The judge shouldn’t let this memo be read in court. It didn’t actually speak to her credibility. What it did was plant a seed of doubt. The defense attorney was backed into a corner—throw his witness under the bus, or have the jury always wonder Why did she leave? What was in that memo?
“I’ll allow it,” the judge finally stated.
Dawson glanced to the bench. The judge hadn’t noticed his presence in the room, only Carey had. And she was fucking flaying him with her gaze. He wished he could save her. He deserved all of her hatred. He also deserved her forgiveness.
For a man who could control everything around him, he only felt helpless when it came to her. He fucking hated it. He felt ready to crawl out of his skin seeing her put through this shit again.
“Ms. Falzon.” His Assistant District Attorney leaned against the bench, a smug and triumphant smile across his face. Dawson wanted to strangle him. The prick was getting too much joy out of this, humiliating her. “Would you like to tell us why you separated your employment with Lakeside County, or would you like to read this memo for the record?”
Carey never took her eyes off him. She hadn’t spoken to him in three years. She’d blocked his number. His emails bounced back undelivered. Even his letters came back with “return to sender” scrawled across the front.
“My colleague and friend sent me emails detailing his feelings for me, as well as graphic fictional stories about my advances on him.” Each word was saturated with pain and hatred. “His fantasies were taken as fact, despite both of our statements to the contrary. I was asked to leave my position due to a conflict of interest. Three months later, he was given a promotion to District Attorney.”
“Sure. Now, you were fired because you developed an inappropriate relationship that brought into question all the investigation you had done for the county.”
“I was asked to leave because an assistant district attorney sent me an email.”
Dawson had done more than that. They both had. But there was no proof of their encounters. She was sticking to the story that he’d told his supervisor, hoping to save both of their asses. It didn’t work. His fantasies had done her in, that much was true. He still thought about her falling to her knees in front of him or showing up in his office late at night, bending over his desk, begging for his cock.
It made him hard just thinking about the things he’d written to her years ago. He shifted in his chair, adjusting his pants around his growing length. Carey’s withering stare probably should have had a calming effect on him; instead, it made it worse. The battle, the chase, that was half the fun. And she looked ready to put up a fight.
The prosecutor moved to walk back to his seat but stopped short. “One more thing. Who is your landlord?”
Carey’s face twitched, and she turned her gaze to the prosecutor. “Mr. Canter.”
“Where do you live?”
“In an apartment above his office.”
“Where does he live?” the ADA asked casually.
“In the other apartment in the building.”
“How much do you pay in rent?”
Oh, that slick fucker. Dawson knew exactly why Carey had faltered. He knew where this line of questioning was going. That ADA had found a way to take a tinge of doubt and turn it into a pattern.
“It’s part of my compensation package.”
“Huh, seems like you might have more than a professional relationship with Mr. Canter. You get paid your fifteen-hundred-dollar fee and free rent. Any other benefits the court should know about?”
“Objection!” The prosecutor slammed his hand on the table. “This is outrageous.”
“Sustained.”
“Nothing further.” The prosecutor waived his hand dismissively and took his seat.
“Ms. Falzon.” The defense attorney stood for his redirect. Please fucking salvage this. “What is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Canter?”
“He’s my employer,” she said. The fire was gone from her eyes, and her shoulders slumped slightly.
“Thank you, nothing further.”
“Ms. Falzon, you’re excused. Court will adjourn for the day. The defense will continue at eight a.m. tomorrow.” The sound of the judge’s gavel was drowned out by shuffling papers and fabric as everyone stood and gathered their things, preparing to leave the courtroom.
Carey stepped down from the witness box. Her eyes were fixed on the door behind him. She’d spent the better half of the last hour looking at him, and now she refused to meet his gaze. She strode down the center aisle, her shoulders rigid and chin held high. Even among the noise of the other dozens of people around them, the sound of her stiletto heels rang out as her feet pounded against the wood floor. Her hips swayed with every footstep, and even her fucking tits bounced as she made her way toward him.
She was every wet dream he’d had for the last three years.
“Carey,” he said, standing up as she passed by him. His voice came out louder and rougher than he’d intended. She didn’t even pause. Her gaze didn’t falter. She walked right by him out into the hallway and headed toward the bank of elevators.
He followed behind her. His own feet echoed hers as his dress shoes struck the marble floor. Dawson buttoned his suit coat and straightened his pants, because his fucking blood was pounding, and Carey’s ass was swaying in front of him, and all he wanted to do was to get her alone.
CHAPTER THREE
______________
CAREY
There was a reason she’d refused all contact with him after she’d left her position. She couldn’t say no to him. Even though she resented him and blamed him, she still wanted him. She still missed him. She needed to get away from him because there was no chance in hell she was going to let him win.
She picked up her pace and slipped into an empty elevator just as the doors were closing and exhaled slowly before turning around and pressing the button for her floor.
“Motherfucker!” She jumped and pressed her back to the wall of the elevator. “Why? Why, Dawson?” How had he gotten in behind her?
