Kitabı oku: «Dying To Play», sayfa 3
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.
He was staring at her again. She could feel him. She flexed her shoulders, a useless attempt to release the stress building there under his steady gaze. Only then did she consider how what she’d just done with the antacid probably looked to an outsider.
She stopped for a traffic light and turned to meet the question no doubt in his eyes behind those damnable shades. “Don’t ask. It’s a long story. One I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in,” she said, repeating his earlier words.
His smile was slow in coming, like a dewdrop slipping down a tender new leaf, reaching for that point where the sun would glitter from it like Nature’s mirror. And when it reached fruition it was a sight to behold. Butterflies took flight in her stomach, and she knew she’d just witnessed an event as rare as a blue moon.
It was definitely something she wanted to see again.
And that only made bad matters worse.
Chapter 5
Trace stood outside the Atlanta Commerce Bank for a long while after Elaine Jentzen went inside. He was in no hurry to go inside. He’d already seen all there was to see. There would be no inadvertently left evidence, no conclusions to be drawn from the scene staging. Nothing. And that was the only clue Trace needed.
A cool breeze shifted the wide leaves of the massive magnolia trees shading the nearly empty parking lot. He studied the details of the large brick structure with its bold, white-column sentries guarding the double entry doors. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he huddled against the sudden chill that danced up his spine.
Why had he chosen this particular bank? Was it because Matthews used this one? Or was it the bank’s president that had made this institution the target? Trace knew little about the case so far, but he had enough information to recognize the familiarity of the game.
Dread pooled in his gut.
If last week’s beauty-shop murders had left any question, today’s bloodshed had cleared up the doubt. As far as Trace was concerned, anyway. He’d managed to convince his superiors at the Bureau, barely. He recognized that even the remote possibility of a repeat of two years ago had done more of the persuading than anything he had said or done. And Supervisory Special Agent Douglas appeared to be on his side…not that his support was much of a consolation. The bottom line was simple. No one wanted to take the risk.
The caption above the entrance to the bank snagged his attention, drawing him several steps closer. In God We Trust. He wondered briefly how many other Atlanta banks featured that logo. It would please the scumbag responsible for these senseless murders to no end to make a mockery of the people’s trust.
That was part of the thrill for the Gamekeeper.
He preyed upon those supremely confident in their ability to recognize the difference between right and wrong. No one saw the danger coming…until it was too late. He toyed with his chosen victims, manipulated them in every possible way. Then, when he tired of their frantic struggles, he used them to act out his evil schemes.
Worry creased Trace’s brow as he stood beneath the shaded portico of the bank entrance. There was one major difference, however, in these two cases and the ones from two years ago. The Gamekeeper, without exception, made the final kill himself. It was part of his signature—part of the ritual he followed religiously. But with both the beauty-shop case and the current one, the supposed perps had offed themselves. That had been the major sticking point with the brass. The profiler had been reluctant to agree with Trace when he suggested that the Gamekeeper could be behind last week’s murders. He would say the same about this one.
Serial killers rarely changed their MOs…unless some life-altering event predicated the change. He knew that better than anyone. But it didn’t sway his thinking.
Memories of the night his partner died abruptly slammed into him with the power of a train exploding from a dark tunnel.
Molly had been as green as they came. Brand-new to the Bureau. That alone had made her the perfect candidate for the trap Trace had devised. He’d asked for her, insisted on having her. She would play the part of his new girlfriend, his lover. And she would be the bait for the Gamekeeper. He would be the one to actually get close enough to make the collar. Molly had loved it. Thanked him over and over for allowing her the opportunity to work with a legend.
A legend. Yeah, right.
He swallowed hard, emotion making the action nearly impossible. He’d had such a hard-on to solve the case…to be the one who brought the Gamekeeper down, he hadn’t fully considered the risk to her. But he hadn’t worried because he’d been in control….
Or so he’d thought.
They’d played a twisted little game back and forth, he and the Gamekeeper. At the time, Trace could almost taste the triumph. He was so very close. He was going to nail him.
So many dead. All young with great futures ahead of them. Those were the ones the Gamekeeper liked best. No junkies, hookers or homeless people for him. He liked the challenge of more worthy opponents.
