“That’s exactly what Samantha said. That it was her job, her career, and she couldn’t take the easy way out.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“No, it’s not. She was a random victim. But you, you’re taunting the hell out of this guy, making yourself a target. Just waiting for him to make a move.” He paused for a minute, studied her with tormented eyes. “Let someone else catch him, Genevieve.”
“They can’t. This sick fixation he has with me is our best weapon, and it doesn’t work if I don’t use it to my advantage.”
“Goddamn it, Genevieve! You don’t always have to be the hero.”
“This isn’t about being the hero. It’s about doing what’s right—about bringing this bastard down once and for all. About stopping him before he kills another woman.”
As he stared at her, his heart in his throat and his stomach tied into so many knots he feared it would never recover, Cole knew it was a done deal. There was nothing he could say to convince her, nothing he could do that would make her leave this case alone.
He was going to lose her, just like he’d lost Samantha. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Chapter Twenty-three
Genevieve woke with a start, thoughts of murder and suspension and Cole chasing each other around in her head. He was pulling back from her, hadn’t touched her once after their conversation. He hadn’t held her or kissed her or made love to her like he usually did. Just climbed into bed beside her and rolled over so that when she tried to talk to him all she saw was his back.
Her heart was beating much too fast, and as she lay there in the dark, listening to his steady breathing beside her, she thought about what Cole had asked of her.
Could she let this investigation go—for him? Could she just walk away and hope the killer lost interest in her? But it wouldn’t work that way. In her heart, she knew that if she didn’t find him and shut him down, then he would be coming for her. And in the meantime, another poor woman would die when she didn’t have to. When Genevieve could have stopped him.
Willing her heart to calm down, she rolled onto her side to stare at her lover. He really was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen—all long, lithe muscle and dark eyes and gorgeous features.
And inside, he was even more beautiful. This man who had tortured himself for seven years over the loss of his sister, this man who had dedicated his life to exposing corruption and death, who tried so hard to right wrongs that couldn’t be righted.
She loved him; how it had happened, she didn’t know. What she would do about it, she hadn’t a clue. Reaching a hand up to toy with the necklace he’d given her, she couldn’t help wondering about its implication. Did he see it as she originally had—as him branding her, claiming her? Or was it just a gift after all—one that was pretty but really didn’t mean much?
I love you. He’d said the words last night, but had he meant them? She wanted to believe that he had, but how could she when he was so reluctant to accept her own love for him? When he tried so hard to make her into something that she wasn’t?
Because she couldn’t go one more minute without touching him, she traced a delicate finger over his eyebrows and down his cheeks. In sleep, he looked almost sweet—all the angst and darkness that possessed him during the day was absent now, leaving only little-boy innocence that tugged at her heartstrings.
How she could ever have thought him a murderer, she didn’t know. It embarrassed her that she’d ever doubted him, even when the killer had focused on her. Especially then. He wasn’t capable of it, not this man who had tortured himself for nearly a decade, who was so desperate to protect her that he would change his whole life around to save her.
Her cell phone went off in the next room, but she ignored it. No one from the station would be calling her—she was off the case permanently. And she didn’t have any friends away from the job—hell, she didn’t have many friends on the job. Maybe that was something she needed to work on.
But when the cell phone stopped ringing and the house phone started, she rolled out of bed and grabbed the cordless on her nightstand before it could wake Cole.
“Hello?” she whispered, scooting out of the room on silent feet.
“Genevieve? It’s Roberto. There’s another body.”
“Where?” She was already reaching for a pen when it occurred to her that she wouldn’t be able to do anything about that fact. She ached, literally ached, for the dead woman—she hadn’t been good enough to save her. Hadn’t been fast enough.
“Dauphine and St. Louis. It’s the house on the corner.”
“Why are you calling me? I can’t do anything about it.”
He swore roundly. “Fuck Chastian. You know more about this murder than any of us. We’re all here. We need you. Even if your name doesn’t go on the report, we need your eye. This is what you’re good at.”
She paused for long seconds, Cole’s pleas for her to play it safe running through her head. But she had to do this, had to see it through. Then they would talk—about the future and their expectations for each other. About whether they could make this thing work.
“I’ll be there in ten.”
“We’ll be waiting.”
Her clothes from last night were still by the door and still relatively fresh—she’d changed into them after she’d finished Sharon’s homicide scene. As she slipped into them—too afraid of waking Cole to chance going back into the bedroom—she fought back the tears that had been burning her throat since she’d heard Torres’s voice on the phone.
She’d become such a pariah that they had to sneak her onto a homicide case. It was bullshit—total and complete bullshit—but what could she do about it? She was used to fighting, had gotten where she was in the department because she didn’t back down when she was sure she was right.
But she didn’t have a clue how to fight this. She was demoralized, humiliated, barely able to contemplate looking her partner and friends in their faces.
But she didn’t have a choice, she told herself as she shrugged into her blouse. A killer was out there, one she had more than likely spoken to on numerous occasions. From the second she’d seen Sharon hanging in that supply closet, she’d known the killer was one their of own.
All along she’d had her suspicions about it being a cop; things were just too clean for it to be someone else. She’d even had a few suspects in mind, had taken steps to monitor them as best she could without raising any flags. Sharon’s body had just proven to her what she’d suspected all along.
