The Intended Victim

by Ivy, Alexandra

  She walked out of the dining room and into the foyer. Grabbing her coat, she was just pulling it on when her mother appeared in the entrance.

  “Remi, be careful,” the older woman said without warning.

  Remi sent a startled glance toward her mother. Had the older woman heard about the murder? It was possible that one of her father’s old friends had contacted her. “Careful about what?” she demanded.

  Liza looked uncomfortable, as if she was regretting her impulsive words. “Just be careful,” she muttered.

  “I will.”

  Stepping forward, Remi brushed her lips over her mother’s cheek and turned to leave the house.

  She would never understand Liza Harding-Walsh, she decided.

  * * *

  As expected, Ash found his brother in his small cubicle. Jax was like all Marcel men: an incurable workaholic.

  He quickly shared what he’d learned in Bailey, watching his brother take notes as he spoke. Once he was done, he expected a few questions about his impressions of Angel’s friends.

  Instead, Jax leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Do you remember O’Reilly?” Jax asked.

  “O’Reilly?” Ash leaned against the edge of his brother’s desk and dredged through his memories. At last, he recalled the weasel of an officer who was always lurking around trying to cause trouble. “Yeah, I remember him. He was an asshole. And a terrible detective. Gage had to turn him in to the Internal Affairs unit.”

  “For what?”

  “Gage claimed he took drugs off a perp and they never showed up in the evidence room.”

  A disgusted expression settled on Jax’s face. There was nothing worse than a dirty cop. “Did he get in trouble?”

  “No. Gage didn’t know if the crime was too petty to warrant an investigation or if someone up the food chain squelched his complaint. I know he was pissed as hell when nothing happened.”

  Jax studied him with a steady gaze. “Do you think he was trying to interfere in your investigation of the Butcher?”

  Ash jerked in surprise at the unexpected question. “Why do you ask?”

  Jax revealed his encounter with the detective, as well as his vague warning not to stir up the past.

  Ash scowled, mentally reviewing his handful of encounters with O’Reilly. The man was a year or two older than Ash and had clearly been bitter about Gage dumping him for another partner. And once Ash had suspected that O’Reilly had been snooping through the evidence they’d collected on the Butcher. That was when Gage had suggested they start keeping their own notes that weren’t included in the official files.

  After Gage’s death, he’d forgotten about his partner’s suspicions. Now he realized he needed to do more than skim through the files he’d just taken out of storage.

  “Do you think he’s just jealous, or is he somehow involved in the murders?” he bluntly demanded.

  Jax grimaced. “Hard to say. It’s possible he’s just being a dick, but I’m going to keep my eye on him,” he said, his voice hard.

  Ash nodded. He knew without a doubt that O’Reilly wouldn’t be able to so much as fart without Jax knowing about it. “Have you started searching for the plastic surgeon?”

  Jax shook his head. “I’ll do that on Monday. Most of the clinics are closed on the weekends.”

  Ash squashed his flare of frustration. He better than anyone knew that detective work wasn’t like on the TV shows. It was slow, and methodical, and, a lot of the time, boring as hell.

  Still, he couldn’t resist hoping for some break in the case.

  “Anything new?” he demanded.

  “Not really.” Jax reached up to rub his nape. “I have the patrols scouring the park for anyone who might have been there on the morning Angel was killed. They’re also pulling any surveillance footage in the area. We might get lucky.”

  “Did she have a phone with her?”

  “Still looking for it,” Jax admitted.

  Ash tried to imagine a young woman without her phone in her hand. It was impossible. Still, if it was missing, it didn’t necessarily mean the killer had it. People could be stone cold and it wasn’t unusual for a passerby to steal the phone or wallet off a corpse.

  “Have you checked out her social media?” he asked, holding up his hands in apology when he caught sight of the irritation flaring through his brother’s eyes. “Okay, I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job.”

  Jax released a short laugh. “That would be a first.”

