Mortal Sin

by Allison Brennan

  “Good to know. He sounds like a possible.”

  “Oh yeah, if Morton pissed Shuman off, there’s no doubt Shuman could kill him. But why?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question.”

  “Anything on Ralston?”

  “ERT is processing the evidence. His computer was trashed, the hard drive destroyed.”

  “The killer didn’t want us to find anything.”

  “They haven’t narrowed time of death. The autopsy is scheduled for later this afternoon. The killer left the windows open; the apartment was a friggin’ icebox. But the ERT said he’d been dead for more than forty-eight hours, and the last witness we spoke to saw him coming home Friday night at approximately six-thirty in the evening.”

  “So the big question is whether he was killed before or after Morton,” Kate said.

  “I don’t think that really matters. He was dead before his flight left on Sunday morning. I’d like to find out what kind of information he gave to policeman Jerry Biggler.”

  “Biggler?” Kate frowned.

  “Ralston was a CI—a criminal informant. He talked only to Jerry Biggler, a D.C. cop who died of a heart attack six months after he retired—back in 2006.”

  “You think Ralston was murdered because he’d been an informant? Why now? It doesn’t make sense.”

  She was right, but Noah suspected there was something here. He just hadn’t been able to figure it out yet.

  But he would. He always did.

  EIGHTEEN

  I watch her skate on the ice with her boyfriend. She laughs at something he said. Lucy Kincaid is having fun.

  Lucy Kincaid is a whore. I saw her sex tape. I know exactly who she is. She’s a liar. And a killer. A whoring, lying killer.

  I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing. Control. Need control. Slowly I breathe in. Hold it. Release. In. Out. Calm down.

  I repeat the deep breathing until I regain my composure. Acting out of anger, in public, would be unwise. I do not want to go to prison. I could kill her now, but I would be arrested.

  I will kill her, and I will not be caught. They won’t find her body, because there will be nothing left to find. Just like the other females.

  I allow the images to flood my mind. They make me smile. The women I trained. How well they learned to obey as a good wife should.

  But like all females, when I gave them the chance to make the right decision, they always chose the wrong option. They all lied.

  Lucy Kincaid is the worst of the lot. She is the poster girl for all that is wrong with the female of the species. Did she think she was equal to men? Superior? That she could kill without punishment? That she could entice me with her snake tongue, trying to convince me that she was someone she wasn’t?

  Rosemarie lied as well. She told me she would never leave. Some women leave in mind, some in body. Rosemarie had been everything to me. Perfect. She did everything I told her. I gave her everything in return for her obedience. I loved her. I loved her!

  Vixen! She tricked me. The lying, cheating whore deceived me.

  My father had warned me, but I did not listen because I believed I had learned from his mistakes.

  Father knew best …

  I never allowed another woman to deceive me, until Lucy Kincaid said she was someone she wasn’t.

  She slips and her boyfriend grabs her before she falls to the ice. My hand wraps around the cold grip of my gun. I want to shoot her now. Pull the nine-millimeter from my pocket and press the trigger. One bullet, two bullets, three bullets, four … the entire clip. Watch her blood spill onto the ice. Watch her blood spray across her boyfriend’s too-pretty face. Watch Mr. Pussy-Whipped Boyfriend look down in horror at his dead whore.

  He, too, has been deceived, has he not? He will learn, just as I have, that no woman is trustworthy.

  Maybe it would be better if I kill her boyfriend first. A bullet in the right part of his skull would force his brains out on the ice, all over her. She would stare, horrified, at the headless corpse. Then I would walk over and tell her he died because of her. I would tell her who I really am and why she will die.

  Because she is a Jezebel. A liar. Pretending to be someone she is not.

  I need to hear her pleas for mercy. I need to taste the tears on her face. I need to see her break. I need to smell her fear. I need for her to obey.

  Calm. Down. Breathe.

  I take my hand off the grip of my gun because I am too tempted to pull the trigger.

