“Cassandra Newcombe. I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but you’re not what I pictured as a U.S. Marshal.”
“Yeah. I’m not what most of our ‘clients’ picture either.” Katherine grinned, waving a hand at her attire. “The jacket and black pants are strictly for the office. Usually I’m in jeans or sweats. It’s useful to look like a clerk at the checkout counter or a soccer mom when I’m doing a routine maintenance visit on someone we’ve placed in the witness protection program. The last thing new residents trying to blend into the neighborhood need is a six foot three guy with dark glasses and a navy blue suit showing up on their doorstep in the middle of the afternoon while the folks next door are peeking out behind the curtains.”
Cass smiled back. “I never thought about that but it makes sense.”
“Follow me. We’re doing this interview in a private room the DOJ offered us in their suite downstairs.”
Katherine led the way back down in the elevator. Cass caught the marshal giving her the once-over in the elevator’s mirror. She knew her black open-toed heels with the fire engine red toenails peeking out didn’t square with the conservative black blazer and tailored slacks she had on. Neither did her flowing mane of copper hair shot with streaks of gold, thanks to a very expensive salon that was her one indulgence.
“I must say, you’re not what I imagined either,” Katherine remarked, without a trace of embarrassment at having been caught staring. “I read your bio. You’ve interviewed some pretty tough characters.”
“They weren’t choirboys, that’s for sure. But I bet you’ve got some great stories you could tell.” Into her interviewer mode, Cass automatically turned the conversation away from herself. Katherine obliged, sharing a few funny anecdotes that Cass suspected she dragged out whenever asked about her work. Carefully couched to entertain without divulging a single substantive detail about herself or her work.
They stopped at a lower floor where Katherine flashed her badge at an armed guard who could have been a twin to the one upstairs. Must be something about trading a life of action for hanging out all day in a sterile lobby that made a man turn to meatball subs for comfort. He took her enormous shoulder bag over to his desk and pawed through it, piling the contents in front of him and inspecting every item thoroughly before replacing it in the bag. Katherine made small talk but Cass had a feeling the woman was studying her the whole time for any hint of nervousness or undue impatience. She didn’t take offense. In her line of work, the marshal must have to consider every person she saw as a potential threat to the life of her witness.
After what seemed like hours, the guard handed it back and buzzed them through the door, where they were met by another man. Cass sized him up. Finally someone who matched her preconceived idea of a Fed. Hefty build, all muscle. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, black tie. Sensible black dress shoes. No smile.
“I’m Agent Smith.”
Sure you are, Cass thought. And I’m J.K. Rowling.
Katherine introduced her and he led them down a series of brightly lit hallways lined with solid doors marked only with numbers. He opened #427 and ushered them in. The room inside was bare except for a rectangular metal table and four straight-backed wooden chairs. The single sparkling clean window offered a birds-eye view of blossoming cherry trees lining the street below. Cass couldn’t help noticing there was no way to open it.
Other than the sexy dark stubble on his face and the expensive charcoal suit he wore, the lone guy sitting at the table inside could have passed for a Fed himself. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, she guessed. Big and solid with wide shoulders, like a linebacker. Dark hair cut short with military precision, square jaw, the planes in his face so sharp they could have been chiseled out. Expressionless deep blue eyes looking back at her, impossible to read. This guy would be one hell of a poker player.
The well-cut suit hid his body but Cass had a feeling there wasn’t a spare ounce of fat on it. She swallowed hard. He could have stepped straight out of last night’s personal trainer fantasy. Tough. Hard. And definitely hot.
He lounged on the unforgiving chair, looking as comfortable as if he’d been at home on his leather recliner in front of a big-screen TV with a cold beer in his hand. That is, if he sat around at home in handcuffs.
“Zander Coleman, I’d like you to meet Cassandra Newcombe. Cass will be interviewing you for a new true-crime web magazine. I believe you already signed the release.” Katherine gave them both one of her engaging grins. “To tell you the truth, I think it’s owned by a nephew of the assistant director. I can’t think of any other reason why the guys in charge would allow an interview with someone about to be ushered into our supposedly super-secret witness protection program.”
Cass had been in enough of these situations. She knew better than to reach out to shake hands with him. There would be no physical contact allowed between her and her subject, handcuffed or not.
Katherine pulled out a chair on the other side of the table and motioned for Cass to take a seat before sitting down next to her. “I’ll be joining you for the entire interview. I hope that’s all right,” she added, turning to Cass.
“It’s fine. I’m used to having a security detail present when I work. But if you don’t mind, maybe you could pull your chair over there for now,” Cass replied, waving to a corner near the window. “You can see both of us clearly, but Mr. Coleman and I won’t feel quite as much like we’re on our first date, being chaperoned by my aunt Maude.”
Pulling out the line she always used to establish the first tentative bond with a subject, she flashed him a warm smile, making it clear she wasn’t on the same plane as his guards.
* * *
Zander Coleman sat up a little straighter, sizing her up. Intelligent brown eyes, strong cheekbones. Wide mouth—perfect for sucking a hard dick. Shoulder-length shiny reddish-brown hair, shot with streaks of gold.
