“That’s the attitude,” Blade said, breaking into his musings. “Is that where you’re headed?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have anything to offer her. Maybe I ought to just head home.”
“Maybe. But I doubt you do.”
Marcus’ grin widened. “Yeah, well I’ve never been accused of being too intelligent before.”
* * *
Moments later, he found himself on the front step of LeAnne’s house. The hell with the back door; let the world watch, if they wanted. Marcus Gallego cared for LeAnne, like it or not. It’s not as if he actually got to pick those he fell for. If that were the case, he sure in the hell would not have picked Jillian, or another man’s fiancée, for that matter.
As for Chad, Snake had seen the bruises left behind by his hand; the good prosecutor didn’t deserve LeAnne. Snake might not, either, but he had never struck a woman—not even Jillian, with all she had put him through. Striking a woman was nothing more than a cowardly act.
He knocked on the door, then rocked back on his heels as he waited for her to answer. The scent of cooking marinara sauce wafted through the closed door. Marcus glanced at his watch, then cursed himself for arriving at the supper hour. Today Chad Baker was due to come home.
LeAnne opened the door, her eyes wide with surprise. “Hi.”
“I know…you were expecting someone else,” he replied, his tone not snide, although he wished it were he, and not Chad Baker, she had lovingly cooked supper for.
“It’s just, I thought after last night—”
He laughed. “What? One roll in the sack, and you would be able to get me out of your hair? I thought I proved that theory wrong, the first time we made love. I came back for seconds, didn’t I?”
She flushed. “You don’t have to be so crude.”
He raised a brow. “Sweetheart, that wasn’t crude. I did say ‘making love.’”
“Would…would you like to come in?”
He stepped into the foyer. “I won’t stay long. I know you’re expecting company.”
Why did that thought raise the hairs on his nape? Why the hell did he care? He wanted to berate himself for falling in love with someone he had no right loving.
Marcus recoiled. He had just admitted to having love for this woman. LeAnne deserved better.
She turned her back, unaware of his internal turmoil. God help him, but he wanted to make love to her again—this very minute. Blood rushed through his veins and throbbed in places he wished, at the moment, to remain placid.
“Chad’s due back,” she stated matter-of-factly, looking at the wall clock, avoiding his gaze altogether. The chime bonged six times as though to make her point. “I was making supper for him.”
“I could smell.”
Marcus wanted to jerk her around to face him. Her anger he could handle, her indifference, he could not.
Finally, she turned. Her eyes glistened with tears. “I’m sorry, Marcus. But maybe now isn’t the best of times.”
He slowly nodded. “I’m not even sure why I came.”
She only waited for him to continue as she swiped a finger beneath her lash, catching the drop. He grasped her finger and brought it to his mouth, suckling the salty wetness.
He heard the tiny catch in her breath before she pulled her hand free.
“Don’t,” she sniffed. More tears fell.
“I have to,” he said, then pulled her into his embrace and kissed her with all the desperation he felt.
Her lips were pliant, then hungry like his as her fingers grasped the hair at his neckline. His tongue sparred angrily with hers, possessively. It infuriated him that she could ever think of another man.
When she broke away, her breathing was shaky. “You better go.”
“Is that what you want, LeAnne?”
She stared at him, apparently searching his eyes for answers.
“You better think carefully how you answer, sweetheart. I won’t wait forever.”
“I know,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I can’t ask you to.”
“And Chad? Where does he fit in?” She hesitated. “He’s my fiancé.”
“I thought as much.”
Detective LeAnne McVeigh was not free to love a biker, nor would she ever be.
“Have a good life, sweetheart,” he said, saluting her in finality. He slammed the door, and the thing surely to haunt him the rest of his miserable life was the soft sobs he left behind.
* * *
The small, crowded room in one of the Boston Police Department Precincts held several filing cabinets, chairs, computers, and desks. Papers from past crimes, solved and unsolved, littered the walls and bulletin boards. Two detectives bent over a computer, studying the screen. Days-old smoke hung in the air, leaving the ceiling yellowed and in a bad need of a paint job. These people were overworked and probably underpaid.
Bob Reese passed two other detectives, having a private conversation, on his way into the room, leaving no one but the remaining officers to help him.
One of them glanced up, pushed his wire frames up his nose and squinted at him through the hazy room. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his lips, the ashes falling heedlessly to the floor. “Can I help you?”
Bob walked to the desk, extending his hand. “Bob Reese with the Henry County Sheriff’s Office. I talked to someone earlier this week. He said you had a two-year-old case I might be interested in.”
The larger man from behind the computer looked up at him, then stood and shook Bob’s hand. “That would be me. Phil Piazza, at your service. How was your trip?”
“Smooth. I arrived late last night.”
“And you’re just now getting over here?”
“I hope you don’t mind, I took a trip over to Boston University School of Law first. Asked a few questions of my own.”
The man warily narrowed his eyes. “Certainly. But I would have been glad to give you the tour myself.” He turned to the smaller man in round-rimmed spectacles, who obviously had made detective at an early age. “My partner, Pete Stone. He’s new; didn’t join our team until late last year. The man who worked this case with me died.”
