Read the book: «Dying To Play»
PRAISE FOR
Debra Webb
“Webb moves effortlessly between two very diverse romances
and masterfully keeps the reader on the edge
until the last page.”
—Romantic Times on Striking Distance
“Debra Webb delivers page-turning,
gripping suspense and edgy, dark characters
to keep readers hanging on…”
—Romantic Times on Her Hidden Truth
“Debra Webb draws readers into an
enthralling suspense with terrific characters…”
—Romantic Times on Physical Evidence
“Debra Webb’s fast-paced thriller
will make you shiver in passion and fear.”
—Romantic Times on Personal Protector
Dear Reader,
The editors at Harlequin and Silhouette are thrilled to be able to bring you a brand-new featured author program beginning in 2005! Signature Select aims to single out outstanding stories, contemporary themes and oft-requested classics by some of your favorite series authors and present them to you in a variety of formats bound by truly striking covers.
You may notice a number of different colored bands on the spine of this book. Each color corresponds to a different type of reading experience in the new Signature Select program. The Spotlight books will offer a single “big read” by a talented series author, the Collections will present three novellas on a selected theme in one volume, the Sagas will contain sprawling, sometimes multi-generational family tales (often related to a favorite family first introduced in series) and the Miniseries will feature requested, previously published books, with two or, occasionally, three complete stories in one volume. The Signature Select program will offer one book in each of these categories per month, and fans of limited continuity series will also find these continuing stories under the Signature Select umbrella.
In addition, these volumes will bring you bonus features…different in every single book! You may learn more about the author in an extended interview, more about the setting or inspiration for the book, more about subjects related to the theme and, often, a bonus short read will be included.
Watch for new stories from Vicki Lewis Thompson, Lori Foster, Donna Kauffman, Marie Ferrarella, Merline Lovelace, Roberta Gellis, Suzanne Forster, Stephanie Bond and scores more of the brightest talents in romance fiction!
We have an exciting year ahead!
Warm wishes for happy reading,
Marsha Zinberg
Executive Editor
The Signature Select Program
Dying To Play
Debra Webb
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for selecting my latest book, DYING TO PLAY, for your reading entertainment. Elaine and Trace’s story was one I had yearned to write for quite some time.
The premise for this story came to me after my computer crashed and I felt totally lost and out of the mainstream for a whole week. I marveled at the idea that microwaves, computers and cell phones had become such an integral part of our lives that we could hardly survive comfortably without them. We trust what our eyes see and what our ears hear. When we review our bank account balances or monthly bills online or on computer-generated statements, we assume that what we see represents accurately our assets and liabilities. But what if someone tampered with those checks and balances? How would one know until the damage was done if a payment were stopped on an important check without our knowledge, or automatic electronic payment for some special service that supports a loved one were to go missing in cyberspace? What if we simply got the wrong lab results or the wrong prescription? Would we take the time to notice? Would we think to even look? We’re so busy, why think? We have computers to do that for us now. Who’s running this showing anyway? Us or them? As a rational person, you’re probably asking yourself, what’s the big deal? You would eventually notice and set things right, correct? Well, toss this into the scenario: we all live with immense stress these days. We live fast, and often by the seat of our pants. For some people all it takes is one more straw to break the camel’s back. Have you been there? Do you know someone who has?
I think you get the picture. So, please enjoy this story. I know you’re dying to read it!
Best,
A very special thanks to Marsha Zinberg
for all her hard work and this fabulous opportunity.
This book is dedicated to the very first editor to read
my work, Tina Colombo. Thank you for the best advice
an aspiring romance author could ask for—it worked!
Dahmer, Bundy, Gacy…
Such pathetic attempts at greatness…
They knew nothing…
They did not know what I know…
I am pure genius, perfect in every way…
I, and only I, have the game…
And everyone is dying to play…
—The Gamekeeper
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Bonus Features
A conversation with Debra Webb
Getting to know the Characters
Here’s a sneak peek…
Prologue
Once the game is started it cannot be stopped. Not for anything. Not for anyone.
He had no choice.
Brad Matthews didn’t look like a murderer or even a man who would carry a weapon. His suit was Armani…his shoes Ferragamo. But his manner of dress had been more reflex than conscious thought. He’d had only one thing on his mind this morning.
Nothing else mattered anymore.
He no longer cared if he lived or died, but he couldn’t risk his wife…his children.
He wouldn’t risk them.
At 9:05 a.m., just as the Gamekeeper had instructed, Brad walked into the downtown Atlanta Commerce Bank. He strode straight to the private office of the bank’s president, an office where he’d done business many times.
His prey looked up and smiled, welcoming a trusted business associate of his beloved bank, but before he could rise from his leather executive chair, Brad drew the revolver he’d hidden beneath his jacket. He clenched his jaw and fired three shots into the president’s massive chest. The startled look that claimed the man’s face proved oddly calming to Brad.
He’d done it.
Screams and confusion erupted in the lobby beyond the glass wall that stood between him and the rest of those present inside the bank this Monday morning the first week of May…the last morning Brad would ever see.
The two security guards were sprinting in his direction, weapons drawn. Brad shot two more times, taking down one of the guards and sending the other one diving for cover. Then he turned the gun on himself.
Now it would end.
Picturing his wife and children one last time, he fired the final round.
Chapter 1
This was one of those necessary little annoyances in life a woman could definitely do without, Elaine Jentzen thought glumly. And on such a perfectly beautiful day. She’d fallen in love with the day the moment she stepped out into the early-morning sunshine. The air was fresh and the sky looked bluer than she’d ever seen it before. The sun glittered like a sparkling Georgia peach climbing its way into the cloudless blanket of pure blue. The smell of spring was everywhere. But she’d had to leave her small, neat, Dunwoody home to drive across Atlanta to be here at nine sharp.
She supposed it could be worse, though; she could be having her period and stuck on an after-hours stakeout with her partner, Hank Henshaw. Her nose crinkled instantly as her mind conjured up the odor of stale cigars and cheap aftershave.
No, she decided as she flipped through a fairly recent issue of Working Woman, this was even worse than an after-hours stakeout.
