had begun loading files into a cardboard evidence box. The sheriff’s judicial contact had come through and issued the search warrant before the name of the killer’s latest victim had leaked out. Daly’s bosses weren’t happy—seemingly less so about their employee’s death than the fact the police were confiscating everything that might be relevant to solving her murder. Three men were glaring daggers at him from across the huge newsroom filled with cubicles where they’d been herded out of the way by a uniformed deputy.
While the Malone brothers were at Daly’s office, Lynch and Rafe had headed to her condo to execute a search there. Sheriff Griffin was currently at the ME’s office. They all hoped that since the killer had deviated from his usual victim he’d screwed up somewhere along the line.
Brian approached carrying several evidence boxes. Whether the newspaper liked it or not, everything in and on Daly’s desk and file cabinets was coming with them.
Tugging on the top, kneehole drawer of the desk, Sean found it locked. “Anyone have a spare key?” he asked the men standing with the deputy.
When they stated they didn’t, Brian handed him a lock pick set that had been in the inside pocket of his sports coat. Sean raised an eyebrow at him, and his brother shrugged. “Haven’t met a reporter yet that doesn’t keep their contacts under lock and key.”
It had been a while since Sean had picked a lock, but this one was easy, and he had it open in under a minute. Pulling open the drawer, he saw the usual pens, paperclips, and other paraphernalia. Further back was a small stack of mail. Picking the stack up, he shuffled through the envelopes, pulling out the contents of each, trying to find a clue on how Daly had become the killer’s latest victim. It wasn’t until he reached the second to last envelope that he got excited. “Brian, look at this.”
His brother whistled as he read the newspaper lettering pasted onto the plain, white printer paper. “Sounds like we might have finally found a kill scene.”
Sean grabbed one of the clear, empty, evidence bags and placed the note and envelope inside it. He quickly jotted down the date, time, and location the letter had been found on the outside sticker of the bag. Standing, he gave instructions to the techs and deputy to finish packing everything up, then headed for the door with Brian on his heels, ignoring the multitude of questions thrown at them from Daly’s bosses.
Twenty minutes later, they were in Sean’s vehicle, on an industrial driveway, which was in desperate need of repair, and he grimaced every time he hit a pothole in his Mustang. Next time we’re taking Brian’s truck, damn it! The drive took them about three-quarters of a mile through a thick grove of trees and shrubbery before opening up to a large expanse of property.
“Fuck!” Brian barked, and his brother’s stomach plummeted at the sight that greeted them. There were over a dozen fire trucks, an ambulance, and three patrol cars already on scene. Whatever the factory had looked like a few hours ago was long gone. In its place was little more than a huge pile of charred and smoldering ruins.
Just as they were about to pass a rotting sign with the former cigarette company’s name on it, Sean slammed on the brakes which earned a “what the fuck?” from Brian.
“Look.” He pointed at the sign that was on the passenger side of the road. There was an 8″x 10″, brown, mailing envelope attached to it with “Federal and Local Pigs” on it, spelled out in large, cutout letters. Everyone else had probably been focused on the fire and missed it when they arrived.
Climbing out of the passenger seat, Brian pulled out his cell phone and took a few pictures of the sign for evidence, then donned a pair of disposable, latex gloves he always carried in his sports coat. He retrieved the envelope and the two thumbtacks holding it to the sign and returned to the vehicle. Sean grabbed a clean evidence bag from his glove compartment and held it open for his brother to drop the tacks into. Not that they expected to learn anything from them, but you never knew when something would break a case wide open.
Brian then lifted the unglued flap of the envelope and slid out the contents. It was a piece of white printer paper similar to what had been used for the note they’d found in the reporter’s desk. This one also had cutout, newspaper letters used to spell out the message.
I took care of the bitch reporter. Now back to the sluts. Someone has to rid them from society. S.S.
Flipping it over, the state trooper saw it was blank and sighed. “That’s it? Well, the ME was right—Daly must have pissed in his cereal. ‘S.S.,’ I assume, is for Seaside Strangler. At least we know he likes the moniker Daly gave him. Let’s go talk to the fire chief, although I doubt there’s any evidence left.”
It was an hour after they’d arrived that Brian and Sean left the scene in the hands of the Arson and Crime Scene techs to sift through the debris for any evidence that might have miraculously survived the flames. And once again, they were back to square one.
* * *
Two Weeks Later
While her new employee, Tim, ran an ultrasound wand over a patient’s knee, Grace laid a moist heat wrap on another patient’s shoulder before jotting down progress notes in their respective files. The small-business gods were smiling down on her. She had feared it would be weeks before they had more than ten patients, but Pro-Care had been open for over a week and they already had over a dozen referrals from local doctors. At this rate, they would be running at near full capacity in no time, and hopefully within six months she’d be looking to hire a third therapist.
Up front, the new receptionist, Dana, greeted someone who had walked in the front door, but when Grace heard Sean’s voice, she peered around the half-wall. It was still before noon and she hadn’t expected to see him until later. “Hey, come on back.”
Her heart began to pound as he strode into the large room. They had spent almost every night together since their first, official date and each time she fell asleep in his arms she’d fallen more in love with him. Sean Malone was everything she remembered and more. He was strong, yet tender. Smart, yet funny. Companionable, yet dominant. And sexy as all fucking sin. When they were in the same room together, the attraction between them seared the air. And between the sheets, it exploded. Yes, some might say it was fast, but in reality, they were old friends who had reunited—they had a past, as innocent as it had been. Now, she was looking forward to a future with him.
The Devil's Spare Change 2 Malone Brothers Page 14