  I breathe easier now as I watch Lucy Kincaid rub up against her boyfriend. He is being led by the whore, given to weakness because of her deceit. He may have to die, but that is not my first choice. Only if he interferes.

  I must be strong. This is the wrong place for action. I already draw looks because I don’t have a child or a wife on my arm. It is time for me to leave.

  I’m watching you, Lucy. From now until the day you die.

  Lucy had never been ice-skating before.

  After brunch, Sean took her to an outdoor skating rink in Arlington. Lucy argued.

  “I barely know how to roller-skate.”

  Sean said, “But you ski, right?”

  “Not well. I’m still on the bunny slopes.”

  “Skiing is next, then. It’s all about balance.”

  “There’s a huge difference between ice and snow. Ice is hard. It hurts more when you fall.”

  “So don’t fall.”

  She glared at him. “You think this is funny.”

  He feigned offense. “I take my playtime very seriously.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know,” she said, looking out at the rink, dominated by kids who could skate rings around her. “Maybe we should go to a pool hall. I can play a wicked game of pool—”

  “After. Now sit so you can put on the ice skates.”

  Lucy watched dozens of people on the ice as she pulled on her skates. Most knew what they were doing; some were struggling and holding onto the railings. A little peanut of a girl whizzed past her in a swirling short pink skirt and matching sweater, gloves, and scarf. She did a spinning thing that had Lucy thinking future Olympic Gold Medalist.

  Lucy feared she’d break a bone.

  Sean was already laced up before Lucy had started. He bent over and quickly tied up her laces. “I don’t think this a good idea,” she said.

  “Scared?”

  “No, but—”

  “Chicken?”

  She glared at him. “I’m not chicken, but—”

  “Then prove it.”

  “I am going to embarrass myself,” she said under her breath. Sean helped her to her feet and she added, “There’s no way I can walk on these skates.”

  Sean picked her up.

  “What are you doing?” she cried, panicked. “You can’t carry me with skates on.”

  He laughed as he walked—on skates—to the entrance of the rink. “You’ll be gliding across the ice like a pro by the end of the day.”

  “Or frozen from falling on my ass.”

  “I’m not going to let you fall.” He set her down on the ice. She grabbed the railing, her legs spreading into a split.

  “Sean!”

  He laughed again, grabbed her biceps, and pulled her to standing. “Pretend you’re dancing.”

  “This is not dancing.”

  “I said pretend.” He held her at the waist, facing her forward, his chest pressed against her back. “I’m going to lead, okay? I’ll steer you forward. You can hold onto my forearm if that helps.”

  She held on tight.

  “Skating is all about balance and movement. Let your thighs do the work.”

  “We’re moving!” She squeezed his arm as it tightened around her waist. The little girl with the future Gold twirled by as if she were floating. “I swear, she did that to make me feel inferior.”

  “Probably.”

  “I wasn’t serious.”

  “I was.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Now stop comparing yourself to th
e other children and focus.”

  Lucy took a deep breath, the cold air feeling both amazingly refreshing and icy in her lungs. Sean gently moved them forward as he steered her. “Do you feel my legs move?”

  She did, and swallowed, acutely aware of Sean’s thighs pressing lightly against the back of hers, first the right, then the left, in a sensual rhythm that both calmed and excited her. She moved at his direction, and soon they were skating, slowly but steady.

  “Hey, I’m skating!” She grinned widely, nervous but proud of her accomplishment.

  They skated around the rink twice as Lucy gained confidence. “Okay, I’m going to let you go,” Sean said, “but I’ll be right behind you.”

  “No—”

  But he’d already dropped his arms. She glided forward, trying to keep the same rhythm, but she went too far to the right, overcompensating and turned 180 degrees. She grabbed at the railing, but it was too far and she fell on her butt, her feet shooting out from under her.

  “Shit!”

  Sean laughed.

  She glared at him. “Stop laughing.” Then she smiled. “I’m such an idiot.”