Elaine sat in a stiff, upholstered chair in front of her gynecologist’s cluttered desk. She waited, her patience wearing thin, for him to come in and go over his findings with her. She never understood the need for this particular part since the results of the Pap test wouldn’t be back for days. What could he tell her? That she looked tired? Overworked? She already knew those things. She worked fourteen-hour shifts most days, even the occasional Sunday. She’d accrued enough leave time to take the whole summer off, but she couldn’t…or wouldn’t, of course. Her job always came first.
If she were at work now she wouldn’t have time to reflect on things she’d just as soon not think about. She sighed and tossed the magazine aside. She hated these appointments. That was the reason she’d waited over two years to come in for her annual exam.
One would think she’d committed a crime of the worst order. Not only had the receptionist who’d made today’s appointment tsked when she saw on the computer screen that Elaine hadn’t bothered to come in at all last year, the nurse had also firmly counseled Elaine as she led her to the exam room this morning. The you-know-better-than-that lecture had continued as Elaine stepped into the tiny dressing room and removed her clothing.
She was the deputy chief of detectives for the Atlanta Police Department, Homicide Division, for Pete’s sake. She wasn’t supposed to cow so easily to a gray-haired, rosy-cheeked nurse who looked old enough to be her grandmother. But there was something oddly intimidating about having to take her clothes off under orders from a woman who would have made the staunchest instructor at the police academy proud.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, then there was the humiliating experience of greeting the doctor while wearing a paper gown that opened down the front. Of course, Dr. Bramm could always be counted on for bedside humor, especially the kind that involved police work, like, “Captured your quota of bad guys already this week?”
Elaine had laughed, as expected, and gone on to answer his barrage of health questions in the most normal tone possible, considering her body was being plundered with cold, clinical objectivity.
She’d explained about the acute cramping and the increased nausea, which were the actual reasons she’d even bothered to come in. She was twenty-nine, the youngest detective, male or female, ever to make deputy chief. She didn’t have time to be sick—or to be at this appointment. But she’d said nothing of the sort to the good doctor. Any negative comment on her part would only serve as a catalyst to start him on a tirade about how people took better care of their cars than themselves. She vaguely remembered hearing that one, the last time she was here.
She’d thought at first that her ulcer might somehow be causing the new problems and had said as much to the doctor. Lord knew it was already the bane of her existence. To her way of thinking she should own stock in the Tums and Maalox companies by now. But Dr. Bramm had informed her pretty quickly that her current symptoms might not be related to her ulcer at all. Then he’d felt compelled to repeat the lecture she’d already heard from the militant nurse who stood by, smiling and nodding in punctuation of his every word.
A lengthy exam and ultrasound later, Elaine waited in the doctor’s office for his closing comments. He would lecture her some more, she presumed with a fair measure of certainty. She’d decided that, when he drew out the exam and insisted on the ultrasound. She couldn’t ever remember one of these visits taking so long or being so complicated and uncomfortable.
Let him have at it with the lecturing. She’d take it, feign humbleness and swear on her life that she would never miss another annual exam. And everyone would be happy again.
When Dr. Bramm at last entered the office and sat down behind his massive mahogany desk, rather than feeling relieved as she’d fully expected, Elaine went on instant alert. Between his rigid posture and the solemn expression on his face, the news couldn’t be good. If it was, the man needed to seriously rethink his bedside demeanor.
She resisted the urge to jump to conclusions. She absolutely would not even think about the “c” word. Other than the blasted ulcer she was young and healthy, surely it couldn’t be that bad.
He opened her chart and stared at it for one somber moment before looking up at her over the rim of his bifocals. “Elaine, are you familiar with the term endometriosis?”
A tiny burst of fear flared inside her. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly, searching her memory for recognition. She found none.
He closed the chart and laid it aside, the gesture somehow ominous. “It’s an abnormal growth of cells in the female reproductive system which sometimes spreads to other organs. Some of the symptoms you related to me, the pain, the nausea, were suggestive of the disease.”
Elaine tried to read him for a clue as to the severity of the problem, but his expression was closed now. “So, just how bad is it?” Another slow, hesitant response, so out of character for her. She shrugged in an effort to shake off the adrenaline pumping through her veins, making her heart pound. It wasn’t as if he’d said cancer. Or had he? “And what do we do about it?”
He reclined in his chair and considered her questions for a time before answering. “Based on my preliminary findings and the severity of the symptoms, I’d say it’s advanced. Stage three or four. Of course, there are more detailed tests needed.” He flared his hands. “I’m going to refer you to a specialist. Once he confirms my diagnosis, he’ll likely suggest surgery and hormone therapy.”
“Surgery?” Elaine could feel her muscles tensing. She felt nauseous, even more so than usual. She should have eaten this morning. She would pay for that oversight. More Maalox or Tums, whichever she had in the car, would be in order.
“We won’t know how extensive the surgery will need to be until you see the specialist,” he said, obviously being vague. “He’ll give you more details about what you can expect and how the disease will affect your future.”
An epiphany abruptly struck Elaine with a stunning effect. “Does this mean I won’t be able to have children?”
The question seemed to echo in the room. Children. She hadn’t really given much thought to the possibility before. She would have one or two eventually, she’d assumed. Eventually being the operative word. Right now her whole life was focused on her career. She didn’t even have a boyfriend. She blocked that seed of self-pity before it took root. She definitely wasn’t going there at the moment. The fact was she’d put her entire personal life on hold eight years ago, and now the future was bearing down on her with what felt entirely too much like an ultimatum. She came from a big Catholic family. She wanted children. Someday.
Dr. Bramm sighed. He looked directly at her, his eyes giving her the answer before he spoke. “I can’t give you any absolutes. I can only say…it’s doubtful that you’ll be able to conceive at this point. Very doubtful,” he stressed. “If we’d only discovered it sooner.” He shook his head solemnly. “But we’ll do everything we can to increase the probability if that’s what you want. You’re still single?”
