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

MILLS & BOON

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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.”