by Ronica Black
“I don’t feel I have the right to.”
“Why not?”
She decided to tell her the truth. The reason she didn’t sleep, rest, relax or have fun. “Because there are thirteen families missing their children right now. Twelve of them grieving over their deaths. Thirteen little kids who didn’t come home. So how can I have fun knowing that?”
“But it isn’t your fault, Kennedy. You’re still alive. You need to live.”
“I can’t. It isn’t fair. And part of it is my fault. I should’ve found them. I should’ve stopped him.”
“You’re only one person. You did all you could.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
Kennedy swallowed down the burning pain. She fought back the tears. Shawn’s warm hand came to rest on hers. It shot right through her and she almost pulled away. Shawn noticed and retreated, lowering her head.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be.”
“I shouldn’t have done that.”
Kennedy reacted quickly and took Shawn’s hand. She squeezed. It felt nice. The world felt better. Warm.
Shawn looked into her eyes. She returned the squeeze. Then she slowly brought Kennedy’s hand up to her mouth, where she kissed it.
A hiss escaped Kennedy and Shawn placed another kiss along her palm. And then another. The sensation bolted through her and pulsed between her legs. Her heels dug into the sand.
“Shawn,” she whispered, nearly coming out her skin as she felt her hot, moist lips skim along her skin.
Shawn lowered her hand and reached out to cup her jaw. Ran a thumb over her cheek. She leaned in. Close. So close. The sea whispered. Her eyes sparkled in the moonlight.
“Kennedy,” she said, barely touching her lips to hers.
Kennedy’s heart jumped from her chest. The lips, so soft, so hot.
And then a ringing started. From her pocket. Shawn pulled back. Kennedy plucked out her phone. It was Allen.
“I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
Shawn nodded and fingered her lips. The look of disappointment was not lost on Kennedy.
“Scott,” she said, having trouble finding her voice.
“Kennedy, sorry to wake you.”
“No problem. What’s going on?”
“I’m afraid I have bad news.”
“Oh?”
He told her as Shawn watched. When Allen finished, she hung up.
“What is it now?”
Kennedy cleared her throat. Shawn looked so frail. It was hard to believe that just seconds ago she was brimming with heat and passion, with tender, confident kisses.
“It’s Sloan Savage.”
A look of anger crossed her face. “And?”
“She’s dead.”
*
Nyack, New York
Kennedy pulled her rental car to a screeching halt outside Sloan’s mansion. Throwing it in park, she yanked out the key and shoved open her door. Several uniformed personnel eyed her warily as she slammed the door shut and slipped into her navy blue FBI windbreaker.
Even though she was no longer FBI, Allen wanted her to wear it so no one would give her any trouble.
“Kennedy,” he called from the entryway where several people stood dressed in crime scene garb, snapping photos.
“Allen, what the hell happened?” She jogged up to him, her face feeling stiff with discontent.
“They’re saying suicide.”
“How?” She fell into stride next to him as they entered the large house.
“Shot once in the head, close range.”
“Temple?”
“Yes.”
“No forced entry?” They reached the stairs and began to climb.
“Nothing yet.”
“You still think she’s clean as far as the Ryan case?”
“Until now.”
They entered the master bedroom. Clothes were strewn on the floor, along with shoes and belts. The bed was large and unmade, sheets loose and comforter bunched. Two full ashtrays were on the night table. The smell of marijuana lingered in the air.
Technicians worked the room, vacuuming the carpet, folding the clothes and placing them in paper bags. A young man was sweeping the bed with fluorescent light. Kennedy and Allen slipped on shoe covers.
“I talked to the county medical examiner. They’re letting us take lead on the investigation for the time being. In here.” Allen led her into the bathroom. More people milled. Two of them lifted the body from the tub. They placed her on a white sheet on the bathroom floor for an initial evaluation. A body bag was ready nearby. Allen excused them.
