Endgame (Last Chance Series) (7 page)

"Could he have rolled over?" Madison asked.

"Anything's possible, but I don't think so. The positioning of the body is too unnatural." Again she pointed at the photograph. "See the way the leg is twisted. If he'd been conscious that would have hurt like hell."

"And he'd have moved again." Madison stared at the picture, wishing it could talk.

"Exactly." Tracy nodded. "But unfortunately all of this is nothing more than an educated guess. Another expert might disagree completely."

"But you're
our
expert." Gabriel said as he considered the photographs. "So what can you tell from the shape of the wound?"

"Blunt force trauma," Tracy said. "Something small and heavy. A hammer, maybe. If I could have seen the actual wound I could probably have told you definitively."

"That's still not enough to prove foul play." Madison hated to be the naysayer, but it was important that they be certain. At least as much as possible in light of the fact that the man was dead and in the ground.

"There's a little more." Tracy sat back in her chair, still holding the file. "The chemical residue in his lungs led investigators to determine cause of death as asphyxiation, but when you look at the sections under the microscope the magnitude isn't what you'd expect."

"Meaning what?" Gabriel asked.

"Well, considering the size of the fire and Mr. Barnes's proximity to it, I'd say he stopped breathing well before it got close enough to actually kill him. Again, without seeing the actual body I can't say for certain. But I'm betting Barnes died before the fire ever really got going."

"So the blow could have killed him?"

"I'd say so. He obviously lived long enough to breathe some smoke, but I don't think that's ultimately what killed him. My guess is he was out cold and probably dying well before
the fire started."

"Maybe his fall started a chain of events that started the fire," Madison said, testing a theory.

"Nope." Tracy shook her head for emphasis. "Point of origin was at least one hundred feet away. And according to this—" she waved the file through the air "—the ATF wouldn't completely rule out the idea that the fire had been intentional. That's why the insurance company was so thorough "

"But they never proved anything," Madison said, remembering the report.

"It's hard to prove arson. And even if you do verify there was an accelerant, unless there's a footprint, it's nearly impossible to tie it to someone specific." Gabriel spoke as if he had firsthand experience, and Madison found herself wondering whether he had investigated a fire, or started one. "So how the hell did the M.E. miss all this?"

"Not ineptitude, if that's what you're thinking." Tracy's expression turned fierce. "It's not like CSI on television, or even a place like this." She gestured at her office. "Most forensics labs are underpaid, understaffed, and seriously overworked. It's easy to miss things like this without the proper equipment. And top-of-the-line machinery is expensive and way out of the budget of the average forensics lab. Add to that a caseload that numbers in the hundreds and there simply isn't motivation to spend more time than absolutely necessary."

Gabriel held up his hand. "Sorry. Didn't mean to tread on anyone's toes. It's just that we're looking at three apparent murders, none of which were identified from autopsy."

"Well, you know now." Tracy crossed her arms, unaffected by Gabriel's outburst. "What you do with the information is up to you. My job is just to report the facts as I see them." She stood up, the gesture signaling the end of the meeting.

"And we appreciate all you've done." Madison rose, too, smiling. "Thanks to you we've got a good start. The next step is to look into the other deaths."

"The ones without autopsy." Tracy nodded. "Let me know if you decide to exhume them. Even with decomposition I can still find an amazing amount of evidence."

"You'll send a report." It was a statement not a question, Gabriel's mind already moving on to the next step.

Whatever that might be.

*****

NIGEL SLIPPED INTO the team control room, checking quickly to make certain that it was empty. Everything was dark, the only light coming from the wall of windows. He glanced over at them, thinking that if things went south, what seemed an obvious perk could easily make the room a death trap. Better that they were below ground level, but Cullen wouldn't know that. And in all honesty he had to admit that considering his directive, the windows could prove an asset. But only if things got out of hand.

He made his way over to the computer bank, relieved to see that the system was on. He hadn't been able to tell if it was encrypted, and although he would most likely still have been able to gain access, this would be much simpler.

He sat down in front of a monitor, pulled out the keyboard, and with a few simple keystrokes had full access to Cullen Pulaski's computer systems. The file he needed was easy enough to find.

He pulled a disk from his pocket, inserted it into the computer, hit a key and waited while it hummed into action. Nine minutes later, disk back in his possession, he made his way to the door, the computer screen behind him flashing green—

Strike F1 to retry boot, no data found.

MADISON STOOD at the window of her apartment looking out at the Manhattan skyline. Lights glittered from windows across the way, the towering buildings full of residents settling down for the evening. In the distance she could see the shimmer of the East River, its crazy currents flowing in whatever direction it chose. First upriver, then down, fluctuating with the tides.

Despite the fact that the apartment had come from her father, she loved it. It was as much a home as she'd ever had, filled with the bits and pieces she'd collected over her nomadic life.

Her mother had been the original free spirit, and not even Philip Merrick's power and wealth had been enough to hold her captive. Less than five years after the wedding, Alexis Harper had simply taken her baby and walked out the door.