And that body. He gave it a slow once-over, starting at the bottom. Sexy black heels that made her long legs look even longer. Every guy knew shoes like that weren’t made for taking long walks in the park. When he saw a woman in a pair of shoes like that, all he could think about was how she’d look if she didn’t have anything on but those shoes.
The legs in question ended in full hips curving into a narrow waist. He couldn’t see her ass, but judging from the rest of her he’d bet it was fine. The severe black blazer she had on did nothing to hide a magnificent pair of tits, outlined by the form-fitting white t-shirt she wore underneath. He stared straight at them, gauging her reaction. She never attempted to close her jacket, simply leaned back in her seat directly across the table, letting the jacket fall open a little further. No annoyed frown, no “Hey, my eyes are up here.” He smiled. The lady was definitely playing him.
Classic moves straight from the good cop–bad cop book, but with a little twist. That seemingly offhand remark laden with sexual innuendo, delivered with a very feminine smile. Designed to create a personal connection—with his cock. The fuck-me shoes. The no-nonsense blazer pretending to hide a set of boobs that would have done a Hooters waitress proud. After being locked up for a long time, the average sex-starved psycho would buy into the whole package, letting his imagination run free.
His smile deepened. He could play too.
“Why would you need a chaperone?” His voice dropped, took on a rough note. “Does your daddy think you’re a naughty girl who puts out on the first date?”
She laughed. “Daddy has no idea how naughty I am.”
This one didn’t rattle easily. His opinion of her went up a notch. When the subject first came up a few weeks ago, he thought the whole idea of sitting through an interview was stupid. But what the hell. He had nothing better to do right now. If the lady wanted to indulge in her version of oral sex, he’d oblige.
“Naughty girls get punished.” He saw her eyes widen a little at that and knew he’d hit a hot button. She glanced at the marshal sitting off to the side before rep
lying.
“You like to punish? Is that how you got into your… line of work?” Her tone may have been playful, but Zander recognized she was all business underneath. Already trying to peel away the edges of the mask of sanity worn by every psychopath.
“What I do isn’t always work, Ms. Newcombe. In fact, sometimes it can be fun. Really naughty girls like it when I punish them.”
She squirmed a little in her chair, just the tiniest move, and Zander knew he had her pegged. In his profession, he’d become a master at reading the reactions of a subject. This one projected an air of confident, even blatant, sexuality. But underneath he sensed a deeply guarded secret. Probably one with a tinge of shame tied to it. If they were alone, he’d home in on that, exploit her weakness. That’s how he’d become successful at his craft.
She ignored his last comment. “Please, call me Cass. May I call you Zander?” He nodded once and she went on. “Let me tell you a little about how I work, Zander. I don’t believe in using a tape recorder during our sessions. I think it hampers freedom of expression.”
She smiled again, that warm smile designed to put him at ease. “No one can be comfortable if they’re worried about hearing their own words in their own voice used against them at some point. But I would like to make sure I get your story right for our audience. Would it be okay with you if I take a few notes while we chat? I’ll be happy to let you read them afterwards.” She met his eyes squarely, waiting for another nod before rummaging in her huge bag for a notebook and pen.
He had to admire the care with which she chose her words. Making them sound like a team while appealing to his vanity with the ‘our audience’ remark. She’d definitely done her homework, probably already pegged him as a Class Three. He’d read the profilers. Class Three included serial killers like Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy. Charming, witty, even outgoing—and completely egocentric, lacking both empathy and guilt.
“Where are you from originally?”
“I grew up in Ohio.”
“I’ve been to Ohio. Cows and cornfields. That must have been boring. What did you do for fun?”
“Tortured the neighborhood pets.”
She put down her pen. “I have an excellent bullshit meter, Zander, and I’m sure you do too. Right now mine is clanging so loud I’m not going to be able to hear anything else you say. So I’ll tell you what—how about if we make a deal? There’s got to be some payoff here for you as well as for me. What if we make this fun—turn it into a little game and see who goes the longest? Like truth or dare. You ask me a question and I’ll answer. If you think I’ve answered honestly, then I’ve earned the right to ask you a question and get an honest answer. Does that sound fair?”
No doubt about it. She was good. Appealing to his feeling of superiority, giving him the opportunity to pit his intellectual skill against hers. Seeing which of them could delve deeper into the psyche of the other, carving out the emotional entrails of their opponent and spreading them out on the table.
He smiled again, but the smile never reached his eyes. “So we both agree to take turns answering each other’s questions. Honestly. The game stops if one of us even thinks the other is lying. And I go first. Right?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, Cass. You’ve got yourself a deal.” He was silent for a moment, allowing the suspense to build. “Tell me—when’s the last time some guy dragged you across his lap, then yanked your panties down and spanked your bare ass good and hard until you begged him to stop?”
Chapter Two
Cass met his eyes steadily, fighting to keep her composure. She definitely didn’t see that one coming.
If Zander knew he’d struck a nerve, she’d lose control of both her subject and her interview. But the man scared her. It was as though he’d been there last night, in her bed and in her head as she fingered her wet pussy while imagining a shockingly similar scene. A man who could get inside someone’s mind so fast would be able to strike terror in his victim without ever having to resort to breaking bones.