“Yes.” Elaine felt as if someone else had answered the question. This couldn’t be happening. She came from good stock. Both her parents were healthy and fit. Her older sister had four children already. And her three brothers had a whole gaggle of kids, all of which she doted on incessantly. Would loving her siblings’ children have to be enough for her?
The doctor went on to praise the credentials of the specialist he’d recommended, but another realization had hit Elaine with the force of a bullet between the eyes, stealing her attention. This was her fault. She’d put her education and career before all else since she was eighteen years old. She hadn’t taken the time to do the little things that she was supposed to do to take care of herself. Though she was thin by anyone’s standards, she ate too much junk food, didn’t really have time for anything else. She tried to make up for it by running every night with Sally, her big old golden retriever, until she exhausted herself. She didn’t smoke, but she did indulge in a little too much wine most nights before bed to help her sleep.
No one would argue, however, that she didn’t have the perfect excuse for her negligence. Her job was incredibly stressful.
Who was she kidding? Her job was murder.
Literally.
And now the prospects of having children, of sharing her future with anyone, were dim at best.
Maybe even dead. Who would want her now?
She had no one to blame but herself.
Suddenly her cell phone sounded, shattering the tense silence. Elaine fished for it in her bag and glanced at the number on the caller ID—Henshaw.
“I’m sorry, Doc,” she offered apologetically. “I have to take this.”
“Of course.” He stood. “I’ll have the nurse make you an appointment with the specialist,” he added on his way out.
Elaine nodded as she flipped open her phone, or at least she thought she nodded. It was hard to tell at times like this. She rocketed into cop mode, and all else zoomed into insignificance.
“Jentzen. What’s up?”
Henshaw’s rusty voice sounded on the other end of the line, “Need you down at the Commerce Bank on Peachtree. Got another one of those multiple one-eight-ohs just like last week. Three dead, one injured.”
She was up and out of the doctor’s private office before her partner completed his last statement. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Elaine hurried from the clinic with the promise that she would call back for the time and location of the appointment with the specialist.
Right now duty called. And, as she’d said before, her job was murder.
Chapter 2
The trip from the clinic on the east side to the scene of the crime on Peachtree Boulevard took nearly half an hour in the early-morning rush hour traffic. Elaine cursed under her breath every mile of the way. No amount of road construction ever seemed to alleviate the overcrowded expressways and streets in Atlanta. It amazed her that the city planners couldn’t think far enough ahead to do better than this.
Images of empty cradles and groomless weddings kept vying for her attention, but she savagely tamped down each new intrusion before it could form fully in her head. There was no time to dwell on this newest development in her life. There was never enough time.
If she’d ever once contemplated slacking off on her career at some point in the future, that wasn’t going to happen now. The job was likely all she’d have, considering what fate held in store for her. She clenched her teeth and blinked back the welling emotion. She didn’t need this right now.
Her faithful old Jeep screeched to a halt at the entrance of the parking lot located next to the downtown Commerce Bank. Uniformed cops were checking every vehicle that came in or out. She couldn’t recall the two rookies’ names but they recognized her and waved her through without question. Elaine flashed her badge just the same.
The usual crowd of spectators and newshounds had gathered on the sidewalk near the street. Some were likely employees from the various other businesses along this block, others were probably early-morning shoppers.
Several patrol cars, lights flashing, were parked strategically around the bank. Elaine climbed out of her Jeep and approached the large two-story building’s entrance. The setup was just like any one of the dozens of other banks in the Atlanta metropolitan area. What made this one the target this morning? That was the million-dollar question.
“Detective Jentzen!”
Elaine slowed as a familiar voice called out from the crowd of onlookers.
“Detective Jentzen! Can you tell us what’s happening inside?”
Turning toward the voice, Elaine manufactured a smile for the Chronicle reporter to cover her impatience. Three more reporters pushed forward in hopes of getting an answer to their questions or at least a usable sound bite. A television crew was already setting up just outside the crime scene perimeter. The circus was in full form, and she wasn’t even in the ring yet.
“I have no comments at this time,” she said calmly. “I haven’t even been inside. I’m sure we’ll have a statement for you by noon.” Ignoring the barrage of demands that followed her response, she resumed her journey toward the bank’s entrance.
“Deputy Elaine!”
Elaine suppressed a groan. Just what she needed. Skip Littles. Reluctantly she glanced over her shoulder without actually slowing down.
“Deputy Elaine! You won’t take even one question this morning?”
Though Skip wore a press pass he wasn’t really a reporter. But he desperately wanted to be one. He grinned at her, the sun glinting off his thick eyeglasses. He worked at the Telegraph, that was true enough, but he was just an assistant. He was one of those people who garnered instant sympathy from her; she just couldn’t help herself. Besides, he had helped her out once or twice when she needed some research ASAP.
Walking backward a few steps so as not to give the impression that she intended to stop long enough to field their questions, she held up a finger. “Just one,” she said placatingly, earning a few glares from the real reporters.
Skip grinned from ear to ear. “Did someone die inside the bank this morning?”
She hesitated but couldn’t see the point in evading the question. “Yes.”
The satisfaction on his face perked up her low mood. Turning her back on the new onslaught of questions, she hurried to her destination. She’d done her good deed for the day.
A couple more uniforms guarded the double-door entry leading to the lobby. Elaine badged her way inside.
About a dozen employees, all clearly shocked into silence, stood huddled together near the long teller counter waiting for their turn to give a statement. In situations like this it was preferable to take the witnesses one at a time, to lessen the likelihood of confusion or agreement based simply on what the other guy said.
A forensics tech was methodically photographing the lifeless body of a security guard who lay on his back in an unnatural sprawl in the middle of the marble-floored lobby. Annoyed that the find-’em-and-bag-’em guys had started without her authorization, but not bothering to make a scene about it at the moment, Elaine crouched down to take a closer look at the victim. One bullet hole marred his brow just above his left eye. His gaze was frozen in a look of surprised horror or something on that order. Blood had leaked from the wound and matted in his blond hair. The guy couldn’t be more than forty. Elaine blew out a heavy breath. Most likely married. One glance at his left hand confirmed her assumption. Kids, too, probably.
