At Close Range

by Jessica Andersen

  The faint burn of ligature marks at the base of his throat spoke of murder, the pose suggested a ritual. A symbol. But of what?

  She glanced over at the FBI specialist. “Why did the chief call you in?” Why didn’t he wait for me to run the scene?

  Varitek rose to his feet in one powerful movement, more graceful than his bulk suggested. He topped her by a good six inches and seventy pounds or so, and she was acutely conscious of the solidity and warmth that radiated from his body. He wasn’t traditionally handsome—his features were too strong for that—but when they had worked the Canyon kidnappings, attraction had flared between them, unwanted and unacknowledged.

  The physical awareness hadn’t faded with time apart, Cassie realized with sudden electric shock. If anything, it had gotten worse.

  Unsettled, she nearly stepped back, but that would be retreating, so she held her ground and looked up at him, waiting for an answer.

  He gestured to the body. “Look at his hands.”

  The young man’s right hand was intact, draped halfway off the sofa bed backrest.

  But his left hand—

  “Oh, hell,” Cassie breathed on a wash of shock. “The tip of his index finger is missing.” She glanced at Varitek. “The chief thinks it’s linked to the skeleton we found in the state park, doesn’t he?”

  During the Canyon kidnappings, the perp had booby-trapped a side crevice of Bear Claw Canyon and set bait for the cops. The explosion and collapse had almost killed Alissa. She had lived, but the rescuers had uncovered an older grave when they dug her out.

  The skeleton had been recovered intact save for two missing bones—the skull and the first bone of one index finger were unavailable. The skull had been destroyed when the kidnapper bombed the forensics department, wiping out their new equipment and most of their bona fides within the P.D., and the finger bone had never been recovered. They assumed it had disappeared from the grave, lost to scavengers or spring runoff.

  What if it had been taken instead?

  Varitek said, “It’s a possibility, especially given the suspicions that Croft might not have worked alone.” He glanced at the body, then back to her. “Has your department made any progress on identifying the remains from the canyon?”

  Cassie stiffened. “We’re working on it.”

  Truthfully, they’d been swamped by other cases. With Bradford Croft dead and the kidnapped girls home safe, identifying the skeleton had dropped on the priority list.

  Without the skull, all they had to go on was the approximate age, sex and height of the skeleton—late teens, female, around five-six—and the fact that the bones had been in the ground for a decade, give or take. Feeling a sense of empathy for the girl, Cassie had run the database searches and had come up with a handful of missing-person reports in and around Bear Claw during that time period. None of them had panned out, meaning that the next step was to expand the search statewide. That’d give her a couple of hundred names, most of which—if not all—

  would be dead ends.

  With her current caseload, Alissa’s vacation and Maya’s conference, Cassie hadn’t found the time.

  No, she corrected herself with brutal honesty. She hadn’t made the time. So she squared her shoulders and said, “I ruled out some local missing person reports, but haven’t taken it any further than that. My bad.”

  But Varitek didn’t respond to the apology. His attention was fixed on the severed index finger. Cassie saw that a thin trail of blood had leaked onto the upholstery beneath, but the larger wound area was sealed over.

  “Looks like it was cauterized premortem,” Varitek said, so quietly he was nearly speaking to himself. “Souvenir, maybe?”

  Disgust and a low-level horror twisted in her gut. Every now and then during the course of her work it hit her. This was real. It wasn’t a movie set or a scene playing out on TV. The body belonged to a real person. Someone’s son. Maybe someone’s lover.

  Cassie swallowed a quick bubble of nausea, while a fragment of a half remembered conversation surfaced in her brain. Face it, you’re not tough enough to hack it in the field, Lee Adams had said. You’re a chemist, not a cop.

  Lee had been five years older than she, an instructor at the master’s level forensics program she’d attended outside of Chicago. He’d been handsome and a little bit mysterious, and for a while, she’d bought into everything he said. Years later, some of his comments still snuck up on her when she least expected it.

  Like now.