  Ash grimaced. In hindsight, it was easy to see that he’d come into the department with an arrogance that must have pissed off a lot of people. Including his brother.

  He’d been a young hotshot who assumed he knew it all. Age had, thankfully, tempered his ego. “Only because I’m always right, bro.”

  Jax flipped him off and they both laughed. There’d been occasions when it’d been a pain to work in the same unit, but most of the time they’d cherished the opportunity to share what they both loved.

  Ash’s smile slowly faded. “While you’re in such a good mood, I need a favor.”

  Jax unfolded his arms and leaned forward in his chair. “What now?”

  “I want you to run a background check on a Doug Gates.”

  Jax grabbed a pen and jotted down the name. “Is he connected to my vic?”

  “No, he’s Remi’s next-door neighbor.”

  Jax jerked up his head, his expression hard with disapproval. “Ash . . .”

  “I genuinely think he’s sketchy,” Ash insisted. “He moved in six months ago, he lives alone, and this morning, I caught him peering into her window.”

  Jax stared at him for another minute, no doubt trying to decide whether Ash was being a crazed ex-boyfriend or a vigilant detective. “Fine,” he at last conceded. “I’ll check him out.”

  A portion of Ash’s tension eased. He’d already decided he was going to discover everything possible about Doug Gates. Having Jax use the resources of the Chicago Police Department was going to make it a lot easier.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked his brother.

  “Yeah.” Jax sent him a grim smile. “Go see Mom.”

  Ash swallowed a sigh. He’d bet good money his mother had already discovered he was in town and had called Jax to complain he hadn’t come by yet. Of all the Marcels, his mother was the best detective.

  When Ash was still in high school, the older woman could not only find his pack of cigarettes no matter where he’d hidden them in his room, she had a sixth sense that warned her when he was lying. Plus, she could walk out the door of her house and track down any one of her children, no matter where they were.

  It was uncanny.

  “Are you coming with me?” he asked.

  Jax waved his hand toward his desk, which was hidden beneath piles of folders. “I have a dozen case files I need to look through,” he told Ash.

  “Unsolved murders?”

  “Yep. These are going to take me all weekend.”

  Ash felt a stab of guilt. Jax already had circles beneath his eyes from working late into the night. Now, he was going to be stuck in the tiny cubicle for the entire weekend.

  “Thanks,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion.

  Jax shrugged. “For doing my job?”

  “We both know you’re going above and beyond the call of duty on this one.”

  Jax held Ash’s gaze. “You’re not the only one who cares about Remi.”

  Ash gave a slow nod. His family had adored Remi from the moment he’d brought her to dinner. Not only because they knew how happy she made him, but because she was smart and funny and kindhearted. A woman just like his mother.

  An emotion that was soft and wistful spread through him. “I know.”

  Jax rose to his feet, squeezing Ash’s shoulder before giving him a small shove out of the cubicle.

  “Now go see Mom before you’re the next homicide I have to investigate.”

  Ash lifted his hands in surr
ender. “I’m going.”

  * * *

  Rachel Burke moved across the barren room to stare out the window. Night had settled over the private clinic while she’d been sleeping, revealing the Chicago skyline outlined in lights. She smiled. They shimmered like a thousand diamonds.

  It was weird. She’d lived in the city for twenty-four years, but she’d never bothered to admire the view. Probably because Chicago wasn’t nearly so pretty up close and personal. At least, not in her neighborhood. Her view had included a grimy street that was lined with crumbling brick apartments and windows covered by wire mesh. Most days, she felt like a rat trapped in a cage.

  She grimaced, then released a small grunt of pain. Lifting her hand, she gingerly touched her face. It was nearly healed, but it was still tender.

  The price of success . . .

  The words whispered through the back of her mind.

  That’s what the director had told her. If she wanted to achieve her dreams, she had to be prepared to make sacrifices.

