Read the book: «The Profiler»

Praise for Lori A. May’s The Profiler

“Lori A. May writes a psychological thriller that will have you turning pages even while chills chase up your spine…. If you love a good mystery with an action-packed plot and more twists and turns than a roller coaster, pick this one up today.”

—Cathy Cody, Romance Junkies

“…action, mystery, deception and growth…. The story will keep you glued to the pages as you turn them to find out what will happen next….”

—Pam Clifton, A Romance Review

“Severo, what the hell are you doing? Didn’t I tell you not to follow me?”

But as his shadow moves from the backdrop of the sun, clarifying his silhouette, his shoulder width is different from what I expect. This is not Severo.

He raises a hand, revealing a container of kerosene. He angles the container downward and fuel drizzles into the room. “Revenge. I’m sure you can understand that, Angie.”

He pulls a lighter from his pocket. As I scramble to grasp hold of my fallen gun, a blow finds its way to my head, and the shadows stop.

Dear Reader,

What’s in your beach bag this season? August is heating up, and here at Bombshell we’ve got four must-read stories to make your summer special.

Rising-star Rachel Caine brings you the first book in her RED LETTER DAYS miniseries, Devil’s Bargain. An ex-cop makes a deal with an anonymous benefactor to start her own detective agency, but there’s a catch—any case that arrives via red envelope must take priority. If it doesn’t, bad things happen….

Summer heats up in Africa when a park ranger intent on stopping poachers runs into a suspicious Texan with an attitude to match her own, in Rare Breed by Connie Hall. Wynne Sperling wants to protect the animals under her watch—will teaming up with this secretive stranger help her, or play into the hands of her enemies?

A hunt for missing oil assets puts crime-fighting CPA Whitney “Pink” Pearl in the line of fire when the money trail leads to a top secret CIA case, in She’s on the Money by Stephanie Feagan. With an assassin on her tail and two men vying for her attention, Pink had better get her accounts in order….

It takes true grit to make it in the elite world of FBI criminal profilers, and Angie David has what it takes. But with her mentor looking over her shoulder and a serial killer intent on luring her to the dark side, she’ll need a little something extra to make her case. Don’t miss The Profiler by Lori A. May!

Please send your comments to me c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Best wishes,

Natashya Wilson

Associate Senior Editor, Silhouette Bombshell

The Profiler
Lori A. May

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LORI A. MAY

began her writing career as a freelancer until one day she decided to aim for a higher word count. While creating thrilling dramas is her primary focus, she continues to pursue other literary interests, and her short fiction and poetry has been published in Canada and abroad by periodicals such as The Claremont Review, Zygote and Coffee Press Journal. Lori lives in Southwestern Ontario and more information about her writing may be found at her home on the Web: www.loriamay.com.

Thanks must first be given to Lynda Curnyn who offered encouragement and the first editorial eye in my Bombshell journey. Your kindness and support has never gone unnoticed, and I wish you the best of success forevermore.

To Natashya Wilson, who is not only a wonderful and attentive editor, but also shows such tremendous support in developing new authors. You are a gem, and I am honored to be working with you.

Without the support of my agent, Jay Poynor, who knows where I’d be? Jay, you are perhaps the most kind and generous person I have ever met. Many thanks for your hard work, luv.

To the countless Red Dress Ink authors who have provided words of wisdom and encouragement along the way, I must offer sincere thanks for your willingness to cheer on emerging authors. You ladies—and you know who you are—have my utmost respect and gratitude.

Exceptional thanks must go to Erica Orloff for friendship and professional guidance. This road would not be the same without you in the front seat.

Without the knowledge of Sandra De Salvo, I would have spent much more time researching the hard way. Thank you for your insight, suggestions and willingness to pick up the phone.

Much love to my family for your support and applause throughout the years. And to Zaida, for reminding me to laugh.

Contents

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 1

I lean my forearms into the open car window to get a better look at him. He’s clean shaven, wearing a pricey suit, and looks as though he could be my bank branch manager. But he’s not.

Smoothing down my black, vampy skirt, I look at him with eager eyes. “Wie hätten Sie’s denn gern?”

He unlocks the passenger door and tilts his head. “Get in.”