Kennedy could smell the clotted blood. The water in the tub was red.
“We get a time of death yet?”
“She’s been dead over twenty-four hours.”
“Who found her?”
“Cleaning lady.”
“Cleaning lady?”
“Yeah, she showed up to clean and nearly finished the house before coming upon her in here.”
“Must’ve been quite a shock.”
“She’s a mess over it. We’ve got our translators working with her. Her English is poor, she’s from somewhere over in Eastern Europe.”
Kennedy studied the body. The skin was pale and slick looking, slightly bloated. Her eyes were wide and staring up at the ceiling. There was a small hole on her right temple and a large exit wound on the left side of her head. Significant blood and brain matter stuck to the wall and the edge of the tub.
“There was a joint right here,” Allen said. “It was nearly finished.”
Burn marks scarred the marble. She must’ve smoked quite often in the tub and didn’t bother with an ashtray.
“What do you think? She was working up the nerve and needed a little help?”
“Could be. But knowing her drug history, she would’ve probably gone for something stronger. Weed alone wouldn’t cut it.”
She knew that almost all suicides were accompanied by drugs or alcohol. The victims were almost always inebriated in some way to help them accomplish their deadly task.
“We’ll have to wait for labs.”
Kennedy looked at her hands. The fingernails were a little dirty. “We might want to bag these. See what we can get.” She glanced over the rest of her. There were no marks or abrasions. She looked to Allen. “Anything else?”
“There was a letter. Found next to the joint on the bathtub.”
They went back into the bedroom.
“Over here.” He snapped on gloves and tossed her a pair. He opened a sealed bag and pulled out the letter. She took it.
“It’s typed.” Red flags shot up. “We can’t do a handwriting analysis.” She skimmed the contents.
I’m sorry. My love for Veronica overtook me. I wanted her for myself. Tell Shawn I’m sorry I hurt her.
She nearly scoffed as she returned the letter to Allen. He had that look. He knew too.
“There won’t be any prints on it,” she said, pretty sure.
“Probably not.”
She removed the gloves. “It wasn’t a suicide.”
Allen agreed. “I don’t think so.”
“We won’t find any conclusive evidence of a suicide but we won’t find anything conclusive saying it wasn’t either. Not right away anyway. But I do have my suspicions. There won’t be any fingerprints on the letter and the wound won’t be self-inflicted. The cleaning lady probably washed away any evidence downstairs.”
She tapped her eyebrow.
“Where is this cleaning lady? I want to talk to her.”
“She’s downstairs.” He looked concerned. “You sure you want to do this? We can handle it.” He’d been surprised when she insisted on coming.
“I want back in. On everything.”
“Why the change of heart?”
She wanted to tell him the truth. That it was Shawn. But she didn’t. “I want this UNSUB. Now.”
“What about Veronica Ryan? She’s counting on you to watch after her wif
e and kids.”
“And that’s exactly what I’m going to do by solving this case.”
“Glad to have you back. For however short a time.”
They walked down the stairs.
“I need to speak with Veronica Ryan as well.”
“Okay.”
“I want all the info you got on her background check. I need to know about each and every woman. You’ve ran the checks on them?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing?”
“Nada.”
“I want to go over them.” She thought about the boxes of letters and her need to examine them all. “Along with every last letter she’s ever received.”
Chapter Nine
Hudson Valley, New York
She sat in her car, watching once again, all alone and in silence. Sprinkles of rain dotted the windshield, distorting her view. Outside, people scurried about with umbrellas or newspapers held over their camera-perfect hair. Filming had been briefly stopped due to the rain and she sat perched in her car, clenching the steering wheel while she scanned the movie set, searching, looking, for the one.
Desperate to see her, she repositioned and leaned forward a little. Her blood pumped with purpose as her mind focused intently on her love. She squinted through the windshield, unable to make out anyone familiar. She looked so hard she missed the security guard who had walked up to her driver’s side window.