  The first sacrifice had been leaving her home. Something Rachel had been eager to do. She lived in a pigsty with a drunk for a father and two younger brothers who expected her to be their unpaid maid. She’d wanted out for years, but with no high school diploma or job skills, she’d known she would end up on the streets. Or worse. Her only hope had been her beauty.

  She’d been told she was pretty from the day she was born, and while her father had urged her to use her looks to attract a husband who could offer her a stable home in the suburbs, Rachel had refused. She wasn’t going to be satisfied with a boring life with a man she had to depend on to provide a roof over her head. She’d seen what it’d done to her mother. The woman had once been as pretty as Rachel, but after years of poverty and enduring beatings from a husband who wasted his paycheck on booze and gambling, she’d looked closer to sixty than forty when she’d died of a sudden heart attack.

  Rachel intended to trade in her looks for independence. She’d booked a few local modeling gigs, although none of them paid. And she’d done one commercial for a used auto shop. It wasn’t until she’d been contacted by a real director that it seemed her dreams might actually come true.

  The second cost of success, however, hadn’t been so easy to accept.

  Her fingers carefully traced the reconstructed line of her nose. The alterations had been minor, but she’d been reluctant to agree. All she had was her face. What if some quack screwed it up? It was only the thought of being forced to return to her father’s apartment that made her go through the surgery.

  Thankfully, she’d discovered that once the swelling had gone down and the bruises had faded, the modifications had actually improved her appearance. Her nose was thinner and her lips fuller. Plus, something had been done to make her cheekbones more prominent.

  She went from pretty to stunning. And she hadn’t had to spend a dime of her own money.

  Even better, her isolation at the clinic meant that her father and brothers couldn’t be a constant drain on her time or her newly acquired cash. They didn’t know where she was, or how to contact her. A win-win situation.

  Of course, she couldn’t deny that she was starting to get bored . . .

  On cue, the disposable phone that was lying next to the bed started to vibrate. Rachel eagerly rushed forward to snatch it off the nightstand and pressed it to her ear. “Hello,” she said in breathless tones.

  “It’s time to take the next step in your career,” a voice informed her. “Pack your bag.”

  The connection was abruptly ended, but Rachel’s lips curved into a smile of anticipation.

  “Hell yeah.”

  Chapter Eight

  Remi hadn’t meant to eat the entire carton of moo shu pork along with all three pancakes. But Ash had remembered her favorite restaurant and her favorite dish. Plus, he’d even brought her favorite bottle of wine.

  No woman could resist such temptation.

  As they’d perched in front of the breakfast bar chatting about the challenges of teaching, Remi’s tension from the day had slowly eased.

  That was the Marcel gift. All of the brothers had the ability to make people feel relaxed when they were around. She’d often envied their easy charm, watching as they transformed any gathering, no matter how dull, into an entertaining event filled with laughter.

  Swallowing the last bite of her fortune cookie, Remi swiveled the high bar chair and slid off.

  “I’m going to have to run an extra mile in the morning,” she groaned, wishing she’d changed out of her jeans into her stretchy PJ bottoms.

  “We can do that.” Ash flipped a leftover egg roll toward the dog, watching him with adoring eyes. “Right, Buddy?”

  Buddy swallowed the egg roll in one gulp and answered with a bark. Remi rolled her eyes. Her dog had already given his heart to Ash. And not just because he snuck him table scraps. The two of them had formed an instant connection.

  Her heart fluttered. Not figuratively. It really and truly fluttered, like a butterfly zooming from flower to flower. There was something magical about a man who took the time to earn the trust of her dog.

  Of course, she already knew that about Ash . . .

  Trying to ignore the dangerous thoughts, Remi quickly cleared away the empty cartons, her movements jerky. “Are you ready to start on the files?” she demanded.

  He tilted his head to the side, studying her with a curious expression. “You haven’t told me about your lunch with your mother.”