Sliding into the plush seat, I take in the scent of bleach and notice the immaculate state of the interior. When someone’s car is this clean, they have to be hiding something.

I fasten my seat belt and face him. In stunted, slow-motion English I repeat my question. “How would you like it?”

His eyes remain on the road as he pulls away from the corner. “I don’t much care for small talk.”

I nod my head silently. Traffic on the streets is sparse and the neighborhood is fast asleep at this hour—4:00 a.m. I guess even New York can have its quiet times. There’s the odd cabbie in sight, but little action. But action‘s exactly what this man’s looking for, and I plan on giving it to him.

He pulls into a parking lot outside of an old warehouse. Everyone knows the general atmosphere of the meatpacking district. For crack dealers and runaways it’s a haven amid the streets’ reality, but for guys like my john it brings a whole new meaning to hanging meat.

The Hudson’s proximity lingers in the air, reminding me of the uncomplimentary reputation this area has come to possess with its history of criminal activity, where strangers seek solace in an abandoned corner of the city. The only remote sign of humanity, in a very generous definition, is the flock of hookers hanging out along the docks. This is a world far removed from Lower Manhattan, yet for someone decked out in Wall Street gear this man sure feels at home.

When he turns off the ignition, I wait for his movements before exiting the car. He’s taller than I first noticed, and his walk is swift and rigid. Out of sight from catcalling workers, busy on the end of the night shift, my john maintains his focus on getting me indoors and to himself. Just as I suspected he would.

I follow him closely and when I reach his side, he grabs the back of my neck, guiding me into an entrance. With one hand, I reach to my necklace and feel the pendant resting against my throat. It’s safely in place.

Inside the deserted warehouse, the man pushes me against the concrete wall. His force is powerful, and I do as he says.

He gestures while demanding, “Take off your shirt.”

Though his voice at first sounds soft and almost gentle, it has depth to it, as though he is hiding years of being held in subordinate corporate disrespect. It’s as though only now, here in this dark place, he is able to reach beyond his station in that other world, where bottom lines and cocktail parties regulate his worth.

I slide my blouse over my head and toss it to the side, careful not to disturb my pendant. With an aggressive shove, he presses his face into my neck, biting at my skin. I feel little shots of pain, but remain calm.

This place smells like death and urine.

It’s disgusting. Evidence of this man’s previous engagements are sparsely scattered throughout, proving he is no ladies’ man. The floors are caked in mud, blood and piss, and I have to breathe conservatively to keep focused.

Rapidly, he scrapes his teeth against my flesh, biting into my bra to access my nipples. He won’t be getting away with more than that today.

He holds me against the hard surface of the stained, worn wall. With his eyes intent on my body and one hand placed on my head, he pushes me down so that I am eye level with his crotch.

I’ve never wanted to chomp down on something so badly.

“Do it,” he says, unzipping his slacks. His voice is threatening, yet defensive, as though part of him cannot believe the words coming from his own lips. “And no spitting.”

My pulse is quickening. I can feel my own heartbeat as I try not to struggle against his restraints. When I see his trademark tattoo, I know I’m in the right place at the right time. However much he might vacillate, hot one moment and cold the next, this man’s final actions speak volumes about his struggle for power.

This shouldn’t be taking so long.

“Open your mouth, bitch!” As if to emphasize his words, he slams the back of his hand against my face.

I instinctively fight back, scrambling to my feet to elbow him in the stomach. As I grab hold of his head and knock it against the cement wall, he fumbles for my hair and, with it, pulls my face close to his. His inner contradiction is officially over.

“You gonna do what I say or do I have to make it easier on you?” His two hands are cradling my neck, and I know that, with one quick twist, he could garner some animalistic satisfaction.

My eyes speak for me as I contain myself, and he licks the creased corner of his lips with pleasure as one of his manicured hands reaches behind him, only to return to my face, revealing an unusual weapon. He playfully slides the edge of his knife, unique with its hook-like point, down past my cleavage, and I brace myself, knowing this is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

My nervous perspiration feeds into his needs and, content with my display of fear, he slides me back into position, all the while keeping the knife’s edge within an inch of my flesh.