“Related to the case?”
Phil chuckled. “Nothing that glamorous, I’m afraid. A bad heart and one too many cigarettes.”
“So what can you tell me about this case?”
“Alison Stewart. Twenty-six years old. Married, with a newborn.
She had one year left to go for her degree, I’m afraid.”
Phil walked to a row of metal filing cabinets and eased open the drawer labeled ST-SW. His fingers flipped through several folders before pulling out a well-creased one. He came to stand beside a long conference table. He flipped open the folder and several pictures spilled out.
“This Alison Stewart was a looker,” Phil said. “We weren’t sure what to make of it. Crime of passion, maybe. The SOB covered her before he left, even put a goddam rose on the sheet atop her.” He shook his head in disgust. “Died of asphyxiation, though. Broken hyoid, bruising around the neck.”
“Petechial hemorrhages behind the eyelids?”
“Yep.” He nodded slowly. “The autopsy report says she was tortured by cutting her airway off and on for a period of time. Maybe a half hour or so. Could be they got into some sort of kinky sex or something.”
“No sign of a struggle?”
“Not much. Her hands weren’t tied or anything like that. But we did find some DNA beneath her nails. She had to have at least scratched the SOB.”
“No other clues or leads?”
“We questioned everybody, including the husband. No one knew anything, and the husband had an airtight alibi. No one knew who Alison Stewart was banging on the side.” He paused, then asked, “So what you got there in Henry County that brings you all the way here?”
Bob shuffled his stance. “It’s a long shot, really. I was just hoping to get the DNA and see if it matches the series of crimes we have. If it does, then maybe we can tie o
ur suspect to BUSL. Our lead suspect attended school there at the time of your murder.”
Phil’s one brow rose. Bob had gotten his attention. “What’s the MO?”
“Our man seems to pick married women between the ages of twenty to thirty-five. None had kids at home, but all seemed to be unfaithful. He consensually ties their hands, since there’s no sign of a struggle, then has sex with them, using a condom. We have no prints and, up until now, no DNA. He manually strangles each woman, torturing them for a period of up to forty-five minutes.”
“How many?” Pete asked, Phil nodding in approval.
“Three women with the same MO. One dead caretaker, who I think was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I think he could have ID’d our man. And another dead woman who died of strangulation, who may or may not be related to this series of crimes. But she was best friends with one of the women who was.”
“Anything else?”
Bob leaned forward, bracing his palms on the table. “He left red lip prints on the cheeks of his last two victims.”
“You think he’s perfecting his MO?”
“Possibly.” Bob paused, looking at the papers and photos now spread on the table. He pointed at the red rose. “What do you suppose this means?”
Phil shrugged. “I’d surely like the chance to ask him.”
“Just suppose for a moment that this is our man. Do you think the rose became the lip prints when our man became better at what he was doing?”
“Guess you won’t know that until you find him. Maybe the DNA will be a match,” Phil said, offering little help.
Bob couldn’t have asked for more, though. The DNA would be their only hope.
“This old case sure is getting a lot of interest from Henry County, as of late,” Pete said. Both men stared at him.
Finally, Phil asked, “What do you mean?”
Pete continued, shoving his hands deeply into his well-pressed trousers. “Henry County Prosecutor Chad Baker came by yesterday while Phil was at lunch. Said he had a case he was prosecuting back in Ohio and wanted to compare it to our old case. Said he was in town giving speeches and workshops at the law school.”
Bob stood to his full six feet. “Did he look through the file?”
“Yep, didn’t seem to find anything of interest, though. Just leafed through the photos and autopsy report, thanked me, and left.”
“Well,” Bob said, loosening the top button of his dress shirt and pulling on his tie, “I think I’ll get that DNA sample and get back home.”
“I hope we were of some help,” Phil said, shaking Bob’s hand. “You helped me plenty,” Bob said with a wink. “And with any luck, this DNA will be a perfect match and we’ll be able to close all the cases, including yours.”
“You let me know first thing,” Phil said. “I’d like to be able to close this case, too, and finally put Alison to rest.”
“First thing.” Bob repeated, “First thing.”
Chapter 28
LeAnne stirred the marinara sauce for what seemed the hundredth time. After Snake so flippantly walked out, she poured herself into preparations for Chad’s homecoming, hoping to take her mind from the obvious: she no longer loved Chad, if indeed she ever did. The harder she tried to deny it, the worse she felt.
But nothing cut to the heart more than Marcus telling her to have a good life before exiting through her front door and out of her future— their future.
He couldn’t even give LeAnne the time to make a sensible decision that would affect the rest of her life. Snake’s lifestyle had always been full of snap judgments, doing everything on the spur of the moment, act now and pay the consequences later. Well, she could not conduct her life in such a reckless manner, which solidified her earlier assessment: there lie too much between them ever to bridge the gap for a relationship to develop. Marcus rode Harley-Davidsons and walked precariously on the opposite side of the law; LeAnne drove cop cars and earnestly upheld the law.