“Carey, just listen.” His voice was low and commanding. It wasn’t a request, it was an order. A warmth kindled in her core while her fingers itched to reach out and slap him.
“Just hit the next floor. I’m leaving.” When he didn’t move, she reached toward the panel of buttons and jabbed whatever three floors her fingers hit.
Dawson put himself between her and the control panel and grabbed her wrist, forcing it back down to her side. His other hand reached behind him and pulled the emergency stop.
Her mouth fell open. “You are absolutely ridiculous,” she said as she jerked her hand from his grip and retreated to the far corner of the elevator. “I hope that sounds some sort of fucking alarm somewhere calling fire, police, and EMS, you arrogant asshole.”
“Then I’d better talk fast.” He took a step toward her.
“Stay away from me,” she snapped. “It doesn’t matter what you say.” She glared at him and could feel her cheeks burning. She was pretty sure if she looked down at her chest, redness would be blooming across her sternum. Her body always betrayed her. Dawson smirked, knowing the telltale sign of her arousal. Fucking pale skin. He smelled rich and spicy, looked fucking amazing—better than she remembered. She wanted his hand on her wrist again, and those goddamn emerald eyes kept crawling over her body and would not stop moving.
Neither did the elevator. Ha, he couldn’t control everything.
Dawson spoke in a measured voice. “I didn’t know they monitored personal email accounts at work. I did everything I could to rectify it. Come back.”
Again, an order. He was not in a position to be giving orders.
The doors opened and Carey pushed by him. It didn’t matter what floor she was on; she couldn’t be in that six-by-six box with him anymore. She might forgive him.
She stepped out into the hallway and turned around, getting her bearings. You’ve got to be fucking kidding.
“Know this: the only reason I’m coming peacefully is because I’ve faced enough embarrassment for one day,” she snapped.
They walked down the hall together, and Dawson nodded to people as they passed, smiling amiably. They turned a corner into the waiting area outside of his office, and she tore her arm from his grip.
“DA Carter!”
Carey jumped at the sudden interruption.
“Sweet, Carey, you’re here too. His secretary said that he was in court with you, but I didn’t realize you were together, you know? I thought you’d gotten out of this side of the business.”
She turned around and smiled, actually grateful for the rescue. “Hey, Sloane, how’ve you been? Come join us. We’re catching up.”
“Sloane, I’ll have to talk to you later. I’ll take the case file, but I don’t have time to talk.” He glared at Carey, barely acknowledging the other woman in the room.
“Nope. We need to talk. All of us. Now.” Sloane pushed past Dawson and let herself into his office. Carey didn’t even try to hide her grin. He was fuming, his mouth set in a thin firm line, his hands in fists at his side. Fuck, it felt good to see him wound this tight.
She met his eyes before following Sloane, and her heart stopped. Skipped a beat? He looked like he wanted to destroy her, devour her. Her chest tightened, and she was pretty sure she’d forgotten to breathe as her grin slid into a sly smile. This whole situation was killing him. If—or when—he ever got permission to come back to her, he would make her pay. Warmth spread throughout her chest as she turned and joined Sloane in his office.
“What the hell is going on?” Dawson barked.
“Do you want the long story or the short story?” Sloane asked, completely unfazed. That bitch was tough as nails. She had to be in her line of work. She worked in IT hunting down vile humans on the internet—which meant she spent her day watching nightmares come to life online.
“Short story. I have business with Carey.”
“This involves Carey too. Someone is fucking with us. And by us, maybe I just mean law enforcement.” She dropped her file down on the desk and opened it up, fanning out the photographs inside. “Taylor, Detective—”
“I know Craig,” Dawson said gruffly as he pawed through the pictures.
Sloane just rolled her eyes and carried on. “She was on vacation. She got this strange poem and a bowl full of severed thumbs with an USB drive.”
“What?” Dawson finally focused on Sloane.
“Yeah. She brought the drive and thumbs back here over the weekend. Marc has been working on the thumbs and the poem while I analyzed the disk. These photos,” she said, pointing to the folder, “were on the drive. There are a dozen crime scene photos, and then photos of us. You, me, Carey, DeWitt, and Taylor.”
Carey moved closer to the desk, but Dawson dominated the situation, shuffling through the pictures until he came to the ones of their colleagues.
“Where did they come from? Who sent them?” Dawson asked.
“There’s more,” Sloane continued.
“Fuck, Sloane, this is not something you turn into a short fucking story. Just tell us everything!”
Carey moved past them and fingered the papers on the desk. Dawson’s reaction surprised her. She could hear some genuine panic in his voice. Maybe it was because she was already beyond emotionally drained from the day, or maybe she was just so used to hearing crazy things criminals did—either way, she wasn’t quite as concerned as he was. Someone was taunting the police, sending them old crime scene pictures. Big deal.
“I received a case from a CI this past week. Someone is selling access to a snuff film livestream. I gained access and have been watching the feed of the victims in line to be killed. There’s eight of them.”
“What the fuck does this have to do with us?” Dawson snapped.
