Absolute Pleasure

by Jamie Denton

  “I don’t think she’s read a newspaper in the last century,” he said to Georgia, his grin widening.

  She decided to ignore him.

  “And where have you been?” she asked Georgia.

  “Uh-huh.” Georgia set a sheaf of papers on Sunny’s desk then took the chair on the right while Ned occupied the left. “Tell us about the meeting with Klabo first.”

  Sunny walked around her desk and sat, giving the hem of her dress a sharp tug. She let out a sigh. They did deserve to know since they were a part of her team. She kept the details of her discussion with Klabo to a minimum then explained he’d be watching over their shoulders because she was now under consideration for a position with ISU.

  “This means we have even more pressure to put a stop to the UNSUB,” she concluded, then looked pointedly at Georgia. “Which reminds me, the three of us should always know where to find one another. No disappearing for hours without letting either me or Ned know where you can be found.”

  “I was doing research,” Georgia explained. “I might have a theory, but we’re going to need more data to be one-hundred percent.”

  Considering how much evidence she didn’t have in this case, Sunny wouldn’t be averse to asking a psychic for help at this point. Oh, Miss Cleo, where are you now?

  Georgia rifled through the papers she’d set on Sunny’s desk. “You were right about Wilder’s interpretation of the UNSUB. There’s definitely an artsy look to Abbott. But take a look at this and tell me what you think.” She handed Sunny and Ned photocopies of the composite sketch taken that morning.

  Sunny studied the drawing and did a visual comparison to the other composites still tacked to her wall. She saw the UNSUB, same as she did in all the other sketches, just a slightly modified version to fit the persona he’d portrayed to Wilder. She looked at Georgia and shrugged.

  “Ever hear of Albrecht Dürer?” Georgia asked.

  “German painter, big into the Venetians.” Ned slid his glasses back up his nose as he looked down at the sketch in his hands. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  Sunny propped her elbow on her desk, dropped her head into her hand and rubbed at her temple. “What I know about fine art wouldn’t cover the head of a pin,” she complained.

  “I know,” Georgia said mildly sympathetic. “Picasso could smack you with a blue guitar and it’d do no good.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Dürer was an early sixteenth-century artist,” Georgia explained. “He has some paintings to his credit, but he’s primarily known for his engravings. Between 1513 and 1515 he produced his three most important works in the genre. A lot of ink has been spilled by art historians on these works, but take a look at this particular engraving.”

  She produced a photocopy of what appeared to Sunny to be a black-and-white drawing of an old, unattractive knight on an old, unattractive horse in the midst of a chaotic menagerie. The drawing, or engraving, she corrected, held a certain morbidity she found mildly disturbing.

  “The earliest of the three engravings is this one, Knight, Death and the Devil,” Georgia continued. “See the knight’s calm determination?”

  Sunny peered closer. “Okay,” she said and shrugged.

  “This piece reflects the contemporary religious preoccupations of the time,” Georgia explained patiently. “Remember, this was all done during the Reformation, Martin Luther, that era. Almost all art during the Reformation contained symbolism, some more complicated than others. So Dürer’s use of the knight in this instance is symbolic. See the dog running alongside the horse?”

  At Sunny’s nod, she continued. “Here, the dog is representative of untiring devotion. So, even the appearance of the Devil can’t shake the knight’s steadfast beliefs because he knows if he does, then the end result is Death.”

  Sunny blew out a stream of frustrated breath and rubbed more enthusiastically at her temple. “Georgia, get to the point. Please?”

  “Remember yesterday when you said the UNSUB appears differently to each of his vics? We think—”

  “But can’t prove,” Ned interjected.

  “Right. We think this is intentional. He creates a persona and essentially becomes that persona. Well, what if he’s trying to tell us something?”

  “So far, we’ve been successful in keeping this case out of the press, so he isn’t even aware that we’re on to him,” Sunny replied. For how much longer, though, she couldn’t be sure. Wilder had drawn a lot of local media attention and she expected the journalistic vultures to start swarming any day now once they learned the feds had taken over jurisdiction on the case.