I feel the skin of my knees wear against the friction of my latex-enhanced boots as I dutifully kneel on the pavement. He shoves his hips into my face, and I am fragments of an inch away from the infamous inked image of Zeus.

His moaning begins even before I move toward him. Leaning in closer, I slowly slide one hand into the lining of my thigh-high boot and feel the trigger of my Bauer .25. The man moves his groin into my face and I prepare to pull out the pistol.

“Put your hands up!”

As I hear the familiar voice from a cluttered corner of the warehouse, my blood ignites. With a sweep, I grab hold of the john’s legs, tripping him to the floor to unleash his grasp on the knife, and aim my gun at his dick.

“You foreign bitch! You set me up!” Although he wriggles in my grip, having his crotch as my target keeps him in place.

With one eyebrow raised, I coyly lean forward and say, “The only thing foreign to me, pal, is how you’ve been able to get away with your bullshit for so long. You got a thing for raping and gutting immigrant prostitutes? Not anymore. Your last victim gave away your trademark, Zeus.”

As I wrestle the man into place, I look to my mentor. “It’s about time, Cain.”

Approaching with his casual slouch, the old pro winks at me. “You wanna work the big time? Then you do it my way, Angie. I run the schedule. No matter whose dick is in your mouth.”

“Very funny.”

“Hey,” Cain says with innocence, as though he had little choice in the matter, “we couldn’t make a move on Zeus until we saw that knife. You know that, right? We had to be sure.”

I know he’s right, but his candor doesn’t rub me well. With drops of blood sticking my skin to the lining of my boots, I return my focus to the perp.

Once the man’s wrists are cuffed, I lean into his body before standing him up. Baring my teeth, I bite close enough to his face to make him wince, but far enough to keep my safety. For fun, I ask in German if he understands me. “Verstehen Sie?”

He starts in on a foulmouthed protest, but I bring a finger to my lips and calmly say, “Shh. You really should work on your manners.”

He spits in my face, and I don’t wipe it off.

“That’s no way to treat a lady,” I say, settling my eyes on his. “Especially one who’s a federal agent. Asshole.”

Two arresting suits take the captive from me, and only now do I wipe off the man’s saliva.

“Hey, that’s evidence,” Cain jokes as I turn to face him. “Angie, kiddo. Do you have to get so riled up? He wasn’t going anywhere. Not with this entourage.”

“Well, what the hell took you so long? This thing not working?” I pull the pendant from my neck. “Or do you just like to hear me suffer?”

“You really want an answer to that?”

I chuck my pendant at Cain, and he picks the small, clear piece from its backing. The temporary wire is good for forty-eight hours, but it didn’t seem to bring me much benefit in these last few minutes of socializing with my first assigned infamous criminal.

“Relax, Angie. You did good. We’ve been tracking this Zeus freak for some time, but it took you and your interchangeable nationality to nab him. You’ll do just fine here in New York.”

Cain tosses me my recently earned, gold FBI identification badge and a paper bag containing more preferable work clothing. He leads the rest of the investigators to the main attraction, and I step back to watch the famed profiler live up to his reputation.

One criminal down, countless more to go.

Just six days back in my hometown and I’m already jaded. But for me, returning to New York City means more than a paycheck.

“You clean up good, kid.”

I eyeball Cain and reach for my coffee, contemplating the remaining hours of my elective double shift. No one wants to work on holidays, and I’ve quickly learned Thanksgiving is generally “volunteered” by singles such as myself. It’s as though the world assumes a person has nothing to do on a holiday if there’s no one to go home to. Whatever. It’s just another shift, and I’m indifferent to what the calendar has to say.

I settle into paperwork, trying to produce order in my new work environment, though it’s not so easy with Cain’s files scattered throughout the office. Now that he no longer has this ten-by-ten-foot box to himself, I suppose the both of us will have to get used to sharing the quaint space. I just want to get some of the clutter organized this morning so I can get home before the Macy’s parade kicks in and holiday hell breaks out on the streets.

Cain tosses a balled-up scrap of paper at me and says, “Angie, look pretty.”

When I meet his eyes to give a few words of wisdom, I see we are no longer alone in Cain’s twenty-third-floor office at 26 Federal Plaza.