What was the fun, he’d said in one of his taunting calls to Trace, in stalking and murdering an already helpless creature?
He wanted to play.
To draw out the pleasure.
Sick bastard.
Trace clenched his jaw. He should have seen it coming. He should have known the Gamekeeper was too smart to fall for such an ordinary sting. The scumbag had known that Molly was Trace’s partner, not his girlfriend. But he’d also known that they’d grown close during the course of the investigation. He’d watched them, studied them. And the bastard had wielded every bit as much hurt…as much pain in the end.
She was dead. It was Trace’s fault. Nothing he could do would bring her back.
She’d died in his arms. He’d tried to stop the bleeding…tried to keep her alive until help arrived, but it had been useless.
He’d made a fatal mistake.
Trace jerked back to the here and now. He was shaking. A sheen of perspiration slicked his skin. His stomach roiled with the bitter dregs of his own guilt…of the vengeance he’d waited so long to wreak. He needed it more than his next breath. He wanted the Gamekeeper dead.
He’d managed to get off one good shot that night. He’d hit him, Trace knew he had. But he hadn’t killed him. The Gamekeeper was still alive. Trace felt him. The fact that the sick piece of crap had apparently dropped off the face of the earth for the past two years had lent credence to the possibility that Trace had managed a fatal hit that night. But he knew differently. Every fiber of his being sensed the evil lurking close by.
Whatever the Gamekeeper’s reasons for lying low until now didn’t matter. He was back, and Trace intended to stop him this time. He intended to kill him. He wanted to personally help perform the no-holds-barred autopsy on the son of a bitch. To hold the saw that cut into that twisted brain.
Trace fought to stem the tremors quaking through him. He dragged in a breath, ragged with his efforts to regain control. He had to keep it together.
This was his second chance. Second chances didn’t come along often. He would do it right this time.
“You coming in or what?”
Trace looked up to find Detective Jentzen glaring at him from the bank’s entrance. He jerked, startled.
Her eyes narrowed as she quickly took in his pathetic state. He squared his shoulders and blinked away the last of the lingering images that haunted him day and night. He could do this.
“Yeah.” He started forward, each step a conscious effort to remain steady. “I’m coming in.”
Not bothering to hide her annoyance, Jentzen held the door until he reached it, then gave him her back and strode across the lobby.
Trace moistened his lips and exhaled a relieved breath. He couldn’t let that happen again. If she suspected for one second that he was experiencing difficulty staying in control, she would certainly insist that he be removed from the case.
Not that he could blame her. In this line of work, who wanted to partner up with a guy who couldn’t watch his partner’s back? The Bureau had stuck him on desk duty. This was his one shot at making things right. His new partner resented the hell out of him, but he could live with it. She certainly hadn’t been his first choice, either. Though by all accounts she was a damned good cop, she was a woman, and he wasn’t sure he could trust her to react like a cop when the chips were down.
He couldn’t make a mistake and he couldn’t allow her to make one. This was his opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. To bring down the Gamekeeper and to get his professional life back. He didn’t really care that he no longer garnered any respect from the other agents. And he sure as hell didn’t need any friends. It was the job that kept him going…that he needed. If he had to go back to that desk for the rest of his days…well, he just wasn’t sure he could handle it.
Sure, he hated the way everyone looked at him now. As if they feared he’d go berserk at any given moment. But more than that or even the ever-present talk behind his back, he hated the looks of sympathy.
The panic he struggled with on a daily basis abruptly surged into his throat.
He choked it back.
This time would be different.
He would do everything right this time.
“Callahan, this is Detective Henshaw.” Jentzen stood next to an older man, fifty, fifty-five maybe. He looked a little rumpled and a lot cop smart. The cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth gave him a sort of Columbo-without-the-trench-coat look.
Trace extended his hand automatically. “Trace Callahan,” he said, not missing the older man’s methodical scrutiny.
Henshaw pumped his hand a couple of times and grunted. “I’ve heard of your reputation.”
Trace forced a smile. He’d just bet the old man had heard of him, but he doubted it was anything good. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” he suggested in as good-natured a tone as he could manage.