  “I asked Wilder today what she and the UNSUB had talked about when they were together. Of course, she said, they often discussed art. She indicated the UNSUB had told her of his fascination with Albrecht Dürer. He’d even commented on this particular engraving, which is on display at the Met in New York City. Apparently, according to Wilder, he used to sit for hours at the gallery imagining what it had been like as a Christian knight so fierce in determination he could resist the temptation offered by the Devil.”

  “That’s not so unusual,” Ned told Georgia. “When I see Renoir’s Le Moulin de la Galette, I can almost hear the murmur of conversation in the background. Can’t you?” He looked to Sunny for confirmation.

  She shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “While I was sitting through the session with Wilder this morning, it clicked. I went to the library afterward to do some research, which is where I was all afternoon.” She produced another photocopy and set it on the desk next to the Wilder composite of Justin Abbott. “Uncanny, isn’t it?”

  Sunny stood and circled the desk so the three of them had a clear view of the two renditions. “I take it this is Dürer?” she asked, indicating the last photocopy Georgia had provided.

  Georgia nodded. “It’s called Self Portrait. Quite the hunk, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe if you’re into six-hundred-year-old men,” Ned added.

  Sunny braced her hands on the desk and peered more closely at the two copies. “It’s the eyes,” she said slowly. “They both appear almost…lofty.”

  “I agree,” Georgia said. “They underscore the solemn, almost religious feel, in an odd sort of way. Which, by the way, most art historians agree the Christ-like appearance was Dürer’s intention.”

  Sunny straightened and folded her arms, still keeping her attention on the two photocopies. “Wilder and Abbott discussed art at length. Dürer is his favorite, so because Wilder’s so familiar with the art world, she sees Dürer in her mind when she thinks about Abbott, and relates this to our sketch artist. So what does it tell us? That the UNSUB’s seduction goes beyond sexual?”

  Georgia gave her a look overflowing with confidence. “I hadn’t thought of that. But I did come up with three possibilities. First look at the symbolism in the engraving. Devotion. Nothing will distract the knight from his true path. Temptation. The Devil trying unsuccessfully to steer the knight from his steadfast devotion. And finally Death. Not in the literal call-the-coroner sense, but symbolic death. The knight won’t succumb to temptation because it will mean the end of his faith.”

  “The UNSUB is devoted to his task,” Ned suggested. “He’s staying the course and won’t stop until we stop him.”

  “Exactly,” Georgia said. “Second, what if he laid the groundwork so Wilder would subconsciously associate him with Dürer. You can pick up any art history text and find what I did today. I think he’s taunting us, Mac.”

  Sunny admitted Georgia’s theory could have merit, at least on the surface. “This is only one case,” she warned. “Granted, it’s an interesting theory, but it might not hold up against the other cases.”

  The phone on Sunny’s desk rang. “What was the third thing?” she asked, absently reaching for the phone.

  Georgia’s smile widened. “I think our UNSUB is from New York.”

  “MAC, HERE.”

  Duncan smiled at the sound of Sunny�
��s voice. “If Mac were here, I could kiss her.”

  “Uh, hello.” She didn’t sound particularly welcoming. “What can I do for you?”

  The coolness of her tone disappointed him. He’d been anticipating the sweet, intoxicating sound of her laughter, or a husky double-edged reply that would make him hard because he’d been unable to stop thinking about her. “That’s a loaded question, babe. If you’re alone, I’ll be more than happy to tell you.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  He definitely detected an unmistakable chill in her voice, no question. Because he’d caught her off guard, or because he’d called her at work? “Bad time?”

  “I’m sort of in the middle of something.”

  Ah, he thought, his ego marginally restored. “This’ll be quick. Got a pen handy? Friday. My place. Forty-two, twenty-four—”

  “Uh…about that. I’ll have to pass.”