She forced a laugh. “You do go straight for the jugular. Okay, I’ll confess.” Trying to hide her embarrassment, she kept her eyes away from the corner of the room. It was bad enough having to openly discuss her most shameful secret craving with this stranger. Trying to pretend Marshal Jacobs wasn’t sitting there listening to every word made it even harder.
“It’s been seven years. Seven years, eight months and… let me see… about thirteen days.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And thirteen days? Hmmm.” The heat in his eyes seemed to burn right through her clothes, stripping her bare. He nodded once. “That’s gotta be true. Okay, now it’s your turn.”
Cass knew she had only a few moments to prove herself a worthy opponent before he tired of the game. She mentally rejected all her usual questions designed to establish a rapport with a subject, going with one she normally saved for much later.
“How old were you the first time you hurt someone?”
He sat silently for a long time, staring off at the opposite wall. Just as she decided she’d made the wrong choice, he answered.
“Eleven. I turned eleven the week before. I was already big, bigger than most of the kids my age. My mom and my sister and I lived in a rough neighborhood of Cincinnati. Gangs, drugs. But it was all she could afford. She worked two lousy jobs to put food on the table and clothes on our backs. My sister was two years older, just sprouting little tits. One day she went out to the grocery store and came home empty-handed. Crying, blood running down her leg. I made her tell me who did it. She didn’t want to. She was afraid I’d go after him and end up with a knife in my belly.”
He stopped and looked into her eyes. “You were honest with me and I respect that. So I’m gonna be honest too. I’ve never told anyone this part, not even my sister. As far as she knew, I threatened Paulie and he ran away. I told her word on the street was that he split, went to live with his aunt in Cleveland. Truth is, I snuck out of the house three nights later and followed him to a bar. I hid behind a dumpster and waited for him. When he finally came out, he was stinking drunk, barely able to stand up. I hit him in the head with a brick and dragged him into the same alley where he raped my sister.
“He came to when I had the knife up against his balls. The guy was terrified, begging me for mercy. I didn’t care. I cut him pretty bad. Nearly castrated him. Told him if I ever saw him again, I’d finish the job by shoving his cock down his throat. He disappeared that night.”
Cass swallowed hard. Then she glanced down at the few mindless scribbles she’d made on the pad in front of her as he spoke. “Eleven. Sprouting little tits. Aunt in Cleveland.” She knew whenever she read those innocent words, she’d see the bleak despair in his eyes, hear beneath his matter-of-fact tone the voice of that frightened little boy forcing himself to become a man far too soon.
She took a deep breath and sanity gradually returned. He doesn’t just break kneecaps. This guy is probably a stone-cold killer, she reminded herself. Don’t fall for his story. Chances are there’s barely a grain of truth in it. It’s designed to do exactly what it just did—make you forget all the horrible things he’s done and see him as the real victim.
She kept her tone light. “We’re one and one. Back at ya.” She mimed swatting a tennis ball across the table.
He gave her a sexy little grin, enough to make her wonder how she’d react if he ever turned the full force of his charm on her. “When they told me you’d be interviewing me, I read your last book. You’re good. Very good. So here’s my question…”
She braced herself, expecting another intimate invasion that would strip her soul bare.
“Who is your favorite writer?”
Cass shook her head. Zander Coleman was a formidable opponent. Keeping her off-balance every step of the way. She took a moment to consider, giving his question the same respect he’d given hers.
“For nonfiction, I’d have to say Malcolm Gladwell.
He has a way of tearing apart real-life situations and events you’ve always taken for granted, assuming you knew and understood them. Then he shows you what really went on, building a case so solid you wonder how you could ever have seen it any differently.” She stopped, bit her lip as she considered. “For fiction—well, I’ll admit it. When I want to escape from what I do for a living I read junk books, accompanied by lots of junk food. If you want me to disappear for a while, give me a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and Nora Roberts’ latest romance. I’ll take happily-ever-after any day.”
“Never heard of Gladwell. What did he write?”
Cass went off on a tangent, recounting her favorite anecdote from one of his books. Following her instincts, she put her list of questions aside and they chatted about movies and music and childhood TV heroes. From past experience, she knew she’d discover insights into his character that he’d never tell her outright when she went back over her notes of this seemingly casual conversation. Finally Katherine stirred in the corner.
“We need to wrap it up for today,” she announced. “Mr. Coleman has an appointment with the assistant attorney general this afternoon. Can you come back tomorrow around ten a.m.?”
“Sure.” Cass began stuffing things back into her bag. She stood up. Zander rose too. The man stood a full head taller and as she looked up at him, Cass lost herself for a moment in the depths of those startling blue eyes. “I appreciate your willingness to meet with me, Zander. I look forward to telling your story.”
“I enjoyed discovering some very interesting things about you too, Cass.” His eyes raked over her body. Cass felt herself blushing like a schoolgirl as she remembered answering his embarrassing question. She’d never discussed her need to be spanked with any man except Trent and she found herself wondering how he’d gotten that admission out of her so quickly.
Taken and Tamed Page 2