Henshaw chuckled, but those cunning eyes told the tale. He knew a lot more than he would dream of saying. “I’ll bear that in mind, Callahan.”
Trace looked from Henshaw to his reluctant partner and back. “I suppose Jentzen told you about the working arrangements?”
Henshaw nodded. “I can live with it. Temporarily.” He looked at the woman at his side. “I’ll have my final report ready by the end of the day.”
“Just leave it on my desk. I’m not sure when I’ll—we’ll get back to the office.”
“Will do.”
Jentzen’s cellular phone rang, and she stepped away to take the call. Henshaw gave Trace a final curt nod before walking past him. Trace reciprocated, damned tired of the pretending and the double-talk, but he had to play it out a little longer.
Until he set things right again.
“Just one more thing,” Henshaw said, as if he’d almost forgotten some important aspect of the case he needed to pass along.
Trace turned to face him. “What’s that?” Their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills.
“Don’t let anything happen to my partner,” the old man warned. “You risk her life unnecessarily and you’ll answer to me. You got that, hotshot?”
Trace read no malice in the man’s tone or expression…just genuine fear for his partner’s well-being. The warning wasn’t anything he hadn’t anticipated. “I’ve got it.”
“Good.”
Detective Henshaw pivoted on his heel and exited the bank. He paused outside the door to light his cigar. A puff of blue smoke rose above his head. Trace looked away, suppressing the urge to reach into his own pocket for a cigarette. He’d quit smoking ten years ago. Then, when everything had gone to hell, he’d picked them up again. Last month, he’d finally worked up the nerve to quit for good. He hated being at the mercy of the habit…almost as much as his new partner obviously hated the idea of being partnered up with someone who polluted her air space. She seemed to make an exception with Henshaw. Or maybe she had him trained not to light up in her presence.
His gaze sought and found Elaine Jentzen. She was no green, right-out-of-the-academy rookie like Molly had been. She was street savvy and smart, but more than that she was experienced. Despite her youth, she’d worked long and hard to get where she was. A degree in criminology with a minor in psychology and graduating top of her class from the police academy were pretty impressive feats to have accomplished by age twenty-two. Her very first case in Homicide had made a hero of her. She’d been flying high ever since. Not to mention making deputy chief before hitting thirty. He imagined she’d made a few enemies along the way as well. No one moved up the ranks that quickly without pissing off somebody.
According to what he’d pulled up on the computer about her, she was a third-generation cop. All three of her brothers were either policemen or firemen. Her sister was the only exception in the bunch. She’d chosen education for her field of expertise, then married during her first year of teaching. Five years and four children later, she was a stay-at-home mom with a college professor husband.
Trace didn’t have any siblings. His parents had died long ago. It was just him. That hadn’t really ever bothered him before. But now, somehow, it did.
Considering Jentzen’s brood, it made him feel lonely. He almost laughed at that one. He was alone.
And that’s the way he liked it.
Self-pity wasn’t his style.
Nor was being dependent upon another human being.
He surveyed his new partner’s long legs, then all that dark hair that fell past her proud shoulders. She was tall, five foot seven inches or eight maybe. Thin, but more lean than skinny he’d bet. The black slacks weren’t formfitting, but were well tailored to the sweet contours of her body. She wore her badge and weapon at her waist in a no-frills fashion. The white blouse was something soft and flowing. It nestled against her skin in all the right places. His gaze lingered a little too long on her breasts. He blinked and forced his attention up to her face.
But her brown eyes were her best asset, in his opinion. Her every emotion shimmered in those wide, oval pools. She emanated more strength and courage than most women in his experience. The fact that she’d already earned his respect to an extent surprised him. He was usually slow in allowing that kind of confidence.
As she argued with someone named Flatt on her cell phone, Trace watched her every move. She used her hands a lot. Long, delicate fingers were tipped by short nails. Her face was as animated as her hands. And what a pretty face it was. Too pretty for a cop, especially one so ambitious.
She did this thing with her hand…just a quick motion of running her fingers through her hair. He liked that. He liked her. She was a good cop. A real cop, he thought, his lips slanting up into an unexpected grin.