For the next six years, Madison had traveled around the country with her itinerant mother, never alighting anywhere long enough to call it home. When she'd reached school age, Philip had demanded his daughter, and in the usual way of things, gotten exactly what he'd wanted.

The challenge won, he'd immediately shunted her off to a myriad of nannies and private schools, the latter turning to boarding schools, with vacations wherever her father's latest venture had taken him.

She'd traveled the world, and been incredibly lonely. So much so that when she'd graduated from Vassar, she'd married the first man who asked, certain that at last she'd found a home. But hasty decisions are seldom good ones, and her marriage was not the exception.

Rick, it turned out, was nothing but a prick in gentleman's clothing. Only interested in her money, he couldn't understand her need for autonomy, and once it had become clear that she wasn't content to sit back and enjoy her father's bank account, he'd started a one-man campaign to undermine her confidence. And it had almost worked.

Almost
.

So, as predicted by both her mother and father, the marriage had ended in divorce less than a year after the nuptials. And Madison found herself once again adrift.

When her father had suggested the apartment in New York, her first instinct had been to refuse. After all, as a fledgling FBI agent, she spent most of her time at Quantico. In fact, she'd spent the better part of her adult years trying to establish a life separate from her father, to make her own way without benefit of his name—to prove to herself, in some misguided way, that she didn't need anybody.

The reverse, of course, was true, and Philip Merrick was not a man easily dissuaded. He wanted her nearby. So when her profiling work to
ok her to the city for back-to-back cases, she was faced with the prospect of living with her father or living in a hotel, neither option alluring.

Never one to admit defeat, her father had seized the advantage and bought the apartment, offering it as a gift, presumably with no strings attached. A joke if ever there was one, as there were always strings where her father was involved, but he did love her in his own unique way, and so with some reservation, she'd moved in. And never looked back.

Her work kept her traveling, and the apartment had become a refuge, a place where the evil she lived with day in and day out could not penetrate. A safe house of her own making. And for that she'd be eternally grateful to her father.

There was peace here that she never found in other places. Not in her mother's sprawling home in New Mexico and certainly not in her father's penthouse on Central Park West. With a resolute smile at her reflection in the window, she
turned her back on it and moved over to sit on the couch, reaching for her wineglass, relishing the peace and quiet of her apartment. Information about the case swirled inside her head, replacing all thoughts of the past.

None of it made much sense. They had two confirmed murders and a third that looked suspicious. What had been theory was clearly reality. Which meant that there was a killer out there. And worse, that he would most likely strike again.

Taking another sip of wine, she let the events of the day wash over her. Despite her aversion to Gabriel, she had to admit that his associates seemed more than up to the task at hand.

She looked down at the files Harrison had pulled together, everything he coul
d find on Nigel Ferris and Payton Reynolds. Nigel's record was exemplary. A team player who'd made a career out of coming through in the most dire of circumstances. His loyalty to his friends came second only to his loyalty to country.

Payton Reynolds's record was sketchier. He'd served under Gabriel in Delta Force, his stint in the army ending
abruptly with a myriad of awards and a lengthy hospital stay. Details were classified, but it had obviously been something traumatic, the scar on his face a permanent reminder of whatever had happened.

There was no way to know for certain, but Madison would stake a week's wages that the mark served as an outward sign of more significant internal damage. She'd seen men like Payton before. The walking wounded. He hid it well, but it was still there, reflected in his eyes, and she found herself wondering if Gabriel carried similar scars.

She looked down at the report, clearing her head of all emotion. She was trying to get a handle on the men she was working with, not dissect their leader.

After the hospital, Payton had simply disappeared. Harrison had been unable to ferret out more than rumors, none of them particularly favorable. The most prevalent was that he'd gone underground. Selling himself to the highest bidder—which fit with what Gabriel had told her, but not with her overall impression.

She'd watched Payton today, and despite what the facts told her, she trusted him. Or maybe she just trusted Gabriel's instincts—at least professionally. And considering they'd all be working together to track a killer, that was all that mattered.

The doorbell rang, pulling her from her thoughts. She stifled a flash of irritation. No one was supposed to get up here without being announced. Caution being second nature, she stopped at the breakfast bar to retrieve her gun before answering the door.

It was probably nothing, but taking chances was how an agent wound up dead.

She peered through the peephole, shock blending with relief as she lowered her weapon. Gabriel Roarke stood on the other side, a scowl coloring his expression as he rang the bell again.

With a second surge of irritation, she swung open the door. "How the hell did you get up here?"

"Nice to see you, too." He glanced pointedly down at the Glock in her hand.

"I asked how you got up here. This is a secure building."

"CIA credentials open a lot of doors." He shrugged, and brushed past her, acting as if he'd been coming to her apartment for years.

She followed him into the living room, trying to compose herself. The man had absolutely no sense of propriety. "I could have shot you."

"I doubt that." His smile was disarming. The first he'd ever graced her with. Of course, it was for all the wrong reasons—like the fact that he thought she wouldn't have the courage to use her gun.