Another bout of foolish emotion wreaked havoc with her equilibrium. She had to get a grip here.
A few yards away an EMT was patching up the second security guard. A uniform hovered nearby, waiting to question the wounded man.
Elaine pushed to her feet and moved in the direction of the dense crowd of official personnel, including her partner. Through a glass wall she could see him in one of the offices. Henshaw, Detective Jillette and Walt Damron, Chief Medical Examiner, were deep in discussion. Walt rarely showed up at crime scenes anymore. Elaine wondered briefly if he was shorthanded this morning.
Henshaw saw her coming and met her just outside the office door. “Everything check out all right?” he asked, eyeing her speculatively.
“Fine,” she lied. “You the first on the scene?”
He rolled the cigar stub that served as a permanent accessory to the corner of his mouth. “Yep. I guess that puts you in charge. Jillette just dropped by to watch the show. Flatt’s around here somewhere.”
Elaine resisted the urge to grimace. Flatt was an ass. He’d gone out of his way to make her life miserable since she made DC. She glanced around the chaos of the spacious, Greek-Revival-style lobby. “Looks like you’ve already initiated all the right moves.”
Henshaw angled his head toward the office he’d exited. “Want to see the primary victim and the perp? It’s just like the last one…too weird.”
She nodded, her mind automatically sifting through the images from last week’s mass murder. A customer had walked into a beauty salon and opened fire with a 9mm Beretta. No apparent motive, no nothing. A twenty-four-year-old college graduate in her first year of medical school, home for the weekend, had killed three people, then turned the weapon on herself. No family problems, no financial woes, no love-life theatrics.
Nothing.
Except four dead women, one being the shop owner.
Drawing back to the here and now, Elaine followed Henshaw through the group crowded outside the office. A brass plaque on the open door proclaimed the space as belonging to the bank’s president, Harold Tate. Mr. Tate sat crumpled in his leather executive’s chair, his starched shirt now gruesomely bloodied by the round bullet holes in his chest. Oddly, his navy-and-gray pin-striped tie lay unsoiled against the red-stained white cotton blend of his shirt.
“Brad Matthews,” Henshaw announced, staring down at the dead man on the floor in front of the president’s desk. “Financial consultant and newest full partner at Wylie, Brooks, Renzetti and Matthews just down the street. Wife, two kids, no record.” Henshaw shrugged. “Just like the lady last week.”
“Anyone here know him?” She glanced back at the employees in the lobby.
“All of ’em. They said he was a nice guy. He’s done business here, personal and professional, for years. He was quiet, polite and extremely intelligent, according to the first uniform on the scene. He said none of the employees can believe Matthews did this.”
Elaine squatted down and took a closer look at the shooter. Thirty-five maybe, fit, handsome. Two kids. She shook her head. What a terrible waste. “No problems between these two?” She looked from Matthews to the older man behind the desk, then at her partner.
“None that anyone knows of,” Henshaw said.
Elaine stood, uneasiness poking its way through her usual objectivity. Nothing about this felt right. “There has to be something,” she insisted. “Dig until you find it. Having two unmotivated mass killings this close together is simply too bizarre. There has to be a reason. We’re just missing it somehow.”
“If there’s any chance these two can be related,” Jillette offered, abruptly reminding Elaine of his presence, “I think we should work on it as a team.”
Unreasonably annoyed, Elaine looked at the man who’d spoken. He was only a couple years older than her, but he already had that male-chauvinist mentality down to a science. His dark hair was slicked back and, as usual, he was over-dressed. He looked ready to attend Sunday church service rather than investigate the scene of a multiple homicide. Jillette and Flatt did the GQ look like no one else in the division, earning themselves the nickname Ivy Leaguers.
How could she have forgotten Jillette was here? He and Flatt were working the beauty salon case. The similarity of the MO of this one had no doubt drawn them to the scene. As much as Elaine hated Flatt, she supposed Jillette’s suggestion made sense. “If we find a connection,” she qualified, “we’ll do just that.”
“Any reason we can’t get started now?” Walt wanted to know, another presence that had slipped her mind while she studied the dead man…husband…father. A parent—something she might not ever be. A pang of hurt sliced through her before she could evict the ugly reminder from her head.
Elaine surveyed the fairly undisturbed scene once more. The gray suit jacket hanging neatly in the corner where Mr. Tate had left it only minutes before his life abruptly ended. The overturned chair where Brad Matthews had fallen. The .38 Smith & Wesson Special clutched in his cold, unyielding fingers. He could have gotten that weapon anywhere. They were a dime a dozen on the street.
“Go ahead,” Elaine told Walt. “I’d like his drug tox and anything on that weapon as soon as possible.”
Walt cocked an eyebrow and feigned the offended bit a little too well. “Everything I do is done as soon as possible. Or didn’t you know that, Deputy Chief Jentzen?”
Elaine rolled her eyes. “Of course, what was I thinking?” He was right. Walt was as efficient as he was meticulous. She frowned then, remembering the oddness of his presence. “What’re you doing down here, anyway? I didn’t think Kathleen allowed you out of the morgue.”
Kathleen was Walt’s secretary. She was widowed, had been for years, just as he had. It was rumored that those two were secretly in love with each other but refrained from a relationship because of the job.
The job. God, what a pathetic existence they all lived in this line of work. No wonder there were so many divorces among criminal-investigation and law-enforcement personnel.
“I’m training a couple new techs,” Walt said firmly, ignoring her comment about Kathleen.
Elaine nodded. She’d known he would do just that. “Yeah, I noticed the one in the lobby was a little trigger happy.”
Irritation wrinkled Walt’s brow as he leaned to his right to peer through the glass wall behind Elaine. She resisted the urge to turn around and see what the tech was up to now. The look on Walt’s face said it all.
Walt muttered a curse. “Can’t get decent help these days,” he complained as he stomped out of the office.
Henshaw made a covert gesture toward the door. Instinct warning her that this wasn’t good, Elaine followed him into the short corridor that led to the rear emergency exit.