Nope, self-pity wasn’t his style.
But then neither was lusting after the forbidden.
He couldn’t make a mistake this time.
He wouldn’t make a mistake.
Elaine Jentzen was a complication he didn’t need or want. But he would make the best of the situation…if that was possible.
“Earth to Callahan.”
Jentzen’s voice startled Trace back to attention. “Yeah?” Damn. He’d zoned out again.
She gave him one of those barely tolerant looks teachers saved for their most trying students. “If you’re ready now, I’d like to get this show on the road. We have to make a statement to the press.”
Well, at least now he had his answer to making the best of things.
It was going to be impossible.
Chapter 6
How did one top one’s best effort?
The Gamekeeper knew how.
He smiled. It had been so easy. He’d reinvented himself, and his adversary had no idea. Not just yet. He laughed out loud, the sound satisfying, exhilarating. He just kept getting better and better. Closer and closer to his ultimate goal. Closer than anyone suspected.
He was so very clever…so absolutely perverse. This new game was perfect. A unique and unparalleled original creation. No one had ever done anything this magnificent before.
Agent Callahan had not been victorious two years ago, as he so arrogantly thought. The Gamekeeper had been the triumphant one in the end. He gritted his teeth against the bad thoughts. Held them at bay. It wasn’t time. Not yet. The pain had been almost unbearable. Weeks of agony had followed that fateful night. The tremendous mental anguish that had accompanied the immense pain had been cleansing and at the same time intoxicating. He’d loved it. Baptized himself in it and was reborn.
The Gamekeeper closed his eyes and relished the triumph of rising again. Just like Christ himself. No mere man could keep the Gamekeeper down.
Certainly not Agent Trace Callahan.
He was right where the Gamekeeper wanted him. He felt giddy with the knowledge that the plan had worked so quickly. The danger of getting closer and closer, drawing his enemy deeper into the game, made each calculated move all the more thrilling.
It wasn’t about increasing his body count…never had been. It was the danger that sent adrenaline pumping through him…that turned him on. Oh, he did love the game.
And it was only going to get better.
Because no one was as smart as he was. No one else had the game.
Only he was genius enough to have created such a flawless masterpiece that conquered the final frontier—the mind. No one had gone this far before.
He remembered as a child the batteries of intelligence tests, the psychoanalyzing. He was a genius, and most certainly not from the gene pool of the obsequious pair who’d adopted him at the tender young age of two.
What had all the pathetic adults in his childhood expected? He’d been far smarter and more capable than any of them. None had recognized the full extent of his genius…the potential of his abilities. Instead they’d feared him. Put him on medication, treated him like a freak.
But he’d made a special game for all of them. They had thought they were so smart…so invincible.
No one was as smart or as invincible as the Gamekeeper.
Not Agent Callahan. Or his new partner, the lovely Deputy Chief Jentzen.
Hmm. This was just like old times. They were both much more vulnerable than they knew. They had no idea just how vulnerable.
Because no one could beat the Gamekeeper at his own game.
So many had tried.
All had failed.
No one would ever catch him…not in a million years. He was too perfect…too smart. Too invisible.
The Gamekeeper leaned forward and began typing words into the chat box on the computer screen.
Time to play.
Chapter 7
That night when she arrived home, Elaine dragged herself from her Jeep to her front door. Sally, tail wagging, waited for her just inside. Elaine was totally wiped out. She and Callahan had spent hours going over Matthews’s and Tate’s backgrounds—work history, friends, relatives, finances, marital standing—looking for any kind of motivation for the events that had taken place that morning.
They’d found nothing.
Locking the door behind her, she bent down to scratch her big girl behind the ears. Elaine was exhausted physically and mentally, but not so exhausted that she couldn’t force herself to muddle through her nightly rituals. Her companion depended upon her. Other than the afternoon walks Allen, the teenager next door, gave Sally, the nightly run was her only outdoor fun.
Elaine changed into running shorts and shoes and a T. She owed this to herself as well as Sally. She needed to burn off some of the day’s frustrations.