  She grimaced. She didn’t want to discuss her mother. She never did. Their relationship was too complicated. Or maybe it wasn’t complicated. Maybe it was too superficial.

  Whatever the reason, she preferred not to dwell on their awkward relationship. It made her heart twist with a painful sense of regret.

  She met his gaze squarely. He’d already told her that he’d spent the afternoon at his parents’ house. “Do you want to discuss your lunch with your mother?”

  He held up a slender hand. “Touché. My ears are still ringing from the lecture on how a respectful son doesn’t wait three months to visit home, regardless of the fact that I had a full teaching schedule for the semester.”

  She reached for the bottle of wine that was half-full. “You grab the glasses.”

  He didn’t argue, instead taking a glass in each hand and following her into the living room.

  “We make a good team,” he murmured as they settled side by side on the couch.

  She poured out the wine, feeling a heat seep through her. She told herself it was the alcohol, but she knew it had far more to do with the hard, male body only an inch away.

  “Not really.” She lifted her glass to take a sip, ridiculously trying to deny the awareness that had sizzled between them from the first moment their eyes met. “We still haven’t found anything that could help identify the killer.”

  He nodded, his expression one of determination. “True, but detective work is a marathon, not a sprint.”

  “That sounds like something my father would say.”

  He sent her a wry smile. “It’s something every cop says,” he told her. “A lot.”

  Her gaze drifted toward the stacks of manila folders that took up the entire length of her coffee table. Last night, they’d skimmed through the mounds of interviews from the various witnesses, setting aside a handful Ash intended to track down and ask follow-up questions. “I can’t believe these are just your private files.” She gave a shake of her head, unable to imagine how many boxes must be stored at the police station.

  “Interviewing hundreds of potential witnesses is part of the marathon.”

  She wrinkled her nose, recalling how many times she’d been exasperated with her father when he was late for a school event or missed dinner yet again. In her juvenile mind, she’d leaped to the conclusion that he preferred being with his buddies rather than spending time with her.

  “I have a new appreciation for the hours my father spent away from home.”

&nb
sp; “It’s a demanding job.”

  “But important.”

  Ash gave a slow nod, his expression grim. “Especially now.”

  She jerked back her gaze toward the stacks of folders, refusing to dwell on Ash’s belief the Butcher was now obsessed with her. She wasn’t sticking her head in the sand. Not entirely. It was simply the realization that she couldn’t concentrate on finding the killer if she was crippled with fear.

  “When did you and my father first realize there was a serial killer?”

  He leaned back into the couch, absently drinking his wine. She could sense he was dragging up memories he’d kept buried. She didn’t blame him. Being a detective no doubt meant you had to keep all the bad things locked away just to stay sane.

  “It was shortly after I became your father’s partner,” he said. “A woman was found in her home with her throat slit. Our first thought was that her husband was responsible. Or a lover. Statistically, that’s the most likely explanation. Then your father noticed the mark on her breast and realized that he’d seen the same mark on an autopsy photo the year before.”

  Remi was confused. The Butcher’s carving on the breast was small, but it was unique. It was hard to believe that the detectives had dismissed it as a random cut. “No one had noticed it before?”

  Frustration tightened Ash’s features. “The sad truth is that we have too many murders and too few detectives. It wasn’t until we began searching through the old case files that we realized there’d been three other women with the exact same mark.”

  “And you never found any connection between the women?”

  “They were all young with dark hair.” He deliberately allowed his gaze to skim over her. A silent reminder of the danger that stalked her. “And they were all killed in their homes.”

  Remi lifted a hand to touch her temple, reminded of the memories that remained trapped in her mind. Would it have made a difference if the cops had realized from the start that they were dealing with a serial killer? Impossible to know for sure.

  “Nothing else?” she asked.

  A muscle twitched at the base of Ash’s jaw, and Remi realized she wasn’t the only one recalling her encounter with the Butcher. Hastily, she lowered her hand.