Aim to Kill (6 page)

But DNA was only good if there was a suspect to go with it. Zack hoped that whatever Doug Cohn preserved from Michelle Davidson’s body would match a known offender in the registry, though he didn’t expect miracles.

Then there were the odd marks on the victims’ forearms. Both Jenny and Michelle had twelve small, almost uniform, punctures made with some sort of extremely narrow, sharp object. It could be a fine-tipped knife, like a scalpel. The marks weren’t made with the same knife that killed them, but the coroner said with certainty that they were intentional.

“Do you think—?” Boyd began before he was interrupted by the bellow of Chief Princeton.

Princeton wasn’t really his name but he strutted around like God’s gift to women, complete with a master’s degree from some Ivy League school. Zack had been tired and drinking at the blue bar down the street with a bunch of the guys late one night. Earlier in the day, the chief had been playing politics with the mayor and they’d been overheard talking about their respective alma maters. Zack didn’t know who had come up with the nickname “Princeton” for Chief Lance Pierson, but it had stuck.

During the two years Chief Princeton had been in charge, Zack learned to respect him. The chief was good at schmoozing with the politicos, something that needed to be done and that Zack detested, and Princeton backed up the boys in blue 110 percent. That went a long way in Zack’s book, even though the chief often acted like his extra year in college and some brainy Latin award made him smarter than his men. They’d developed a good working relationship, and when the chief had learned about his nickname, he laughed it off.

“Detective Travis. My office,” Pierson ordered.

Boyd jumped at the chief’s call. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Down, Boyd,” Pierson said. “Just your FTO.”

Zack told Boyd, “Run over to the lab and see if they have any word on the trucks.” Zack would have preferred to do it himself.

He crossed the bullpen. “What’s up?”

“There’s someone you need to meet,” Pierson said.

“You’re not setting me up for another glad-handing with the mayor.” His chief constantly tried to get Zack to play politics.

“It’s about your homicide case.”

Though Zack had four active homicide cases on his docket, only one commanded his attention now.

“What?” Zack didn’t want to be blindsided.

“Someone who might be able to help.”

Pierson wouldn’t say anything else, and Zack followed him to his office, curious but apprehensive.

Through the glass window Zack saw a slender golden-haired beauty sitting in the chair across from Pierson’s desk, her profile classic and elegant, with perfectly carved features and luscious red lips. He blinked when he realized she was wearing only lip gloss, not lipstick—or if it was lipstick, it was the most natural-looking color he’d ever seen. He’d seen a lot of colors. Hell, he’d kissed a lot of lips.

As the men approached the door, she turned fully to face them, as if she didn’t like having her back to anyone.
Cop.
Zack would know, he never sat with his back to the door, either.

But this little number dressed too well to be a cop, complete with an expensive-looking pale gray suit and blue silk blouse. And were those pearls around her neck? She looked nothing like the hot, flashy bimbos Chief Princeton liked to date. Far too classy. And she looked smart.

Pierson walked in, smiling solemnly at the woman. Zack leaned against the doorjamb, not stepping inside until he knew what was up.

“
Agent St.
Martin, I’d like you to meet the detective in charge of the case you’re interested in. Detective Zack Travis is, frankly, our best cop here. He’ll certainly be able to help you.”

Zack vaguely heard the compliment. He was irate after hearing the first word.
Agent.

“What’s this?” he asked through clenched teeth. “You brought in the Feds without talking to me?”

He didn’t have anything personal against the FBI. But every case Zack worked in which the Feds got involved, they caused more problems than their presence was worth. Not to mention they became all proprietary with evidence, kept local cops out of the loop, and generally acted like they were superior.

“Detective,” Pierson said in a tone that made Zack take note. They stared at each other and Zack knew that his chief hadn’t made the move. It made him feel marginally better, but with the Feds hanging around his precinct, something was up.

Pierson continued. “
Agent St.
Martin is here because of a similarity in your case with one she investigated, and believes her information may help us find the killer. I spoke with her boss yesterday and he assured me that they’re not sending anyone officially. I agreed, after hearing what information they had, that he could send someone unofficially.”

“Yesterday?” Zack repeated. Why hadn’t the chief given him a heads-up?

“I don’t have to remind you of the seriousness of this matter,” Pierson continued, ignoring or oblivious to Zack’s implied question. “I agreed to the FBI’s offer, but you’ll retain total control over the investigation. Agent St. Martin is here simply to help. Think of her as—” he paused, now obviously uncomfortable “—your partner.”

That didn’t sit well with Zack, but he wanted any and all information that could help him find the bastard who murdered two little girls. Still, could he trust this Fed to be on the level?

“You know how they operate, Chief. All wine and roses up front, false promises to share information, then
wham
! They pull a rabbit out of the hat at the last minute, and we find out they’ve been keeping their cards close to the vest. We do the work, take out the bad guys, and they take the credit because they were less than forthcoming.” It had happened twice in Zack’s career, once with near fatal results. He wasn’t going to let it happen again.

“I wouldn’t think it would matter who got the credit as long as justice is served,” Agent St. Martin said, her voice as smooth as twenty-year-old Scotch.

Zack glanced at her, cool and collected, making him feel like a hothead. When he was a kid, he’d had a harder time controlling his temper, especially when someone was being unfairly picked on.

“Zack,” his grandmother would say, “your passion for those who can’t defend themselves is admirable, and will take you far if you don’t become a bully in the process.”

He’d worked hard at it, mostly had his temper under control, but tonight he remembered the bad taste the Feds left in his mouth the last time they’d worked together.