Nearly an hour later the twosome bounded back into the house. Elaine had managed to keep anything other than the case off her mind during the run. But now, as her heart slowed to a normal rhythm, Dr. Bramm’s words haunted her once more, joining the images of Brad Matthews and Harold Tate, the security guard and the four women from last week’s mass murder already churning in her head. She stripped off her clothes and climbed into the shower, her favorite wine cooler in hand. She didn’t want to think anymore. She pressed her hand to her stomach and braced for the burn as she took a long sip from the cold bottle. Grimacing, she chased it with another, then another after that.
Slowly, as the hot water and the alcohol did their work, the brutal images drained away. No more dead bodies…no more empty cradles.
Elaine closed her eyes to a blessedly emptied mind.
That serenity lasted about four seconds. Trace Callahan abruptly filled the space. She chugged down the last of her wine cooler and turned her face up to the hot spray, but it was no use. He wouldn’t go away.
He disagreed with every conclusion she reached, or scenario she offered. He would not give up on his theory that the two multiple homicides were connected with a serial killer who’d terrorized D.C. two years ago. The Gamekeeper.
He made her want to scream or swear, or maybe even tear out her hair. She set her empty bottle aside and made fast work of washing her hair and body. How would she ever conduct this investigation if he refused to listen to reason?
She twisted the control, shutting off the shower and stepped out onto the fuzzy pink mat. Nothing about this investigation was really under her control and she hated it.
She hated him.
Clutching the towel to her chest, Elaine sighed. Well maybe she didn’t actually hate him. It was his attitude…that aloof, male mentality that she couldn’t tolerate. She wanted to hit him. Especially after that incredible grin he’d flashed her in the car. Her heart had all but leaped from her chest. She despised that he could make her react that way.
She shivered.
She hated him, all right.
But then there was that vulnerable side of him. Her fingers stilled in their work of tucking the towel around her. She’d seen it when he lingered outside the bank, as if coming inside was more than he could do at that moment. He’d looked pale and shaky, afraid. She shook her head. That just didn’t mesh with the rest of the vibes he emanated. For the most part he oozed a laid-back, good-old-boy charm, as if he was in no hurry about anything. But that wasn’t the case at all.
Trace Callahan was smart and as eagle-eyed as they came. He didn’t miss anything. His attention to detail and powers of perception amazed her—even if he was wrong in his conclusions.
What was worse, she thought with utter disdain, was the package. Why was it that with good-looking men the elevator either didn’t go all the way to the top or they were know-it-alls and brooding? Or gay?
Men. They were just too hard to figure out.
Elaine blow-dried her hair then pulled on her favorite one-size-fits-all Braves nightshirt. She would simply have to learn to live with her new partner, at least for a little while. She’d conduct this investigation like any other, he would either be with her or against her. She wasn’t going to worry about it.
Screw his attitude. She ran a brush through her hair and stared at her reflection. The realization that she would probably never have children, that she might even be facing serious health problems suddenly flooded her all over again.
Why hadn’t she asked more questions? The doctor had said that the disease sometimes spread to other organs. Her heart lurched at the implication. Could she die from this? She should have asked him for more complete details. But Henshaw had called and she’d had to leave abruptly. Surely she wasn’t going to die. He’d said the specialist would explain the possible effects on her future.
One had to be alive to have a future.
But what kind of future? Nothing would ever be the same again, that much she was certain of. She was damaged goods now, just like her new partner. Who would want to marry a woman incapable of bearing children? She thought of her gang of nieces and nephews and the pleasure having them in her life gave her. She might never know how it felt to hold her own child in her arms…
Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t want to cry. She was stronger than that. Her mother and sister would have a fit when they found out she hadn’t called them with this news first thing after leaving the doctor’s office. She couldn’t talk about it with anyone right now. Not even Henshaw when he’d asked. If she told anyone, it would be like making it real. She didn’t want it to be that real…yet.
She didn’t want to think about it, either.
She grabbed her empty bottle and headed back to the kitchen. She stopped in the living room long enough to pop in her favorite jazz CD. The sultry music drifted along behind her as she made her way into the kitchen. Eating would be a good thing right now…especially since she hadn’t bothered to all day except for a few snack crackers and a diet cola.