  Not exactly the enthusiastic response he’d been hoping to hear. What happened to the woman he’d held in his arms last night? The one who hadn’t been shy in letting him know exactly what she wanted from him? That was the woman he wanted to talk to, the one he wanted in his bed, not this cold, distant impersonator. “Maybe we should—”

  “No,” she blurted. “It’s just…I really can’t. I’m sorry. It’s not a good idea. Goodbye.”

  The line went dead.

  Goodbye?

  Duncan frowned and hung up the phone. That definitely had not been a polite end to a conversation goodbye. In fact, it sounded more like…

  “Goodbye?” he muttered to himself. “What the hell was that all about?”

  Marisa breezed into his office. “What was what all about?”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, but his gut told him it was definitely something. If Sunny thought she could blow him off without an explanation, then she’d better start thinking again. He couldn’t come up with a single reason for such a drastic change in her personality between last night and this afternoon, but he was determined to find out what had gone wrong.

  “Have Rick get me the address for Sunny MacGregor,” he asked Marisa. Tonight sounded like a good idea to him. “Somewhere in the D.C. area.”

  “The agent who was here yesterday?”

  “One and the same.” Or maybe there were two of them, he thought. The woman he’d just spoken to was a complete one-eighty from the one who’d left him standing in the parking lot in desperate need of a cold shower last night. She’d been an incredibly sexy temptress one minute, then a sweet, innocent flirt the next. She’d had him twisted in so many knots, he hadn’t been able to think straight.

  “Rick’s out serving subpoenas again,” Marisa said, heading for the door. “I’ll ask Lucy, then I need you to clarify some points for me for my presentation tomorrow.”

  As he waited for Marisa to return, he tried to concentrate on the initial police report taken in the Wilder case, but his thoughts kept returning to Sunny and her mysterious behavior. He pushed the file away in disgust.

  Maybe she simply wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship? If he were talking about another woman, he could buy that excuse, but this was Sunny. He didn’t believe it for a second. He wasn’t some teenaged virgin. A woman didn’t nearly come unglued in his arms if she wasn’t hot for him.

  Something had spooked her, he decided. But what?

  His determination to find the answer stemmed from more than wanting her in his bed. Now, more than ever, he needed to ensure the agency’s success. His meeting this morning with Colin had shown him that his brother was serious about expanding his interests in the agency. Not only had Colin relieved him of nearly a third of the files that had been crammed in his office, he’d blown Duncan away when he’d handed over a sizeable check to help cover operating expenses until they were back on their feet financially and consistently generating revenue again.

  Duncan had questioned him on where he’d gotten the money, of course, but thankfully Colin hadn’t taken offense. He’d just smiled and told him when a guy didn’t use his money to run after bad habits, he could save up an amazing amount of cash.

  No way could Duncan ignore that kind of enthusiasm, especially when only three years ago Colin had been as close as he could get to rock bottom. The thought of watching his brother crawl back into the gutter made his stomach churn. Every time an addict fell off the wagon, the odds were against them making it back again. For that reason, Duncan knew he’d do whatever was necessary to ensure Colin’s continued success.

  And that, he decided, included finding out what had spooked Sunny and had her running in the opposite direction. He needed her and the information she had at her disposal that could lead him to the property stolen from Dearborn, Garfield and Wilder.

  After his meeting with Colin he’d placed a few calls to his contacts in Miami and Dallas, but as he’d suspected, all he’d done was rack up more long distance charges. He’d hit the streets afterward and even his shadier contacts hadn’t heard a word about a new cache of hot gemstones. The property had to be somewhere, but where? Unfortunately there was only one person who could answer that question—the Seducer.

  Marisa returned and he spent the next hour going over the presentation with her. With the extra money that had come in and Colin’s decision to take on a more active role, Duncan had decided to go ahead and offer Marisa the promotion after her meeting tomorrow. He and Colin had considered telling her today, but the kid was already giving nervous a whole new dimension. Lucy had been so thrilled with the hefty deposit she hadn’t uttered a word of protest when Duncan instructed her to run an ad for a new administrative assistant and to initiate the paperwork for Marisa’s pay to reflect her new position.