“I’m getting there,” Sloane growled, finally losing her cool facade. He fucking deserved worse. He was probably being an asshole just to get rid of Sloane and get a moment alone with Carey. “Marc has been working with me, and he noticed all of my victims’ thumbs were missing. We think that we may have been able to match up a few of severed thumbs from Taylor’s crime scene with my victims. Obviously loosely, just based on age and race. But that can’t be a fucking coincidence.”
Carey finally came across a picture of her. It was one of the crime scene photos. She was in the background, bent over, placing a marker by a piece of evidence. The scene was in the woods. A clearing in the woods. It looked familiar, but obviously it would be; she’d worked that scene. Unfortunately, she could think of more than a dozen bodies that had been found in the woods while she worked for Lakeside.
“So Taylor is on vacation, she finds a poem and a bowl of thumbs,” Dawson said, his voice slightly calmer. “Meanwhile, you’re here, working on a case that your CI brought you with people missing thumbs.
“A confidential informant. Not my confidential informant,” Sloane corrected.
He nodded. “And there’s also this external drive. With crime scene photos and pictures of me and Carey?”
“Not just the two of you. Half a dozen people, all spread out through different departments. Taylor, me, the two of you, and Detective DeWitt. I’ve tried to find him to give him the information, but I haven’t been able to track down where he’s working.”
“He’s a U.S. Marshal now. That might be hard. Okay, and tell me more about the people in your case about the murder livestream. Let’s not dull it down with ‘snuff.’ If they’re dying, it’s murder.”
Carey was listening intently, taking it all in, but still looking through the pictures Sloane had brought. There weren’t just photos of the people she’d mentioned. There were dozens of photos, of each of them. She hadn’t gotten to the ones of her, but she’d already skimmed through pictures of Taylor and Sloane. Whoever had taken them had been stalking all of them for years. There were pictures of Taylor as a beat cop, and she was a detective even before Carey had left the county. What could possibly be that important to whoever had done this that he’d spent years obsessing about it?
Sloane took a deep breath to answer Dawson’s question. “They’re in an abandoned building. The rooms are all identical; bare floors, no windows, no furniture, one entrance. I haven’t seen the captor’s face. He must feed them when they’re not on screen—the feed rotates between the rooms and only shows one person at a time.
Marc noticed the injuries to their hands, otherwise they appear unharmed. Only one person shows signs of infection, so he wants to keep them alive, at least to kill them. I think he must have cauterized the wounds and have some medical training because one out of eight is really good for an amateur, and Marc said the thumbs were cut neatly and at the joint.”
“Or a butcher, experience with animals and butchering,” Dawson added.
“Yup,” Sloane continued. “So I had a call out to local law enforcement with information on my victims to see if they matched with any missing persons reports and haven’t heard any word back yet. But, like I said, Marc ran the thumbprints through the FBI’s NGI database, and we may have some hits. And they are all over the place. Age, sex, race, nothing in common.”
“They have to have something in common,” Carey said, turning around. “Even if that something was that they had a regular schedule and were convenient. There’s something that ties them together.”
“We haven’t found it yet,” Sloane said, shaking her head.
“Is there a promised date and time for these murders on your livestream?” Dawson asked.
“No, and he promised a dozen deaths, and he hasn’t added anyone new in the days that I’ve been watching, so hopefully we still have some time.”
“What ties us together?” Carey asked.
They both stared at her without answering.
“It’s not a rhetorical question
. Think about it. We all know that a perpetrator doesn’t pick his victim at random. He might say it’s completely random, but even if all he wants is a woman he’s attracted, to there’s no randomness to choosing the grocery store on a less-traveled side street, with poor street lights, and finding that one brunette who looks for her keys too long.
“So what ties us together? Those pictures are years’ worth of documentation. He’s been planning for years, and we have days, maybe weeks, to find him before he kills those people. Why us? Why them?”
Dawson looked at her, mouth agape. “You know how many times I heard you say, ‘the science speaks for itself’ or ‘my degree is in forensics, not psychology?’ Canter has taught you a lot since you left.”
“He sure has,” she said with a wink.
His jaw tensed, and the muscle just below his ear flexed rhythmically. She smiled and returned to the photos on the desk. If he insisted on keeping her here, she would definitely make him work for it.
“Sloane,” Dawson said through gritted teeth. “We’ll keep these photos. Try to figure out the crime scene. Can you email me what Marc found on the prints that may belong to your victims? Maybe Carey and I can figure out what ties all of us together.”
“Keep the file. I’ll be in touch,” she said as she left his office.
CHAPTER FOUR
______________
CAREY
Dawson closed the door behind her and turned around to face Carey. “Close that. We have something to settle.”
Carey leaned against his desk. “I don’t know what you think we have to settle. You emailed me from your work computer, and I was the one forced to resign, because your head is filled with fantasies of me begging for your cock.”
“You did beg for it, Carey,” he said closing the distance between them.
Hot Pursuit- the Complete Collection Page 9