  She set her teeth, swallowed the weakness and forced herself to think about the corpse at its most basic—as a piece of evidence in a case they’d thought was closed.

  “If this body is connected to the skeleton in the canyon, then Alissa was right. She did hear someone else when Croft was holding her captive. There was another man.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Varitek stepped back so they were shoulder-to-shoulder, staring down at the body. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  She felt the warmth of him and wished she didn’t notice such things. He was attractive, yes, but he already had three strikes against him in her book. He was in law enforcement. He was controlling. And he was impossible to get along with. The first was a fact. The other points she’d discovered months earlier, when she’d been forced to let him into the kidnapping case and he’d taken over, brought in his own people and shoved her to the edges of the investigation, claiming she’d be safer there.

  Well forget him. She wasn’t looking to stay safe at the expense of the job.

  She scowled. “I’m not jumping to conclusions, I’m using my version of the razor theorem—the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. We’ve got a body tied to a crime scene from the kidnappings. The kidnapper is dead, so we know he didn’t kill this guy. Other lines of evidence have already suggested Croft had an accomplice. Ergo, we’re looking at a partner.”

  “We’re not looking at anything but the evidence,” Varitek said bluntly. He turned away and reached for his bigger, meaner-looking crime-scene kit, which Cassie knew from experience contained everything hers did, and then some. He said, “Let’s get to work. The sooner we release the body to the ME, the better. We’re going to need a cause of death, time of death, ID…anything we can get. The chief said that based on our findings, he’ll decide whether to recall the task force.”

  And that quickly, that easily, he took over her crime scene.

  Again.

  Cassie fisted her hands at her sides, so tightly that her blunt nails dug into her palms. She thought about going for her weapon. Instead, she said, “Agent Varitek?”

  He didn’t even turn around when he answered, “Technically, it’s Special Agent.”

  “Yeah, you’re special all right,” she muttered loud enough that he could damn well hear. Then she raised her voice, but fought to keep it level. Businesslike. “Until the task force has been officially reopened and your assistance has been requested by the proper channels, I consider this my crime scene. I’d like you out of it.”

  “We don’t always get what we want,” he said, and his voice held a thread of something she couldn’t quite interpret. He glanced back at her, pale green eyes unreadable. “Your boss called my boss—that’s proper channels. You don’t like me being here? Take it up with the chief. If you’re not going to do that, then suit up.

  We’ve got a scene to work.”

  FOUR HOURS LATER, with the body long gone and the empty, dismal-feeling room nearly processed, Seth straightened to his full height and stretched, groaning when his joints popped in protest. His knees still ached from time to time, a legacy of his younger days when he’d gone from catcher’s mitt to goalie’s mask and back again, depending on the season. Not quite good enough to go pro as either, he’d slid sideways into law and then law enforcement, gotten married and then—

  Irritated, he slammed the lid on that train of thought. Ancient history had no place on the job. But still, the dark memories soured his already bleak mood as he turned to ma
ke the last few notations and pack up his kit.

  He was aware of Cassie watching him, aware of the tension humming between them, a mix of professional antagonism and something more complicated. She’d made it obvious that she didn’t like him from the first moment they’d met. She wanted the crime scene to herself and resented his every breath. It annoyed her that he had better equipment, better contacts.

  Normally, he wouldn’t have wasted five minutes on a local cop who didn’t want his help, but something about her drew him. Intrigued him. She was an evidence specialist who had to force herself to touch a corpse, a prickly woman with shadows of sadness in her eyes.

  And those legs. He couldn’t help noticing her legs. She wore tan pants cut more for field work than fashion, but they did little to disguise the long length of her calves, the sassy curve of her rear and the aggressive swagger of her hips as she moved around the room, shoulders stiff with resentment.

  But even as those legs strutted through his mind, he focused on the rest of her, on the prickles, the defensiveness and the bloody-minded territoriality. All things he had no patience with, especially when they interfered with his ability to do his job.