“Look, Jentzen, there’s something you oughtta know,” he said quietly as he glanced first right, then left. He plucked the rarely lit stogie from his mouth.
“What is it?” she asked, instantly moving to a higher state of alert. Henshaw had been in the division longer than any other detective, even the chief. By rights he should have been deputy chief years ago, but the powers-that-be had allowed a jackleg like Hindman to keep the position until he retired, which was about ten years too long. When Hindman finally retired, Henshaw was too close to retirement himself to be considered for the position. So said the chief, anyway. Though Elaine was proud of her promotion and she damn well knew she deserved it, Henshaw had gotten a raw deal. He should have been DC years ago instead of Hindman.
“Just before you got here there were a couple of Feds snooping around.”
Elaine shrugged. “It’s a bank, they have jurisdiction. I’m surprised they’re not still here.” She actually hadn’t even thought of that until that precise moment. She swore silently. Just another example of how this morning’s appointment had rattled her. But she had to stay focused.
Henshaw stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Yeah, I know it’s their jurisdiction, but there was something funny about it. Not the least of which was that one of ’em wasn’t local.”
Elaine felt the beginnings of a low dull ache right where a frown was creasing her forehead. “What do you mean funny?”
“Trace Callahan.”
She mentally repeated the name a couple of times before recognition broadsided her. Trace Callahan. “Jesus.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Henshaw muttered. “The way I heard it the guy’s been off field duty for two years.”
Elaine considered what she knew about Callahan. According to local scuttlebutt the Bureau’s top Febbie, the nickname regular cops used for federal agents, had gone over the edge a couple years ago and had been jockeying a desk ever since. “You’re sure it was him?”
“It was him.” Henshaw lifted one shaggy gray brow and gave her the look. The one that said, I can’t say where I heard it, but you can take it to the bank, no pun intended. “Word is he actually tried to kill some perp with his bare hands shortly after that whole bizarre case two years ago.”
She’d heard the same thing. “He lost his partner, right?” If she remembered correctly, there was also gossip that Callahan and his female partner were lovers. The idea only added to her uneasiness. This was definitely not her day.
Henshaw nodded. “Yeah. Most everybody, including Callahan himself, thought it was his fault. He screwed up an operation and she bit the dust.”
Callahan had been the best of the best, the Bureau’s big star, but he seemed to just come unglued. Everybody in Homicide had heard the rumors. Though Callahan worked directly out of Quantico, the liaison agent who worked between Atlanta PD and the boys at the local Bureau office had kept the chief unofficially informed of the whole sordid story. It was front-page news for a while before the big news outlets moved on to something else.
“Well,” Elaine offered, “if Callahan is one of the Feds assigned to this case, then we’ll simply have to deal with him.”
“I’m just saying,” Henshaw countered, “that it could be risky business. That’s all.” He waved his hands in a magnanimous manner. “Hell, he could be the greatest frigging investigator on the planet, but if you can’t count on him during a field op, I don’t want no part of working with him. If he goes ape-shit again I want to be clear of the fallout.”
Elaine’s cell phone rang, saving her from having to make promises she might not be able to keep. She dragged it from her shoulder bag and flipped it open. “Jentzen.” It was the chief. He was brisk and to the point. “I’ll be right there,” she assured him. He wanted her at the office ASAP. She dropped her phone back into her bag. “Got a command performance with the chief. I’ll touch base with you later, Henshaw.”
He nodded. “I guess I’d better get over there and see how the interviews are going or Flatt’ll be taking over for me.”
Elaine watched Henshaw amble out to the lobby before she made a move to go. Callahan. Though she’d never met him in person, she’d heard plenty about him. The man had received numerous commendations from the FBI director, even a couple from the president himself. By all reports, Callahan was some sort of Bureau legend. Then, two years ago, things had gone wrong for him. According to the chief, he hadn’t been the same since. She’d seen his face splashed across the TV screen during the hoopla after his partner was murdered. Elaine shivered. He was as handsome as sin.
And every bit as deadly, if even half the rumors were true.
Chapter 3
By eleven-thirty, only twenty minutes after he’d called, Elaine stood outside the chief’s office. Connie, his longtime secretary, had told her to go on in, but she hesitated for some reason. She couldn’t actually justify her hesitation. It seemed irrational, yet she felt compelled to wait a moment longer.
Maybe it was everything that had happened that morning…a bad mix of personal crisis and unsettling professional remorse. Too much waste. Too little time. The possibility that the two mass murders could be connected—could happen again—weighed heavily on her. How was she supposed to keep Atlanta safe if she couldn’t solve these two crimes? It was her job to see that they got solved. She needed more Maalox. More time, and a frigging crystal ball.
At least, she considered, the day surely couldn’t get any worse.
Taking a deep, bolstering breath, Elaine clasped the door-knob, gave it a swift twist and pushed her way into the large, perpetually cluttered office. She didn’t bother to close the door behind her. Why feed the rumor mill? She marched straight up to the boss’s desk and produced a wide professional smile.
“Good morning, sir.”
Chief John Dugan glanced up from the papers he was riffling. “Have a seat, Jentzen. I’ll be right with you.”
That perfect blue sky she’d admired this morning served as a backdrop behind him through the wall of windows. His office had an amazing view, one of the best in the city. At night the city lights were awesome. She knew firsthand. Another twinge of regret needled her. God, if she didn’t know better she’d swear she was premenstrual.
Putting all personal worries aside, she sat down, dropped her shoulder bag to the floor, crossed her legs and relaxed into her chair. She mentally reviewed what she’d noted at the crime scene that morning. Then reviewed it again in an effort to keep her mind from wandering.
It didn’t work.
Despite her most gallant attempt, her gaze followed the chief’s every move. The slow, methodical shuffling of his strong hands. The determined set of his shoulders. He was tall and quite attractive for a man closer to fifty than forty. He wore his graying hair cropped short. Smile lines bracketed his eyes and mouth but didn’t detract from his good looks. He was a solid, good man. Inside and out.
That was what had first attracted her to him.
As a new detective assigned to his division, the only female at the time, John had taken her under his wing. He’d treated her as an equal and made sure she’d learned her lessons well. The affair had been an accident.