A firm knock came and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Startled, she rolled the window down and forced a smile, the courage to get close to Veronica Ryan driving her.
“Ma’am, you can’t park here.” He was big, over six foot and husky. Rain pelted off his navy ball cap.
“Oh, well maybe you can help me. I’m due on the set and I don’t know where to go.” She spoke lightly and looked at him with wide eyes.
“You have a pass?” He eyed the car, searching the seats.
“Um, well, I…” She dug around in her back pack and pulled out a business envelope she had typed up herself. She knew there were horses on the set and she had typed up a letter explaining her necessity on the set. She even knew the name of the company who provided the horses. She used their letterhead.
“Pop your trunk.”
She did so. He closed it when he finished searching. When he returned to her window, she gave him the letter.
“What’s this?” He opened it and read.
“I’m cleanup. I tend to the horses.” She held her breath, wondering if he would buy it.
“I don’t know. Nobody said anything to me about it.”
“That’s probably because I’m the last one to arrive. I’m late. I was caught up at another location.” She watched as he continued to read the letter, weighing his decision. “Look, you can call Marty and ask him.”
“Marty?” He looked at her over the papers.
“Yes, he’s the one in charge.” She swallowed hard. Marty owned the company. “But I really wish you wouldn’t. He’s already upset with me.” She sighed. “I screwed up and a horse got sick. I’ve been busy trying to make that right. Now I’m here, but I should’ve been here two days ago. You can call and check, but my name is probably the last one he wants to hear right now.”
The security guard stared at her for a moment and then walked back to his post where he grabbed his clipboard. He eyed the list. She knew Marty’s name would be on there. He turned away as he spoke into his walkie-talkie.
She sank lower in her seat and thought of other ways to get inside. There weren’t many options.
She fought off panic as he returned. “You’re lucky. Marty is busy but I got the go-ahead from somebody named Tom. He said to go straight to the stable.” To her surprise he handed over two passes. “This one’s for your windshield and this one you clip to your shirt. You have to wear it at all times.”
She took them and smiled. “Thank you.”
“Just go straight through and turn right. The stable is all the way back. If you hit the craft services tables, you’ve gone too far.” He returned her paperwork and pointed her through to the entrance. She started her car and drove slowly.
She was in. Now it was time for the real fun to begin.
She parked her car where instructed and got out to open the passenger door. She pulled on her raincoat, slid on her shades, and pulled up her hood. Then she retrieved the enormous bouquet of flowers she’d had hidden under the coat. Ready, she shut the door and walked onto the set. She moved casually and was careful not to stare. People hurried around her, paying her no mind, too busy dodging the rain.
Tarps were being unrolled, covering equipment and large areas of grass.
The flowers were her ticket anywhere. She had a million different stories that went along with them. She also had different cards in her pocket, one with the name of every big actor on set. The pass now clipped to her shirt helped as well. She felt confident. And what nerves she did have only excited her.
A man trotted up toward her, the rain having misted his long hair.
“Excuse me?”
He stopped.
“I have a delivery here for Ms. Ryan.”
“Oh.” He caught his breath. A lanyard hanging from his chest said he worked for a special effects company. “Go back to the trailers. Hers is the first one on your left. Hard to miss. It has purple curtains. But be careful. She doesn’t like just anyone walking up to her door.”
She thanked him and he continued on his run.
She headed toward the trailers and the influx of people seemed to thin out. Most were indoors by now or under some sort of cover. Veronica’s trailer was set off on its own, away from the others. She’d read many articles and she knew it was probably at Veronica’s insistence. She demanded privacy when she was resting on set.
The curtains were open and when she reached the trailer she stood on her toes to look inside. She couldn’t see much but she was pretty confident Veronica wasn’t inside. She knocked on the door just to be sure. No answer. No response.
She opened the door, surprised to find it unlocked. She entered hurriedly and swiftly placed the flowers on the table, inhaling deeply. Her mind buzzed as the scent of Veronica’s perfume filled her head.