It was tempting to prove him wrong right then and there, but it seemed a little shortsighted to shoot one of the good guys, no matter how many buttons he pushed. She dropped the Glock on the counter and turned to face him. "Well, don't do it again. I live in a secured building for a reason."

"Nothing is secure, Madison." It was the first time he'd used her name, and she found that she liked the way it rolled off his
lips. "But I've got to say this beats the hell out of living at the Marriott."

Cullen had set them up at the hotel for the duration. Harrison had even moved over there. "I'm sure Cullen would be happy to put you up somewhere else."

"It still wouldn't be this." He waved his hand through the air to emphasize his point. "Some digs. I think maybe I missed the boat not working for the FBI."

It was not an unusual reaction to her apartment, but somehow coming from h
im it rankled more than usual. "Too bad you missed the memo."

"Right." His smile held a hint of laughter, but any amusement was more than offset by the cynicism reflected in his eyes. Gabriel Roarke obviously had issues. Big ones. But thankfully, it wasn't her job to deal with them.

"What's down there?" Gabriel had turned his attention to the view, and was pointing at something below him.

She moved to stand beside him, her gaze following his. "Health club."

The gym was located three floors below her, extending out from the building, its crowning feature a slanted roof of glass. From this vantage point, she could almost see the tenants below hard at work on treadmills and stair machines.

"
Wealth
club is more like it. Are those chandeliers?" His tone was incredulous, and she smothered a sigh of irritation.

"Just in the clubroom,"
she said, struggling to hang on to her temper. "The rest is pretty much your basic gym."

"I'm impressed." His tone made it clear he was anything but, and she watched him as he dropped down on the sofa, looking for all the world as if he belonged there.

Still frowning, she sat down in the chair across from him. "You still haven't told me why you're here."

"I thought maybe we ought to get to know each other a
little better."

"And dropping by my home unannounced is the way to accomplish that?" She tried but couldn't keep the sarcasm from her voice.

"Would you have welcomed me with open arms if I'd let you know I was coming?"

She started to nod, but then thought better of it
. This man would recognize the truth anyway. "No. Probably not."

"There you go." He smiled, his icy gaze warming for a moment
. "Part of espionage is knowing how to approach the target."

"So what
, now I'm a target?" Talking to him was like fencing—a sport she detested.

"No." He sobered. "But you're an unknown quantity and I don't like undefined variables."

"So you thought you'd just drop in and check me out."

"Something like that." He leaned back and crossed his legs. "Mind if I have some win
e?" He nodded at the open bottle on the table.

"Help yourself." She'd be damned if she'd offer a glass, but that didn't seem to faze him a bit. He got up, walked over to the kitchen, found another glass, poured the wine, then returned to the sofa. After taking a sip, he reached for her glass, holding it out to her as if he were the host.

She toyed with the idea of tossing it in his face, but hated the thought of what it would do to her cream-colored sofa. "Thank you." The words came out of their own volition, good manners overriding even the worst of situations.

"Look, I don't know why Cullen was so red-hot to have you on the team, but judging by this apartment, I'd say the two of you must have a cozy
little relationship."

Anger shot through her, white-hot and razor sharp. "Cullen is my godfather, and the reason he wanted me on the task force is because I'm very good at what I do."

"I'm sure you are." The spark in his eyes said more than his words, and she tightened her hold on the stem of her wineglass, fighting to maintain control.

"For what it's worth, Mr. Roarke," she ground out, slamming the glass on the table, "the apartment belongs to me. A gift from my father. Feel free to check with the front desk on your way out."

Instead of retreating, he stood up and took a step closer. "Daddy's little girl?"

Any restraint she'd had melted away at the taunt. Without thinking, she closed the gap between them and swung, wanting nothing more than to wipe the smug expression from his face.

He caught her wrist, her hand inches from his nose, his expression amused. "So, the cat has claws." His eyes raked across her, making her skin burn.

Fury combined with adrenaline to give her added strength, and she twisted forward, slamming her left leg into the side of his knee, using his hold on her arm as torque to flip him to the floor. Still holding her wrist, he pulled her with him, rolling quickly to pin her to the ground, his body hard against hers.

She turned slightly, pulling her knee upward at the same time in an attempt to dislodge him, but he was faster, grabbing her other wrist, holding her captive beneath him.

"Nice moves." His voice was deep and smoky, his eyes darkening with an emotion she wasn't about to put a name to. Her breathing was ragged, and she was pleased to note that his was not coming any easier.

Her anger had somehow slipped away, the chemistry between them shifting. His breath teased her face, and if she lifted her head, even slightly, their lips would touch. It was compelling, this need to move forward. Just centimeters and...

The
little voice in her brain screamed for sanity and with an exhale of breath, she forced herself to break the spell. "Get off me."

His smile was slow, and a
little wicked. "I don't know. It seems pretty comfortable to me."

Her anger returned, but this time she managed control. "I said, get off."

He searched her face, and then with a shrug rolled away, acting for all the world as if the moment had never existed. "You know your stuff, I'll give you that."