“This is Detective Carson Severo from the Fifth Precinct, down on Elizabeth. My darling protégée, you are looking at one of NYPD’s finest.”

The detective dons a humble frown, but it does little to affect his overall appearance. He looks as though he’s been on the job all night, too, but it doesn’t bring him below nine on a scale of one to ten. Ten would be too assuming. Though one thing I can assume with ease is this boy is homebred Italian.

Severo extends his hand to shake mine and asks, “How are ya?” in just enough of an accent. My observation is confirmed.

I study his dark brown eyes, focus and reply. “Molto bene, grazie.” His head tilts a little, and I can see his analytical senses are sizing me up.

In a cautious voice, he asks, “Parla italiano?”

“Un po’,” I say, before returning my focus to the stacks of paper.

“Ignore her.” Cain hands the detective a mug of black coffee. “Or she’ll start in on Russian or Japanese next and we’ll both be screwed.”

The detective’s brow rises. “Impressive.”

“Yeah, she’s got her mind set on grandiose things, all right. Got in on that Foreign Language Proficiency jazz they’re doing in Quantico nowadays,” Cain explains, and I try to ignore that I’m being talked about within hearing distance. “Anyways, good to see you. What brings ya by?”

I let my peripheral vision remain aware as to Severo’s presence, but return intent on getting these files caught up. As soon as this report is out the door, so am I.

“Heard you got Zeus tonight. Figured I should drop by and extend my congrats.”

Cain sets his ass on top of his desk, gently relaxing his posture into that casual, confident slouch I have seen on a daily basis. I’ve been in this office six days, but the old guy’s habits are as easy to read as a popup book.

“My, oh my, news travels fast,” he says, slurping at his office brew. “Sure as shit we did. Couldn’t have done it, though, without this one,” he adds, poking a finger in my direction.

“Is that so?”

I meet the detective’s glance to measure his comment, but he simply offers me a friendly nod.

“Hell if I could pass as a foreign hooker.” Cain’s crusty laugh sends a shiver up my spine. He’s a skilled profiler, but the guy could use some social skills. “My girl Angie’s got what it takes, if you know what I mean.”

I toss a discarded wet tea bag at my mentor, but it lands in a corner bucket containing Cain’s dying six-foot-tall, leafy plant.

“Now that I think of it,” Cain says, as he watches me stuff my file folders into an internal mail envelope, “maybe you can be of some assistance to me.”

“How so?”

“I need to grease her up for the field, show her what New York is all about, from the gritty perspective, you know? Seems to me, with you dealing with a variety of crap on a daily basis, you might come across something meaty to share.”

“I’m more of the finders, keepers theory, Cain. Unless something comes up that’s task force related…”

“Ah, come on. I’m not talking about running off with your caseload, Detective.” I watch as Cain jabs Severo in the side, and I wonder what is it that makes guys display camaraderie through physical force. “I’m just asking for a hand, is all.”

I feel the detective’s eyes on me as I shoulder my bag and prepare to head home. “But Cain—” he leans in, whispering to my mentor “—it looks to me like you’ll need more than that.”

“What do you think—carrots or corn?”

I don’t wait for a reply. My stomach is alerting me of my hunger, and all I want is to wolf down this Thanksgiving spread and get back out there before the sun goes down. The nap did me good, but too many hours at home can lead to too much thought. And my mind’s no place to wander on a holiday—not without my father in my life.

“Since you’re not arguing, it’s corn.” The two plates are dressed as though our dinner is formal, but right here—the apartment I grew up in—it’s always been casual. “Dinner’s on!”

I set the food down and light a few candles to make this evening’s meal ambient. With a little jazz in the background, reminding me of my father’s favorite choice of music, I almost feel at home again. Though I’ve been back in the city for nearly a week, I have yet to unpack most of my things from Virginia and transform my teenage-style bedroom into one that will represent who I am now.

I’m itching to rediscover the neighborhood and absorb all the changes Chelsea has been through over the years. It was more than four years ago when I ventured off to Michigan to pursue my degree, and then went to Quantico for training. But now that I’m back to my native grounds, I want to dig my heels in deep and feel at home again.