Thunder rolled in the distance. Dishes were in the sink. She sank a dirty fork into her coat pocket, then checked out the window to make sure she was still alone. To her dismay she saw that a small group of people was headed her way. She had two minutes, tops.
She went to the bed and sat. She ran her fingers over the duvet, feeling where Veronica Ryan lay down to rest. She stood again and pulled the pillowcase from the pillow. She fought the urge to bury her face in it and inhale. That would have to wait. That would be her reward.
Shoving it down into her coat, she moved to the built-in dresser and retrieved the small spy camera from her jeans pocket. It was the size of a Ping-Pong ball and it was motion activated. She made sure it was on and placed it inside a silk plant. Then she hurried from the trailer, flowers in hand. The group was closer, but to her relief, Veronica Ryan wasn’t among them. A man rounded the trailer just as she stepped down.
He wasn’t happy and he had no neck. Just a massive jaw that led into massive shoulders.
“Can I help you?”
He had on an earpiece and wore a radio on his belt. Veronica’s security.
She played dumb, hoping he hadn’t seen her exit the trailer. Had he been hiding? Had he really been gone leaving the trailer unlocked? Shit. Thank God she had the flowers. Thank God she planned ahead for this stuff. She started in on her rehearsed line.
“I have a delivery.”
He stared.
She glanced at the card. “For a Ms. Ryan? Am I in the right place?”
“Give them to me.” He took them from her and searched through them, pulling them back with thick fingers. The he turned them upside down and shook them. When he finished, he swiped the card from her and grunted. “I’ll see she gets them.”
“Thanks.”
The ra
in came down harder. She ran to her car. Once inside, she started it up and moved it to a spot where she could watch Veronica’s trailer. Then she sat back and relaxed.
Now all she had to do was wait. Veronica would enter her trailer. Hopefully with a woman. They would wait out the rain inside. Hopefully for a couple of hours. If not today, then tomorrow. Whenever Veronica decided to bring in a woman. She knew from the rumors that it wouldn’t take long. And then when Veronica and the woman emerged, she’d sneak back in to retrieve the camera, through the back window if necessary. She’d break it out if Mr. No-neck was watching from the front. Today, tomorrow, the next day. Whatever it took.
The tabloids were going to kill for the pictures she was sure to get. The camera had a built-in DVR and a good-sized memory. It would give her all she needed to strike out at Veronica Ryan. And more importantly, it was sure to flush Shawn out.
From wherever she was hiding.
*
Yonkers, New York
Kennedy drove in silence to the small bungalow home of Mrs. Olga Valasek. Sloan’s cleaning lady. She followed Allen, insisting that she go along, needing to question the woman for herself. Mrs. Valasek had been too upset the day they found the body and she’d been taken home to rest.
They pulled to a stop behind an unmarked Ford. The neighborhood was quaint, with narrow two-story houses lined up like dominos. American flags adorned the windows and hung from staffs mounted on the houses. A siren sounded in the near distance. Someone somewhere was cooking stew. Stiff leaves scratched along the sidewalk in the cool breeze. A handful of boys rode by on bicycles, eyeing them. They whispered something about cops and stopped at the corner to watch.
“They think something’s about to go down.”
Allen squinted into the sun. “Beats stickball.”
Kennedy opened the waist-high gate and followed the narrow walkway, carefully avoiding the well-manicured lawn. The whole drive over she’d thought of the possibilities. What had this woman seen? What did she know? Would she be able to shed some light on Sloan Savage? The Bureau had questioned her and had run the background check. Kennedy knew all about her. A recent immigrant, she’d left the Ukraine two years before and had settled with her husband of twenty years, Viktor, here in New York. He’d come before her and worked as a mechanic, saving money. They’d moved into this rental house nine months earlier. Neither one had any criminal record and they both seemed to be good, upstanding people.