  “You ready to go?” Cassie asked. She stood near the door holding her evidence kit, which held their photographs, notes and measurements, as well as a rough sketch of the scene.

  He nodded. “Sure. Let’s get out of here.” He hefted his own kit, which contained fiber evidence, prints and other trace samples. Ninety-some percent of the evidence—maybe even all of it—would prove useless, either unrelated to the case or too generic to be of any help.

  But it was those last few percentages, those moments of discovery, that made it all worthwhile.

  He just hoped to God he’d have an “aha” moment this time. He and Cassie hadn’t talked about it—hell, they hadn’t talked about anything—but the knowledge hung in the tense air between them.

  This was no act of passion or rage, no accidental death or manslaughter. It was premeditated. Posed. Practiced.

  If they didn’t find this guy quickly, it was a sure bet he’d strike again.

  As they left the dismal room and sealed it behind them, Seth couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. He didn’t even try, because it was like that at every crime scene. That was part of what kept him sharp.

  Cassie jerked her head toward the stairs. “I’ll meet you back at the station. When I called, the chief said the task force would meet in a half hour.”

  Seth told himself not to watch her walk away, not to admire how her long legs ate up the hallway with an aggressive swing that was all Cassie—in a hurry and full of attitude. When she’d disappeared into the stairwell, he cast a final look back toward the sealed door, aware of something tickling the back of his brain. A connection maybe, or a suspicion.

  He concentrated for a moment, but it didn’t gel, so he turned for the stairs knowing the detail would surface eventually. When he reached the ground floor he saw the door swing shut, evidence of Cassie’s passing. Figuring she’d left her truck in one of the visitors’ slots in the back lot, he shoved open the rear exit.

  And heard Cassie’s voice shout, “Halt! Police!”

  A weapon fired.

  Then there was silence.

  Chapter Two

  Gun clutched in her hand, Cassie sprinted in pursuit of a dark figure nearly half a block ahead of her. She’d been stupid to shout, stupid to identify herself.

  Procedure be damned, she should’ve shot the guy the moment she saw him crouched near the back tire of her truck.

  But she’d been caught up in thoughts of Varitek, thoughts of cop-shop politics. So she’d shouted and her shot had gone wide.

  And now she was chasing some guy down the damn street.

  Could her day get any worse?

  Her lungs burned and her thighs howled, but she pushed faster. Ahead, a jean-clad figure wearing a dark ski jacket slipped on a patch of slush and went down. He scrambled up with the flexibility of a young man and skidded around a corner into a narrow street between two more crummy apartment buildings.

  Cassie rounded the corner and accelerated, thinking she had the guy trapped in the alley, thinking she had—

  A hot, wiry body slammed into her side, driving the breath from her lungs, sending her to the wet, cracked pavement. She screeched, tucked and rolled until she hit a steel trash bin. Then she lunged to her feet and faced her attacker.

  His face was obscured by a brightly colored hat and muff combo, but she could see his eyes, which were hard, hazel chips gleaming with deadly sanity. He licked his lips. “You’re a blonde. My favorite.”

  “Get your hands up,” she ordered. “Hands up and face the wall!”

  She was too slow, or he was too fast—in the moment it took her to level her weapon, he lunged and swung something glittering and metallic at her head. She ducked and the blow glanced off her shoulder. Her arm went instantly numb. She fell to the side and her gun clattered to the pavement.

  The gun, she had to get the gun! She saw it under the trash bin and lunged for it just as her attacker swung again. She dodged to the side, felt road muck soak through her pants and kicked out at his ankle.

  Too little, too late. He scooped up the gun, stood, turned to her—

  And his eyes went beyond her, to the alleyway opening. He saluted her with her own gun, and said, “I’ll be seeing you soon, beautiful.” And he turned and ran.

  “Cassie!” Varitek pounded up to her, grabbed her arms and dragged her to her feet.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Let go of me!” She tried to shake him off but he wouldn’t shake, so she kicked at him. “He’s getting away!”