  “Stop worrying,” he told Marisa. He stood to help her carry her presentation materials into the conference room. “You’ll ace it.”

  Her smile was tentative, but hopeful. “From your lips,” she said with a nervous giggle.

  Lucy barged into his office. “Well, now you’ve done it,” she said in an accusatory tone. “I told you no good would come of you playing footsie with that fibbie.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This!” Lucy thrust a sheaf of papers in front of him.

  Duncan let out a sigh and took the fax from her. “It’s only a demand to produce documents,” he said, scanning the cover letter signed by S. R. MacGregor on official FBI letterhead. “Not a big deal.”

  She could just be covering her ass, he thought. The Bureau invented the dotting of i’s and crossing of t’s, and he would’ve done the same thing. Except for her cool dismissal on the phone earlier, he might’ve believed the argument.

  “I’m going to need the Garfield and Dearborn files copied before you leave tonight,” he told Marisa. Sunny wanted his files, then he’d make damn sure she had them, but not without getting something in return. By one means or another, he’d find a way into her investigation, no matter what it took.

  “I sent them out to a copy service,” Marisa said. “The copier’s broken, remember? The files won’t be ready until tomorrow morning.”

  Damn.

  He glanced at the clock on the edge of his desk, which he could actually see now that it was no longer covered by a mountain of files. Ten after six. “And they’re probably closed by now.”

  “At five-thirty,” Marisa told him.

  He turned to Lucy. “Can you stop on your way in tomorrow and pick up the files? I’ve got a meeting downtown that’s going to eat up half of my day.”

  “Consider it done,” Lucy said and wrote a note to herself on a bright red square of paper. “I’ll courier them over to Miss Fibbie as soon as I get in the office.”

  “No,” he said and grinned. “Don’t. I’ll be delivering them to Special Agent MacGregor personally.” Friday night sounded like a very promising time to him.

  Lucy looked at Marisa over the rim of her bifocals. “Is it just me,” she started before shifting her gaze in Duncan’s direction, “or do you see a full
-blown pissing contest about to happen?”

  12

  SUNNY RETRIEVED her mail from the miniscule lock box located off the main lobby of her condominium complex. Without bothering to look at them, she dropped the small stack of envelopes into the heavy shopping bag weighing down her arm. The mail could wait. All she cared about at the moment was slipping under the stinging spray of a hot shower. An even hotter pastrami sandwich delivered by the local deli she kept on speed dial, and an icy bottle of Corona with a twist of lime would come next, followed by a night in front of the television while boning up on art history from the text she’d purchased at the Georgetown University bookstore on her way home from the office.

  A damned sorry excuse for the Friday night she’d been eagerly anticipating. She’d made the right decision in calling off her date with Duncan and refused to succumb to guilt, depression or even regret.

  Too much, anyway.

  She hadn’t heard from him since late yesterday afternoon, not that she blamed him after how rude she’d been during their very brief phone conversation. Her twenty-four-hour internal debate on whether or not to call him back and explain why she’d changed her mind continued to wage a bitter battle inside her. The thought of hearing his voice again, though, when she knew what she’d be missing was just too depressing. She had enough regrets, like not inviting him back to her place when she’d had the chance.

  She managed a halfhearted wave of greeting to Burton, the doorman seated behind the faux-marble horseshoe counter, on her way to the bank of elevators. In the shiny brass panels of the alcove, she caught a disturbing glimpse of her reflection and winced. Good thing her only hot prospect tonight was sole possession of the remote control and the ten-pound textbook. She looked about as appealing as something one of her family’s barn cats buried under the petunias. What little makeup she did wear had long ago faded, leaving her skin pale and bland. The two-week-old perm she’d let Georgia talk her into was a limp, tangled mess. What had been a crisp black linen skirt suit when she’d pulled it from her closet this morning was more wrinkled than a champion shar-pei.