From the pot, sauce bubbled and spat, sending a spray of red spots onto her new, white top; one she had bought, more than likely out of guilt, just for the sake of Chad’s homecoming. LeAnne grasped the terry cloth towel and dabbed at the immovable stain. It held hopelessly just as the twinge to her conscience.
She made her way to the bedroom to find a new blouse. Grasping a red silk, LeAnne slipped it over her head about the time the front door opened and Chad called out to her.
Guilt sent her stomach plummeting, leaving the insides churning and bile slowly crawling up her esophagus.
Her conscience weighing heavily, she walked from the bedroom with leaden feet, much like the death-row prisoner taken down the Last Mile. The time had come to break the news to Chad: there would be no wedding. LeAnne straightened her shoulders. No matter what had occurred with Marcus, she knew what must now be done.
Chad’s smile curved his cheeks as he dropped his suitcase with a thud and opened his arms. “Babe. God, I’ve missed you.”
His tone rang false, his smile a tad forced. Surely, it was her imagination and it stemmed from guilt, nothing more.
LeAnne walked into his embrace. His arms snaked around her and his hands smoothed the silk covering her back. No longer did she feel cherished within his hug as she once did. Something had changed; she had.
He nuzzled her neck. “You smell good, almost as good as that sauce you’re cooking. I thought we were ordering out,” he said as he pushed her away and headed for the kitchen, not glancing in her direction to see if she followed.
LeAnne watched Chad and wondered what seemed different about him, more standoffish. Had he found out about her affair with Marcus? Soon it wouldn’t matter anyway. She and Chad were over. She followed him into the other room through the pivoting door.
Chad bent over the pot of marinara, test-tasting it from the wooden spoon. “Delicious,” he said, laying the spoon on the rest beside the burner and turning to her. “I didn’t know you could cook so well.”
“I can, if I try. Besides, you always loved to cook,” she said. Suddenly, LeAnne felt at a loss for words, like two strangers colliding in the night. Hi, how are you? How’s the weather? She opted for the obvious. “So, how was Boston?”
“Wonderful,” he replied, grasping a couple of plates from the cupboard. “The weather held up pretty much the whole trip. We had a few showers, but on the whole it stayed nice. It was good seeing Buzz, again, after all this time, too. He asked about you.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That he’d have to see you for himself, when he came for the wedding.”
LeAnne swallowed the rising lump; her breathing all but ceased.
Now might not be the best time to inform him about her desire to cancel it, but after dinner, the time for excuses would be over. Chad turned to drop pasta into the boiling pot, narrowly missing the consternation on her face. He seemed right at home behind the stove, his way to relaxation.
Moments later, they found themselves seated across from one another, to all appearances enjoying a candlelight dinner. Chad had placed two burning, tapered candles and a bottle of dry, white wine in the center of the table. The scent of garlic, from cheese bread he threw together in haste, filled the room and tempted the palate.
For a while, they ate in silence, he openly watching her, she staring more at her plate. Chad’s ever-present smile seemed to mock her, as though he enjoyed her discomfort, making her feel all the more miserable. A resident smile curved his cheeks. He had to know something had changed in their relationship since his departure. Truth be told, they hadn’t had an affinity in a long time, not since the addition of Marcus in their lives.
Chad reached across and grasped her cool, tense fingers. “You seem nervous,” he said. His eyes twinkled devilishly. “Are you afraid of something…someone?”
“And who or what am I to be afraid of?”
He shrugged. “You tell me. You’ve been acting skittish all night.
Something bothering you? The case perh
aps?”
LeAnne pulled her fingers free of his. “Can’t we just finish our meal first?”
“First? Sounds like you have something planned for second. Something you want to tell me, LeAnne?”
His usage of her first name made her inquisitive. He had rarely used it since their engagement, preferring instead his term of endearment, “babe.”
“Look, I just want to have a pleasant meal. That’s all.”
“Are you sure?”
She glanced down at her plate as not to allow him to see the lie forming in her eyes. “I’m sure.”
“Then what about this case? Any new leads?”
LeAnne’s gaze flitted up, glad for the respite and change in topics. “We have a possible lead in Boston.”
“Boston?” His eyes widened. “Whatever drew your attention to Massachusetts?”
“VICAP. Bob checked the signature of our man, and something came up in Boston. Two years ago, seems a woman was strangled to death—tortured on and off for a period of time; just like in our cases.”
“Interesting.” He flexed his hands lying beside his plate in the way of making fists. “Anything else happen?”
“We have a warrant out for the arrest of Anthony Hargrove.”
“The judge’s son?” He whistled low. “Sounds like you’re asking for trouble.”
“Yes, but the evidence we have against him can’t be denied. It seems he was in attendance at BUSL at the time of the murder in Boston. Coincidence?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. And we can also place three of the dead women with him at one time or another.”
He remained silent as he finished a mouthful of pasta, seemingly in thought. “Did you think about the names you mentioned to me earlier—Sid, Shawn Michaels? Where do you think they came from?”
LeAnne had already thought of that angle. But it also seemed possible these names had nothing to do with the case. All of these women knew Tony Hargrove on a first-name basis. Even Blade stated that Tony hung out with them on a regular basis. So the usage of an alias would not be feasible.
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