Neither of them had intended for it to happen. John was newly divorced, she was plain lonely. All work and no play had sent her social life on a crash-and-burn course. Falling into a relationship with John had been so easy…too easy. For an entire year they’d stolen forbidden hours every chance they got, had great sex and generally enjoyed each other’s company. But that was the extent of it. Neither of them had visions of a future together. It had been about safe, convenient sex.
Six months ago, though, when she’d gotten her promotion, Elaine had ended the relationship. She’d felt it was wrong under present circumstances. Truth be told, she’d felt more than a little uncomfortable for a while before that. John had sworn he’d recommended her for the promotion based on merit, but she couldn’t dispel the niggling little doubt that their personal relationship had somehow played into his decision.
She knew she was the best person for the job…that was a cold, hard fact. She worked harder than anyone else in the division, had from the beginning. Her very first case, kidnapping and murder involving four Atlanta children, was proof of her single-minded focus. Breaking that case had been a huge boost to her fledgling career. She’d maintained a collar record to match her ambition ever since. She was a natural at organizing ops…a born leader, John called her. But still, she was the youngest detective in the division, seniority- and age-wise. Henshaw had been the first to publicly show his support of her selection. But others, Flatt in particular, had not liked it one bit. He had even gone so far as to make little accusing remarks when he had known she would overhear.
John had told her to ignore the rumbles. It would pass, he’d assured her. And it had, for the most part. Flatt and a couple of others were still a little PO’ed about being passed over, but she could deal with them.
Still, at moments like this she wondered.
“So.” John settled back into the leather chair behind his desk and focused his full attention on her. “Does it look like the bank case could be connected to the beauty salon murders?”
“There are some similarities,” she admitted. “But it’s still too early to tell. We may discover that Matthews had a beef with Tate.” She shrugged. “Or even that he slipped over the edge for some reason. Who knows? Maybe the bank turned him or one of his clients down for a loan.”
John considered her words for a moment. “If there’s even a remote possibility that there’s some sort of shared manipulation or influence playing into this, I want you to follow it as far as you can. I don’t want another multiple homicide scene next week. The papers are going to have a field day with this. We’ll be reading about it every step of the way.”
Elaine nodded. John had to deal with the uppity-ups on these kinds of high-profile cases. The mayor would not be a happy camper if this happened a third time. Of course, all good detectives could see into the future. Determining if the two crimes were connected and preventing another one should be a piece of cake in the mayor’s opinion. It truly amazed her that the man had gotten elected.
“We’ll have to keep close reins on this one,” John reiterated, in case she didn’t get it the first time. “The mayor doesn’t want any leaks. We need to keep a lid on every aspect of this investigation.”
“I’ll do my best.”
John smiled at her. The same kind of smile that had once made her pulse react, now only flooded her with asexual feelings of affection. She wondered briefly if she’d forgone birth control during their relationship, would she have gotten pregnant? Had it already been too late then? How would he have taken that kind of complication? How would she have dealt with it? She almost sighed aloud, but caught herself. Had that whole year been another waste? If she’d tried harder, could it have been more? God, she really was a mess. She didn’t have the time or the option, careerwise, to try harder. Not then, not now.
“I know you’ll do your best,” he said, dragging her focus back to the conversation. “There’s just one glitch.”
She tensed, a warning registering. “What kind of glitch?”
He exhaled a frustrated puff of air, clearly dreading what he was about to say. “You know this one is Federal jurisdiction.”
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “If they want lead, they’re welcome to it.” She sure as hell wasn’t going to fight for this one. It was a no-win situation. Then again, the last thing she wanted was to be at the beck and call of a couple of arrogant Federal agents who thought they were God’s gift to women, if not mankind as a whole.
John erased all emotion from his expression right before her eyes. Uh-oh. Whenever he went deadpan, things deteriorated rapidly for the detective sitting on the opposite side of his desk.
“They don’t want lead,” he said quietly, too quietly. “In fact, they’ve asked for you by name.”
The air in the room suddenly thickened with the uncomfortable feel of a setup. Elaine arched an eyebrow as much in surprise as skepticism. “For me? Why would they want me?”
“Apparently they’ve heard of your stellar reputation.” A hint of a grin quirked his lips. “If they want the best, they’ve asked for the right detective.”
Irritation nagged at her despite the compliment. “Stop stonewalling and tell me about the glitch.” There was more to this, a lot more. She had a bad feeling. He was doling out too much good up front.
The chief took his time before answering. “Apparently there is some aspect of this case that caught the Bureau’s attention. They believe these two murder sprees are definitely connected. One of their agents thinks he may know who’s behind them.”
That was just too surreal. “We don’t even have any tangible evidence,” Elaine argued. “How the hell could he know that? It’s not like there’s even been the first real clue.”
John flared his hands, obviously as much at a loss as she was. “Beats me. But if the FBI director trusts this guy enough to follow his instincts, I’m certainly not going to question him.”
He had a point there. And a good chief or director always backed his detectives and agents. Elaine had to admit that as much as she despised Flatt personally, he was a good detective. She’d back him if the need arose.
“So, what exactly do they want?” She needed clarification here. If she was going to have to play flunky for some G-man, she wanted as much information as possible at the start.
John looked directly at her and said the last thing she wanted to hear. “They want to team you up with their agent. They want the two of you focused solely on solving this situation.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he stopped her with an uplifted palm. “They’re that sure of this guy, Elaine. I wouldn’t have said yes, if they weren’t so sure. Especially under the circumstances.”
She sprang from her chair and parked her fists on her hips. “You said yes without asking me first?”
That deadpan expression never wavered. “I did.”
She bit back the scorching four-letter word that raced to the tip of her tongue. “I hate this,” she murmured fiercely. “I want that on the record up-front. I already have a partner, a real cop. What’s Henshaw supposed to do while I’m playing lackey to some buttoned-down hotshot who thinks he’s some kind of Top Gun character?”
“Don’t worry about Henshaw,” John assured her. “We’ve got plenty to keep him busy. I thought I’d put him on the Fishnet murders.”