  He held out his hand and pulled her up with one smooth move. “Okay, we’ll try something else in the dance family.”

  Facing her, he held her waist and started skating backward, pulling her along with him instead of pushing her forward. “You’re going backward!” she exclaimed.

  “Would you rather?”

  She shook her head and put her hands on his shoulders. They moved fluidly along the edge of the rink. Or, rather, Sean steered them perfectly, seeming to know by instinct and quick glances back exactly where they were on the ice, and where everyone else was as well. Lucy rediscovered her rhythm, and they glided smoothly around the rink, as close as they could get without fully touching, Sean’s movements seemingly effortless. Their flowing dance became more than two friends skating, as the banter subsided and Sean kissed the top of her head. Then her lips. Lightly, sweetly, showing a deep affection that surprised her.

  “I’m proud of you, Luce.”

  She cleared her throat. “Why?”

  “New experiences.”

  “I suppose I’m willing to try anything once.”

  “Once?” He frowned and looked worried. “You’re not having fun?”

  “I’m having fun. Much more than I thought I would. You’re pretty amazing.”

  He grinned and winked at her, then kissed her cheek and nipped her ear playfully. “I am, aren’t I?” he teased.

  “My, what a large ego you have!”

  “All the better to impress you with, my dear.”

  Lucy raised an eyebrow and glanced around Sean to make sure no one was in their way. She turned suddenly, in a full circle, surprising him, and he tried to regain control, but she’d gotten her “skating legs” and spun him until he fell on his butt. She grabbed the railing to keep from falling and laughed.

  “So that’s how it is.” He grinned. “You’d better watch yourself, Ms. Kincaid, because payback is a bitch.”

  “I can hardly wait.” She surprised herself with how easy it was to joke with Sean.

  He got up easily enough and pushed her against the railing. His blue eyes sparkled with humor as he said, “You won’t know when or where, princess.”

  “I’m so scared,” she said, suppressing a giggle.

  He kissed her, opening his mouth slightly, warming her lips, sending a shiver through her body. His hands were on her face, his leather gloves cold but she barely noticed. He held her there, holding the kiss. His body pressed against hers and she was effectively trapped against the sidewall but didn’t panic, didn’t feel anything but the powerful presence of Sean Rogan.

  He sighed, put his forehead against hers and whispered, “How about some hot chocolate?”

  She nodded, because suddenly she couldn’t talk.

  They left the rink and returned their skates. “Thank you, Sean,” Lucy said and kissed him spontaneously. “I haven’t had this much fun in a long time.”

  NINETEEN

  Andrew “Ace” Shuman was a foul-mouthed ex-con and there was nothing Noah would have liked more than to find a reason to arrest him.

  “Fucking Feds,” Ace said when he opened the door and saw Noah and Abigail standing on the stoop of his beat-up post–World War II cinderblock house. Noah hadn’t pulled out his badge yet. “My parole was up eighteen months ago, I don’t got to talk to you.” He leered at Abigail as his eyes skirted up and down her body.

  Noah showed his badge. “Special Agent Armstrong, my partner Special Agent Resnick. We’re here to ask you questions about the murder of Roger Morton.”

  Telling him right off the bat that this was serious—a capital offense.

  Shuman scowled. “Roger Morton?” He leaned against the doorjamb. He didn’t invite them in, and Noah wasn’t sure he wanted to step into this pigsty. He’d spent a winter at Fort Dix in New Jersey, and this cold sunny day didn’t bother him, but Abigail was trying to stop herself from shivering, so Noah got down to business.

  “When was the last time you had any contact with Morton? In person, email, phone?”

  “That motherfucker’s dead?” Ace sounded skeptical.

  Noah nodded curtly and waited for an answer. When Ace wasn’t forthcoming, he added, “You’re an ex-con. You have a history with Morton. Don’t make me come back with an arrest warrant.”

  “Bullshit, you can’t arrest me for squat.”

  “I can and will compel you to answer my questions. As I stand here, the FBI is reading every email sent to and from Morton in the last six months. We know you and Morton corresponded.”