It’ll be no small feat, considering that the last time I lived here my father was alive. Getting past the hurt and anger will not be easy, especially surrounded by constant reminders of his existence. But I know he would have wanted me to live my life to the fullest. I’m going to do all I can to live up to his reputation and make him proud. Wherever he is.

Taking my seat, I hear the familiar footsteps approach. Welcoming my dinner partner, I return focus to the holiday meal. “My, you’re a mighty fine fella. Thanks for joining me.”

Muddy lifts his heavy body to the two-seater dining room table and I smooth down his wrinkles. The drool starts from his bloodhound folds, but I don’t mind. It’s in his nature. And he’s been the best damn friend I’ve ever had.

Maybe this isn’t your typical family meal for a holiday, but I’ve never lived in a Norman Rockwell portrait. Since Dad… Well, the family’s not a big unit where I come from, so I make do with what and who I have.

As soon as I get settled, I’ll be insisting Grandma David pack her things and move home from Detroit. I know returning to NYC will be painful, with so many reminders of what happened to my father within a stone’s throw. But if I can keep that extra connection to him in any way possible, I will. Reuniting her to the city, now that I’m back, has to help in the healing process.

Hopefully, for both of us.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

With time to spare before my next shift, I’ve detoured to Gramercy Park for a moment of family nostalgia. I peer through the mesh window and hold up a plate of leftovers, still warm from the oven. “Ah, hell if I know. You hungry?”

“Angie! I did not see you so well.”

Uncle Simon lets himself out into the open, widening his arms to grasp me in a hug. Forget the confession; the months have drifted by quickly since I last saw my father’s brother. He and my grandmother are my only living relatives and I intend to keep closer contact with my uncle, now that I’m back in New York.

“I brought you some turkey—slightly burned—and some fixings,” I say, handing him the container. “I figured you’d be here all night, blessing this and that for the holiday, but heck, even us solos need to eat, right?”

“Ah well, that’s very fine of you to think of an old man. I am so sorry I could not join you at the apartment, but you know duty calls.” His hands wave about, gesturing to the leftover evidence of the Gramercy Park holiday Mass. Between offering blessings and sharing prayers, he would have had his hands full, I know.

“No, I understand. I’m not really settled in yet, so I’d only embarrass myself with the mess I’ve made. I’ll have you over real soon, though, okay?”

Simon nods his head as he leads me to take a seat beside him on a pew, and I let him refamiliarize himself with his niece. I have to do the same with him, as it’s been way too long. As far as I can tell, though, this man has changed very little. He’s thin, lanky and slightly hunched. His skin is pale and his features show his age, but I know his heart is still large with love.

“Your hair has grown long, I see.” Simon’s hand extends along my cheek, brushing thin fingers through my unruly hair and tucking the strands behind my ear. My current shoulder-length locks are usually pulled back into some makeshift do, but tonight they hang loosely.

The last time Simon would have seen me, at my father’s funeral in July, my hair would have been cropped a bit shorter, making it easier to take care of during long days of training in Quantico. If I hadn’t been smack-dab in the middle of starting my career as an agent with the FBI—engulfed in the tenth week of training—I wouldn’t have left my uncle’s side so soon.

It still stings that I had to make that choice. With the Bureau being so competitive, I didn’t have much option but to promptly return to Quantico. Had I dropped out of the sixteen-week training program, there would be slim chance I could get back in, despite my top-notch proficiency levels.

“Angie, tell me. What day is it?”

I know this game all too well. It started when I was barely able to speak English, let alone Latin. “Dies Iovis,” I say, pleasing the frail man.

“Yes! It is Thursday. Oh, good for you, for keeping it up. You study hard?”

“When I can.”

Although I can’t use Latin on an everyday basis, my language skills have come in handy from time to time. Especially since it was my exceptional scoring on the Foreign Language Proficiency tests that moved me into the Special Agent training program. It also proved beneficial in third year for my internship with the FBI’s National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime.

NCAVC likes to see well-rounded agents in the field, and I’m willing to use any skill I have to help my goal of becoming a profiler, even if it takes ten years to get into their elite Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. After all, my father worked with NCAVC for a time, and he was so honored when I decided to follow in his career path. His death just makes me want it more.

Simon studies my features and places a finger under my chin, bringing my eyes up to meet his. “You work so hard, my sweet. I can see that.”