He was about to explain his comments when the woman said, “What’s mine is yours, Detective.”

She arched her eyebrows and stared him down, her hands clasped in her lap, her hazel eyes firmly locked on to his. Almost daring him, challenging him . . .

He looked away, surprised that the little woman had such courage to attempt staring
him
down. Yet she had. He’d turned away first. He felt an unwanted jolt of admiration. “Fine,” he said. “But,” he continued, looking at Pierson, then at Agent St. Martin, “if I find out that you’re playing games, withholding evidence, or generally jerking the department around, all deals are off.”

“I don’t play games, Detective,” she said.

Olivia knew she was on thin ice. If Detective Travis really pushed, he might learn the truth. The threat of exposure terrified her, but also gave her the courage to stand firm, and she mentally braced herself for a confrontation.

Travis stared at her, his dark eyes taking in her entire appearance with an almost crude appraisal. She resisted the urge to straighten her spine. He reminded her of a football player, a man who worked out and liked it. She felt even smaller than her diminutive not-quite-five-foot-three. Being seated certainly didn’t help.

But Olivia would not be intimidated.

“As long as we understand each other, Agent St. Martin,” he said. “Ready to share?” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm toward the door.

Olivia released a pent-up breath. Slowly, so neither Chief Pierson nor Detective Travis could see her relief.

“Absolutely,” she said as she stood, holding her briefcase. She nodded to the chief and followed the detective from the office.

“I have one of the conference rooms set up for this case,” Travis said. “Let’s go there.”

“I’m not here to cause problems,” Olivia said, feeling a strong need for him to accept her.

“I’m sure you’re not.” Sarcastic.

“You don’t like the FBI?”

“My dealings with them in the past have never been what you’d call positive.”

She frowned. She knew some stories of locals and the FBI not getting along, but she’d always been two or three steps removed from the investigation. Everyone she worked with seemed to be friendly. True, her experience was often thousands of miles away in a crime lab, but she thought she would have picked up on hostilities.

Detective Travis led her through a maze of desks. A dozen men and women watched them pass. Their watchful eyes made her increasingly nervous as she crossed the brightly lit space. She kept her face impassive, determined not to let any of these people get to her. She was already playing a dangerous game; jeopardizing her career was only the beginning. But she would see it through. She had to.

She would find Missy’s killer and he would pay. Justice would be served. Or she would die trying.

The thought didn’t scare her—and
that
worried her. She
should
be scared. She should be terrified of the killer who—by her count—had raped and murdered no less than twenty-nine girls in thirty-four years. Thirty, counting the death of Michelle Davidson.

But she’d come this far. There was no backing out now.

Zack stopped abruptly and turned into a conference room, closing the door behind them. “Sit. We have a lot of work to do.”

Olivia put her briefcase down and slid into a chair. “I said I would share everything I have. I don’t think it’s fair that you’re judging me without even giving me a chance to prove that I have no agenda other than to capture this killer.” A tickle of guilt flitted down her spine. She was withholding information from him, but not about the case.

He pulled out a chair and sat heavily, pulling a stack of files toward him. He stared at her, seeming to weigh her words. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable, but she held firm. Zack Travis was the type of cop who would see right through her if she even
thought
about lowering her shields.

“I’m glad that we could come to an agreement,” he finally said, without directly responding to her comments. “Our department wants to find this guy just as bad as your agency.”

Olivia nodded.
No you don’t. No one wants this guy more than I do.

Zack noticed an odd look cross Agent St. Martin’s face, something he recognized but couldn’t put a name to. She straightened her back, which didn’t do much for her overall height. She was petite, trim, with an hourglass figure under an expensive suit.

As he stared, she tightened her jaw. He almost missed her biting the inside of her cheek, and for a brief moment she looked haunted. But he blinked and whatever he thought he saw had disappeared, and she simply looked like someone used to being in charge.

Zack said, “Do you have a first name? Or should I just call you
Superagent
?”

He liked the way she bristled. She would have been fun to tease if they didn’t have serious business ahead of them.

“Olivia,” she said.

“Do people call you
Liv
?”

She shrugged. “Some.”

He waved a hand to the murder boards set up against the far wall. He’d watched her eyes darting toward them, obviously eager to get started.

“What do you know of my cases?”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, but it almost immediately fell forward. “Initially, I read the press reports, then I had the lab reports sent to me so I could review the evidence. But everything I have is from the Benedict murder. I haven’t had time to review the Davidson file. I assume it’s the same killer?”

“Yes.”

“No doubt?”

“Not in my book. The director of the crime lab is taking the case himself. Doug Cohn. He concurs—same knife, same M.O., and—” he paused, then said, “You know about the hair, right?”

“The killer cut a chunk about one inch in diameter from the victim’s head.”

Zack nodded.

“Any differences between the two cases?”

Zack shook his head. “Nothing substantial. Jenny was nine; Michelle was eleven. Jenny was an only child whose parents are divorced; Michelle has two siblings and her parents are still married. Both were abducted in the afternoon, killed within forty-eight hours, bodies dumped in a marginally public area and discovered in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Someone found the body of Jenny Benedict quickly, though,” Olivia said. “Your report said possibly within two hours?”

“We tracked down every employee who works in that industrial park. The owner of Swanson and Clark Electronics left just after six o’clock Friday evening, three weeks ago. He swears he walked right past where her body was found and she wasn’t there. The last employee to leave,” Zack checked his notes, “Ann Wells. Works at an industrial paint supply store at the end of the row. She didn’t see or hear anything unusual; her husband picked her up right at seven o’clock.”