  “Then read them and get back to me,” Shuman said and started to close the door.

  Noah put his foot forward to prevent the door from closing. “I’ve had a long week, and you’re making it longer. Deputy Chief of Police Richard Blakesly is a personal friend of mine. One call and he’ll make your life miserable. You won’t be able to step out without a patrol car on your ass. You won’t be able to go to a bar, the grocery store, or walk to the corner without a Baltimore P.D. officer asking you what time it is.

  “Morton had child pornography on his computer. You emailed him something. And if there is any hint that you sent him illegal porn, we’ll raid this place top to bottom. One stray picture, and you’re back in prison. And everyone there will know you get off on naked kids.”

  Ace stepped forward, his face dark and dangerous. “Fucking prick, I don’t go for kids.”

  “Please hit me,” Noah said, not moving.

  Ace wrestled with his anger.

  Noah pushed. “I know you talked to Morton; I want to know what it was about. Why was he in D.C. last week?”

  Ace spewed a chain of profanity that would have had the most foul-mouthed Marine blush, but Noah kept a straight face.

  At the end of the rant, Ace said, “I didn’t know Roger was dead, but I thought something was up because he never came by when he said he would.”

  “When was that?”

  “He said he had a business proposition. He was supposed to come over last Saturday.”

  “What did he say about the business proposition?”

  “Okay, this is the God’s honest truth. After he got out of the pen, he contacted me, said he had to watch his ass, but he had a plan and might need me to head up security. Asked if I was interested. I was. Didn’t hear squat from him for months. Then out of the blue he said he was coming to D.C. and would see me on Saturday. If things worked out, he’d have startup capital and would need my help.”

  “Startup capital for what?”

  “He didn’t say, but I heard around that someone was putting together a new online sex club. Live webcams, quality videos, chats. Sounded promising.”

  “And that someone was Roger Morton?”

  “Don’t know. That was just the grapevine, a friend of mine talking big. But when I heard from Roger, I thought about that.”

  “Who is this
friend?”

  “Now that, I ain’t saying.”

  Noah took a risk. “Robbie Ralston?”

  Shuman shrugged.

  “Ralston is dead, too.”

  Shuman couldn’t hide his reaction. “Robbie’s dead?”

  “Was he the big talker?”

  “Might be. But he wasn’t smart enough to do it on his own.” Shuman paused, then added, “I’d rather take my chances in prison than fuck with certain vodka-swilling shits, if you get my drift.”

  Noah got it, all right.

  “Thank you, Mr. Shuman.”

  Ace laughed. “ ‘Thank you Mr. Shuman’? That’s a fucking hoot.” He winked at Abigail.

  In the car, Abigail said, “You have friends in high places.”

  Noah blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “The deputy chief of police? What are the chances?”

  Noah shrugged and turned the ignition. “I don’t know. Richard Blakesly was my first lieutenant when I joined the Air Force. He’s still there.”

  “You bullshitted him?” Abigail grinned. “Pulling one over on a con like Shuman, I’m impressed.”

  “I didn’t have time for his games, and I had no cause to haul his ass in. Nor did I want to spend an hour in the car with him.” Noah turned onto the main road and headed back toward D.C. “Morton and Ralston were playing a dangerous game.”

  “Of course. They’re dead.”

  “I was thinking of the vodka-swilling shits Ace Shuman alluded to.”

  “You’ll have to clue me in.”

  “Sergey Yuran is a Russian trafficker. If it’s in Russia—drugs, people, weapons—he can get it.”

  “Yuran?”

  Noah nodded. “He’s the only Russian who’s on Morton’s associate list. According to Kate Donovan’s notes, he supplied Trask Enterprises with a steady stream of prostitutes for their sex tapes. If Morton crossed him?”

  He stopped. Something didn’t feel right about this.

  “What?” Abigail pressed a moment later.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know Yuran well, but Morton’s murder seems sloppy to me.”