Leftover Chinese from last night looked easy enough. She wasn’t in the mood to cook or clean up afterward. A couple minutes in the microwave and dinner would be served.
Elaine poured Sally a bowlful of her favorite kibbles. She filled a small pitcher with tap water and poured it into the dog’s matching water bowl. As she stroked the animal, she realized Allen had brushed Sally today. Good. She just wasn’t in the mood to go the extra step tonight. Her long shifts were a godsend to her young neighbor, though. His mother had allergies and had never allowed him to have a pet. Spending time with Sally satisfied his need for that kind of bonding. Sally loved him, and Elaine was tremendously grateful. She’d be in a fix when Allen graduated high school and went off to college.
Well, she had two years to worry about that. Anything could happen in two years. This morning was proof that no one, even when it appeared that way to those around her, led a charmed life.
The microwave dinged, tugging her back to the present. She opened the door, and the pleasant smell of Lo Mein wafted around her. Her stomach rumbled. Oh yeah, she was definitely ready for some food. Though she was only having leftovers, alone at that, she went all out. Linen napkin, stemmed glass of Chardonnay and two lovely lit candles for a centerpiece.
The first bite hit her stomach like a lump of hot coal. Her stomach clenched, then cramped, kindling a fire that never really left her gut.
“Dammit.”
She grabbed the ever-present bottle of Maalox from the counter and took a hefty swig as she sank back into her chair.
A few minutes later she could eat in relative comfort. God, she was such a mess. The newest medicine her internist had prescribed was little or no help with the ulcer. And she wasn’t about to go in again complaining of continued pain and burning. She knew what came next and she wasn’t prepared to go there right now. Maybe they could just take care of her stomach ailments at the same time they gutted her pelvic cavity.
Another bout of emotion gripped her. She blinked away the moisture. Crying would accomplish nothing. She’d call Dr. Bramm’s office tomorrow and get the appointment with the specialist. Worrying about this latest problem was pointless until after she had all the facts.
The single chime of the front doorbell interrupted her self-counseling session. Sally sprang up from her lazy sprawl on the floor and barked a warning. Elaine blew out the candles and headed in that direction, she frowned as she glanced at the hall clock: 10:29. Who would be at her door at this time of night?
She’d have gotten a call if there’d been another murder or any other news pertinent to the case.
While Sally uttered a low growl, Elaine flipped on the outside light and checked the security peephole in her door. She relaxed when she saw Henshaw’s rumpled form, minus his usual stogie, on her porch. He always left it in his car when he came to her house. He insisted that he respected her personal space. Henshaw was truly one of a kind. She missed him already.
“It’s okay, girl. It’s just Henshaw.” She unbolted the door and drew it open wide. “Has something happened?” she asked by way of a greeting.
Henshaw quirked an eyebrow. “Is that it? No ‘Good evening’? No ‘Won’t you come in’?”
Elaine sighed. “Sorry.” She stepped back. “Good evening, partner. Please come in.” Sally wagged her tail, offering her own hello.
“At least the mutt’s glad to see me,” he muttered as he shuffled across the threshold. “By the way, you might want to call me Hank, since, officially, I’m not your partner at the moment.”
She rolled her eyes and closed the door behind him. “What’re you doing here at this time of night if nothing has happened?”
“I didn’t get my report finished before you left the office, so I thought I’d drop it by.”
She felt her eyes narrow in suspicion. She knew better than that. Henshaw might move like a tortoise, but his brain worked as speedily as any hare. “Don’t give me that. What’re you really doing here?”
He reached into his interior jacket pocket and produced the folded pages of the report. “Well, the truth is,” he began, offering the document to her, “I just wanted to see if you were doing okay.”
She placed the report on the hall table. “Callahan and I haven’t killed each other, if that’s what you mean.”
“Screw Callahan.” He looked straight at her. “I mean, are you okay? You seemed kind of preoccupied after your doctor’s appointment.”
Elaine tensed. “I’m fine. I was preoccupied. Entering a crime scene does that to me, you know.”