And he was probably going to be there tonight, might have been there all along—at each of the crime scenes—and she hadn’t known to look for him. But that stopped now. She would get this son of a bitch, with or without her lieutenant’s support.
After strapping on her piece, she went to the closet and pulled out the backup gun she rarely carried. Put extra ammunition for both in her back pockets. Scribbled a note to Cole, then let herself out of the house. As she locked the door behind her, she fought back the fear that she would never see Cole again. Never hold him against her, never feel his lips against hers.
She turned away and focused on what she had to do.
The walk up Burgundy had never taken so long or passed so quickly. Cold sweat trickled down her back despite the heat and nerves jumping in her stomach. She ran through every scenario she could think of, wondered how this whole thing was going to play out. Wondered if she and her friends were going to make it through the night alive.
She’d expected the house to be dark when she got there, had figured Roberto had called her in at the end of the investigation just to look around a little and get a feel for the place without getting written up for disobeying orders. It was the smart thing to do, and she’d told herself she wouldn’t resent him if that was, indeed, the case.
Instead, the house was lit up like a Christmas tree and more than a dozen cop cars were parked in front of it. Luc was standing on the front porch and when he saw her, he took the steps two at a time to get to her. “There you are. We’ve been waiting for you.”
For the first time since she’d picked up the phone, the knots in her stomach unwound and the sense of doom that had been plaguing her since the debacle at the station that afternoon drained away, though she was still cautious. “I didn’t think Chastian would approve of my being here.”
Luc snorted. “What Chastian doesn’t know won’t hurt us.” He led her through the door.
“You don’t think any of these guys will talk?” She glanced around at the crime scene unit, busy searching for fibers and fingerprints near the point of entry, a patio door on the side of the house.
“They think this whole thing stinks as much as we do. Who gives a shit what you do on your personal time?” He looked away, as if embarrassed by what he’d said.
“Anyway, it’s pretty bad in there. Elements of S and M, not to mention the torture.”
Genevieve braced herself as she walked into the room, determined not to react. But her first glimpse of the body stopped her in her tracks. A rope was strapped over and under the woman’s br**sts, and wound around her arms, so that her entire upper torso was bound—exactly as Genevieve herself had been bound the night before. Except the ropes were harsh and heavy and tied much too tightly. Whereas Cole had bound her with silken cords, for their mutual pleasure. this had been done with one purpose in mind: to cause as much pain as possible.
Candle wax—black and pink—decorated the victim’s n**ples, stomach and legs in various patterns. But it had been hot—much too hot—when it had touched her, and blisters had formed under the steaming wax.
“How’d she die?” Her voice was hoarse, her fists clenched, as she approached the body.
“We don’t know yet.” It was Torres who answered, his face grim as he looked at her. “Jefferson—” he nodded at the ME, who was collecting evidence from the body—“can’t find any outward sign of trauma. I mean, besides the obvious. But while painful, it isn’t the cause of death.”
“I’m thinking pills.” Jefferson finished cataloging the sample he’d just taken, then stood to look at them with sad eyes. “Or poison. Her eyes and the broken blood vessels near the surface of her skin are consistent with a number of different kinds of poisoning. I’ll know more when I get her back to the shop. Of course, the bruising makes it hard to tell.”
“If it’s poison we can trace it,” Shawn said as he walked into the room. He looked exhausted, disgusted, horrified—as they all did. But he managed a quick grin when he saw her. “Maybe we finally got lucky.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears.” Luc had just finished his examination of the outside of the property. “I found a set of footprints about fifteen feet from the house. Looks like a pair of male running shoes.”
“Another mistake?” asked Torres. “What’s with this guy tonight? Not that I’m complaining, but it just isn’t like him to be this careless.”
“Maybe it’s not him,” Shawn suggested. “Maybe we’re just chasing our tails here.”
“Oh, it’s him,” Genevieve said as she studied the body with eyes she knew showed too much.”
“We don’t know that for sure—” Shawn objected.
“Yes, we do.” She waited, breath held, wondering if they would trust her. She could see Shawn wanted to argue, took note of the confusion on Luc’s face. Only Torres seemed to understand what she was saying, the eyes he turned on her filled with speculation and more than a little concern.
“All right, then. Assuming this is our guy, what’s going through his head?” Torres steered the conversation smoothly back to the killer. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours since we found the last body—that’s fast, even for him.”
“Which could account for the mistakes.” She leaned forward, looked at the woman’s battered face. “Besides, this was a crime of anger. For all the others, he was stone-cold calm. No mistakes. No emotion. But this one—” She pointed to the deep bruises all over the girl. “This one was filled with rage. Look at the way he beat the hell out of her. That’s not his normal MO.
“Which, once again, could account for the mistakes. No time to plan; no time to sort things through. This is the one we’re going to nail him on, guys. I can feel it.”
“Then let’s do what we do best.” Luc snapped on a pair of gloves. “Delacroix and Webster get the room.”
“And we’ll take the rest of the house,” Torres said as he followed his partner from the room.
“Where are the owners?” Genevieve asked her partner as she crouched next to the body.