“Oh, he’ll love that,” Elaine mused, some of the fight draining out of her. What was the point, anyway? Damn, she needed more Maalox. Her stomach burned like hell.
The Fishnet case was a string of prostitute murders where the victims had been strangled with fishnet stockings while in a compromising position. Henshaw wouldn’t mind. He’d probably enjoy the scenery. Elaine wanted to kick something. But what was the use? She’d still be stuck working with the Feds. Up close and personally.
“This won’t be the first time you’ve worked a joint task force. What’s the big deal?” John wanted to know.
What’d he expect? Enthusiasm?
She looked directly at him and said exactly what was on her mind. “I have a partner. I don’t need another partner.” She glared at her boss for emphasis. “And I damn sure don’t want one who no doubt suffers with the same ailment all Feds do—the God complex.” One of the chief’s comments abruptly pushed its way through her irritation. Especially under the circumstances. What the hell did that mean?
“Well if it makes you feel any better, Detective,” a husky masculine voice drawled from the doorway some ten feet behind her, “I don’t want a partner, either.”
“Dammit,” she hissed, her eyes closing briefly in self-deprecation. Elaine turned slowly toward the man who’d spoken. Though she’d never met him, she recognized him instantly. That ruggedly handsome face as well as the stance, both weary and wary, contrasted sharply with his starched shirt and khakis, silk tie and polished brown leather loafers. There was something raw about him—besides the weapon nestled in its holster against that mile-wide chest. It radiated off him in waves. A distracting mix of confidence, masculinity and sexuality.
Elaine disliked him on sight.
“Elaine Jentzen,” John announced unnecessarily, then cleared his throat, “this is Special Agent Trace Callahan. Your new partner.”
Callahan strolled slowly toward her, each step a deliberate act of intimidation. But Elaine wasn’t intimidated. Surprised at her body’s foolish reaction to him, yes, but not at all intimidated. Ignoring the swirl of awareness in her gut, she thrust out her hand when he got within shaking distance.
“I wish I could say it’s a pleasure, Agent Callahan,” she said bluntly. So he was the circumstances the chief spoke of.
Callahan closed a hand over hers, unexpectedly sending a surge of pure heat spiraling through her. Those analyzing blue eyes never left hers for a second. “The pleasure’s surely mine, Detective Jentzen,” he said smoothly, so damned smoothly that she almost shivered. “And not to worry,” he added, holding on to her hand when she would have pulled away. “I left my God complex at home this morning. I’ll be sure to do that for the duration of our partnership.”
Fury burst inside her, and a different kind of heat scalded Elaine’s cheeks. “See that you do, Callahan,” she shot back. “And we’ll get along just fine.”
Something on the order of a smile played about the corners of his mouth as he released her hand. “No problem. We Top Guns are always on our best behavior when working with real cops.”
Her day had just gotten worse.
Chapter 4
“Have a seat, Agent Callahan,” John offered before shooting Elaine a look that meant two things—sit down and shut up.
Too pissed off to be submissive, she ignored her boss and looked directly at Callahan, daring him to make the first move. This close, his gaze startled her. It was more than simply analyzing…it was penetrating. Pure blue, like today’s sky, only ice-cold. Those eyes bore the experienced lines of someone who had witnessed too much…given too much. A chill shivered through her.
“After you,” he said with a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. It was more like a practiced offering. A compromise he’d trained himself to make during situations like this.
Elaine blinked and looked away from those disturbing eyes. “So, who’s in charge?” she asked John, determined to nail down that point right off the bat.
“You’ll lead,” Callahan interjected. “So long as,” he qualified, “we understand each other.”
Oh, he was smooth. She knew precisely what he meant. So long as he got his way, she was in charge. She sent him another evaluating look. “I think we understand each other perfectly.” With that said, Elaine sat down. She didn’t miss the relief on John’s face. This was awkward for him she knew, but at the moment she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to play nice under present circumstances.
Callahan settled into the other chair, his gaze lingering on her. She could feel him watching her…weighing the challenge she represented.
“We don’t want any conflicting obligations,” John told her, getting back down to business. “I don’t want your focus scattered by anything. We’ll let Flatt fill in as deputy chief while you’re on this case.”
Elaine stiffened as insult was added to injury. No way was she taking this without a fight. “I don’t see the necessity. I’ll still report in as usual. I can handle both.”
John shook his head. “I’m in agreement with the Bureau on this one. The case needs yours and Agent Callahan’s full attention. Anything less is unacceptable.”
Fury flamed inside her. It didn’t have to be this way. “Why not Henshaw? He’s senior, let him fill in.”
“My decision is final.” The look John gave her was more telling than his words.
Elaine recognized the futility of arguing the issue further. Once John Dugan made up his mind there was no changing it. Whatever his reasons for choosing Flatt over Henshaw, she had no choice but to accept the situation. But she didn’t have to like it.
“Fine,” she agreed tightly. This whole day had sucked. What was one more injustice? She almost laughed. And here she’d thought things couldn’t get any worse.
“I’ll need a status report every twenty-four hours,” John went on. “To keep the mayor abreast of the situation. I’ll also keep Senior Supervisory Agent Douglas informed,” he advised Callahan. “It’s my understanding that you’ll report directly to me throughout the investigation just like Jentzen.”
Callahan nodded. “That’s right.”
Surprise, surprise, Elaine thought. The Feds were staying out of the main loop. She wondered what hidden significance that goodwill gesture carried. Someone was pulling out all the stops on this one. No doubt to appease the mayor.
“So we understand each other here?” John asked looking at her again.
“Absolutely,” she said succinctly despite the fact that she didn’t understand any of it. And she damn sure didn’t like it. She hated this kind of politically motivated crap.
John stood, an act of dismissal. “Then I’ll let the two of you get started.”
Elaine snagged her purse and pushed to her feet. “Thank you, sir.” Disappointment flared briefly in John’s eyes at her curt tone. She refused to feel guilty for that, too. Though she felt sure he really didn’t like this any more than she did, she resented the feeling of helplessness it gave her. He’d been in on the decision making; she’d had no say at all. But he had a job to do. And so did she.