  But Varitek was as immovable as granite. He held onto her with one hand and waved as two panting uniformed officers ran past. “He went out the back. About five-ten, male, jeans and a dark jacket. Red hat.”

  As the officers bolted past, Cassie recognized the men who’d been watching the rear exit when she’d entered the crime-scene building. But where the hell had they been when red hat was messing with her truck?

  When Varitek’s grip on her arm slackened, she yanked away. Then she got in his face and poked him in the chest. “Why didn’t you chase him? I was fine!”

  At the moment her brain reported the feel of his rock-hard chest beneath her fingertip, he seemed to grow bigger, looming over her, dark brows furrowed, light green eyes nearly shooting sparks. “You were not fine! The bastard knocked you down and roughed you up. And where the hell’s your gun?” When she didn’t answer, he cursed. “He got it. Great. Nothing like paperwork to round out the night, never mind the idea of arming another criminal.”

  She refused to back away, refused to back down even when the angry heat radiating from his body snuck through the chilled layers of shock and set up a vibration in her core. She held onto her anger when a sneaky little voice tried to tell her that he was right, maybe she should’ve waited for backup.

  “What’s your problem?” she snapped. “I’m a cop just like you. Hell, I’ve probably got more street time logged in the past few years and I can bloody well handle myself.

  Don’t you get it? I’m not your problem!”

  In a flash, he grabbed her by the front of her jacket and lifted her clean off her feet to press her against the rough wall of a nearby apartment building. Her heart jammed into her throat at the physical shock of his strength and his nearness.

  She started to struggle, to curse him, to knee him where it hurt if that was what it took, but the look in his eyes stopped her. There was no rage, no irritation, not even a hint of the heat she’d seen moments before.

  There was nothing. Complete, utter blankness.

  “Have you ever seen a dead woman in an alley covered with her own blood?” he asked, and his voice sounded as though it was being ripped out of him. “Have you ever gotten there just in time to hear her last words, her last breath?” There was something in his eyes, something bleak that tore a
t Cassie even as fear quivered in her chest. She started to answer, but he cut her off with a shake. “I have,” he choked out. “I know how it feels, damn it! I…”

  He broke off and abruptly released his hold on her jacket, dropping her to the ground. He stood there, looking down at her for a moment, and the pain was gone from his eyes, leaving only a cool, pale green stare.

  “Varitek?” she said, her brain grappling with what had just happened. When he didn’t respond, she drew breath to demand an explanation, a response, anything, but before she could speak, a siren’s whoop drew their attention and a BCCPD four-wheel drive vehicle nosed into the narrow street.

  Chief Parry emerged. “You two okay?” he asked, eyes cutting between them with piercing intensity.

  “We’re good,” Varitek answered in his trademark deep voice, showing no evidence of what had just happened between them. “Did you get the guy?”

  “No,” Parry replied, disgust written plain on his weathered features. “Damn it all. He dumped the hat and the jacket and blended.”

  “I’ll want the clothing,” Varitek said, not even bothering to glance at Cassie. “It’ll give us DNA at the very least. You never know. Punk like that might pop up in one of the databanks.”

  Feeling excluded and angry, Cassie stepped forward. “What did he do to my truck?”

  The men stared at her, reminding her that she’d been the only one to see the dark figure crouched down by her tire. She quickly sketched in the events leading up to the chase.

  The more she talked, the harder Varitek scowled. He shot a glance at the chief, who nodded and said, “I’ll get the bomb squad boys on it.”

  A quick shiver of fear reminded Cassie that they had never actually connected Bradford Croft to the bombings during the kidnapping case. Though he’d checked into a few Web reference sites on explosives, he had no formal training, and their bomb expert, Sawyer, had deemed two of the devices fairly sophisticated.

  “You two coming?” the chief called, indicating his vehicle.

  Varitek nodded for Cassie to precede him, but once ahead, she turned to face him, stalling them out of Parry’s earshot. “What the hell happened back there?”