A small smile forces its way across my lips. “You know how it is. Never a dull moment.”

Simon rests a palm on my shoulder and he looks at me, his blue-gray eyes growing soft with love and encouragement. “I know it’s difficult for you, Angela. Your father, he was a good man. Such a strong man. He didn’t deserve it. But you cannot feel guilty about not being here, you understand? Your father would be so proud of you.”

“I know,” I say, but keep my eyes low while trying not to dwell on the pain. I hate that my father was killed in the line of duty, but I’m even more angered that his death happened during my training. I know my father would be proud of me, but sometimes I wonder whether, if I hadn’t left the city, our lives would’ve been different. If maybe he would still be alive.

“You are a wonderful, caring, smart girl, Angie. And a Special Agent! You couldn’t have made your father any happier.”

“I just wish… I just wish I had more time with him, ya know? After leaving for college, stopping by for holidays and special occasions…it wasn’t enough. I should have been here more. I should have been here when he died.”

Simon wraps his arms around me, and I let my body relax into his hug. If anyone understood the relationship between me and my father, it was Simon. The two of them prodded me to excel through my youthful education, prepping me for my future. My father, though, was the backbone of my training. Growing up, I spent every single day with him, and not one of those days went by without me learning something from him. Without his intensity and skills as a profiler, I would not be the person I am today.

“Oh, that kid!”

I follow my uncle’s concerned look and spot a thin young man dashing out of the church with the sparse contents of the donation box.

“All the time, this kid taking from us!” My uncle’s voice trails into the background as I bolt after the offender.

Outside the church, the kid stumbles into the damp streets, and I chase him through an alleyway leading to a small neighborhood park. I can’t tell what he looks like or how old he is, as his hooded pullover conceals his face and the evening light is fading into darkness.

He treks down a sloped path, but I veer along the upper side of the bank, hoping to nab him from above. Darting past bushes and weathered trees, I kick into high gear and, when the timing is right, pounce down on him.

“Drop the money!” I yell.

The thief resists me, anxiously trying to slide away, but I place my booted foot on his chest and pin him to the cold earth.

I lean closer and with the barrel of my gun push the hood back from his face and see that he is just a kid. A teenager—maybe thirteen or fourteen—and obviously homeless. His skin is scaly with dirt, and his hair, apparently once greasy, is now dry and brittle.

“You think stealing from a church is going to help you?”

His eyes flicker back to me with fear and shame, and I don’t know if I want to cuff the kid or take him home and clean him up. “That’s not the way to do it, man.”

His silence is unnerving, so I reach out a hand and pull him up from the ground. When he stands, he is a few inches shorter than I am, and I see the wear his clothes have been through. This, at the start of a winter.

The boy holds his wrists out in front of him, but I pause. The obvious thing to do is take him in, but all that will do is punish him for looking after his own welfare.

Don’t get me wrong; stealing is anything but acceptable. But I know these kids. They’re not the ones who rob banks or assault people. They steal bread and blankets for their own survival.

He stares at me as I reach into my back pocket and hand him a tattered card detailing the services of a nearby shelter.

When I give him five bucks, I say, “This is your warning. I catch you stealing from anyone—and I mean anyone—ever again, you’re going in. Got it?”

He nods his head and a single tear rolls down his cheek. “Now get on over to the shelter and tell them Angie sent you.”

The kid’s sea-blue eyes barely make contact with mine as his timid voice speaks. “Is this a friend of yours?”

I pause, caught off guard by the personal question.

It wasn’t my intention to think of Denise. Not yet. But I guess by sending a needy kid her way, I guarantee she’ll be thinking of me.

“Friend of the family,” I say firmly, and then add, “She’ll look after you for tonight and give you something to eat. Go on, get out of here.”

The kid hightails it out of my sight, and I collect the loose change from the earth. There wasn’t more than twenty bucks in the box, yet the kid was willing to take his chances for such a small amount. Probably had little choice.

For a moment, I let the evening wind push fallen leaves against my feet, let my body and mind settle into New York soil. The constant sounds of city traffic, the mixed aromas of ethnic eateries…it all funnels into faded memories of my youth, enlivening the forgotten shadows within my heart.