Not waiting for Callahan, she walked out while he was still shaking hands with John. It didn’t take the guy long to catch up to her. She’d just pushed into the stairwell when he breezed in behind her.
“We headed someplace special?” he asked as he slipped on a navy-blue jacket that exactly matched the silk tie he wore.
“Back to the scene of the crime. Where else?” Elaine started down the stairs without looking at him. If he was lead, would he have started someplace else? She banished that line of thinking. She was lead; she didn’t care what he would do.
“You want me to drive?” He was right beside her, his feet keeping time with hers. “My rented car’s—”
“I’ll drive.” She still didn’t look at him.
“Suits me.”
The last two flights of stairs were descended in silence. Well, silence, that is, if she discounted the war of conflicting thoughts and emotions inside her head. Every part of her that made her a woman wanted to cry out at the injustice fate had thrown her. The cop in her wanted to rant further about the whole setup of this little joint task force. But she couldn’t lose control…not right now. Later, when she was at home alone, she would allow herself to think about something besides the case again. Definitely not now, with some hotshot secret agent on her heels.
At the west exit that would take them to the personnel parking area, Elaine hesitated before opening the door. Something the chief had said suddenly rose above the rest of the chaos inside her head. She turned to the man waiting behind her. “Why me?”
His stare was analyzing and went on long enough to make her want to squirm, but she resisted. There was something totally unnerving yet somehow intensely spellbinding about his eyes. It was as if he could read her thoughts…could see inside her. She purposely cleared her mind, just in case.
“Does it matter?” he answered her question with a question, his voice carefully devoid of inflection.
“Chief Dugan said you asked for me,” she explained, suddenly uncharacteristically uncertain of her ground.
Something shifted in those intense blue eyes…some barely discernible emotion she couldn’t possibly read. “Douglas asked for you. I wouldn’t have.”
Douglas—his boss. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who had a problem with a new partner. “You wouldn’t have?”
“I would have preferred a male partner.” That unsettling stare cut to her marrow.
“You think one of my male peers would do a better job than me?” she demanded icily. She felt a muscle tic in her cheek at the absurd notion that Flatt or Jillette or any of the others could do a better job than she could.
He shook his head. “I’m sure you’re more than competent, Detective Jentzen,” he said in that slow, quiet drawl, honey sweet and polished smooth. “But in my experience women are ruled more by their emotions than by their gut. Emotions can get you killed.”
She lifted her chin defiantly. “You would certainly know more about getting someone killed than I would.”
He flinched and she immediately regretted her words. At least to a degree. Obviously Henshaw had been right about Callahan’s past.
“Let’s just say,” he offered in that same controlled tone, “that I’d rather spare you learning how that feels.”
He reached for the left breast pocket of his jacket as if it were second nature. A frown lined her brow as she considered the small bulge in that same pocket. A pack of cigarettes?
“You smoke?” she asked, her intolerance of the habit more evident in her voice than she’d intended. This just kept getting better and better. Her favorite uncle had died of lung cancer after half a lifetime of smoking. She’d almost broken Henshaw from the habit. What the hell was she supposed to do with a good-looking, smooth-talking, cigarette-smoking partner who had gotten his last partner killed?
His hand dropped back to his side. “I used to,” he admitted, just a hint of reluctance weighting his words.
She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “If you’ve quit, why are you still carrying a pack?” She glanced at his pocket once more for emphasis.
“It’s a long story. One I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in.”
Before she could say anything else he reached around her and opened the door. Her breath caught at his unexpected nearness. The vaguest scent of aftershave, something she couldn’t readily identify, piqued her senses, made her want to draw closer.
Turning swiftly away from him, Elaine led the way to her black, badly-in-need-of-a-wash Jeep. She climbed into the driver’s seat and reached over to clear the passenger side. She tossed the files she’d taken home to review, her linen jacket, and a take-out box containing the remainder of yesterday’s lunch into the back seat.
Callahan slid onto the seat, his long, lean frame making the vehicle seem suddenly too cramped. He pulled on his seat belt after noting she’d done so. The act was awkward, unpracticed, as if he rarely performed it. Well, whenever he rode with her he would wear it. She would see to that. She might be stuck in this situation, but she would retain every aspect of control possible.
As she pulled out onto the street, she glanced at his profile. He had those chiseled good looks, all angles and shadows, that Hollywood clamored for in leading men. A pair of designer sunglasses slipped into place as she watched, only adding to the movie-star mystique. His dark-brown hair was short, a little longer on top where it waved, draping a few locks down his forehead for a sexy touch.
Just another reason to dislike him. He was too perfect on the outside. Women likely flocked to him in droves, only to discover the internal goods were damaged.
She fixed her gaze on the street before her. Damn, just what she needed. A new partner who would not only get in her way, but who would also create distractions, for her as well as any other female around, wherever they went. Dammit, dammit. Why the hell hadn’t Douglas picked Flatt or Jillette for this assignment? A realization of sorts struck her with staggering force. She was a woman. The Bureau likely believed she would be easier to control.
Well, Elaine didn’t like playing the submissive part. She didn’t like it one iota. She stole another sideways glance at her passenger. Midthirties, she guessed. Definitely not the marrying type. Before she could school the thought, she’d checked out his left hand. No ring.
She wanted to kick herself for looking. She didn’t care if he was married. She didn’t care that he was too damned handsome. She had a job to do, and Mr. Hotshot Superagent wasn’t going to distract her.
Pain stabbed deep in her midsection, followed by a burn at once familiar and dreaded. She grimaced. Dammit. She needed to eat. But she wasn’t about to go to lunch with this man. Keeping her eyes on the road, she reached for the Maalox in the center console. She opened it with a savage twist and drank a long, deep swallow.
Feeling immensely better as the thick, velvety liquid slid down her esophagus headed toward the volcano erupting in her stomach, she screwed the top back on and chucked the now-empty bottle onto the back seat. She’d definitely have to remember to pick up a new one.
The free sample has ended.
