Kiss Me, Kill Me (22 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

Sean heard Lucy cry out at the same time something hit his chest. Waking instantly, he reached for his gun on the nightstand, but quickly realized there was no intruder.

Lucy was writhing next to him, her hands swatting the air in front of her, eyes squeezed closed. She hit him again, and he switched on the hotel room’s light. His heart raced, but he spoke calmly. “Lucy. Lucy, wake up.”

Was he not supposed to wake someone in a nightmare? He didn’t know, but he couldn’t let her remain in this terrified state. Sweat coated her face, but her skin was ice cold. Every muscle was coiled; she was in full panic.

“Lucy! It’s Sean! I’m right here.” He spoke right in her face, hoping she would hear him through whatever torment she was suffering. He desperately needed to break her out of her dream.

Suddenly, she jumped out of the bed and backed against the wall, eyes wild, clearly not remembering where she was.

He leapt over the bed and stood in front of her, palms up, wanting to hold her but fearing that if he touched her she’d scream. “Lucy, it’s me. It’s Sean. You’re safe.”

At first, she didn’t see him. The fear in her eyes was as real as if she were at that moment facing an attacker. Then her eyes widened in recognition and her lips trembled. She threw her arms around his neck, tears running down her cheeks as her body shook in silent sobs.

He picked her up and carried her to the couch on the other side of the suite. He sat with her in his lap and she gripped him tightly. “Don’t let go. Don’t let go,” she repeated.

“Never.” He rocked her until at last her body began to relax. Her heart was beating so hard he thought he could hear it. Or was that his? He kissed the top of her head. “I’m right here, Lucy. You’re safe. You’re safe,” he repeated, as much for himself as for her.

Her breathing evened out as he held her. He didn’t know how long he sat with Lucy cradled in his lap, holding her, stroking her hair, still damp from her panic, rubbing her back, not thinking. He couldn’t think about anything. He just needed to touch Lucy. Every nerve in his body was raw with grief-coated anger from seeing the raw terror on Lucy’s face in the moment between sleep and waking.

He thought she might have fallen back to sleep, but when he shifted position, she sighed and nuzzled his chest, her knees drawing up. He kissed her forehead and realized she was cold.

He started to get up but she said, “Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere. You’re freezing; I want to get you warm.”

Sean carried her to bed, then lay down next to her and pulled the blankets around her. He reached over and turned off the light, hoping he could hold her until her heart rate returned to normal, until she fell into a dreamless sleep in his arms. He would cling to her the rest of the night, protecting her from her fears. His heart still pounded.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He continued to touch her, as if to assure himself that she was safe. Her face burrowed into his neck, and he kissed her forehead. “How long?”

She didn’t say anything and he thought she wasn’t going to answer.

“Lucy?”

“They went away for a long time. But the last couple weeks …” Her voice trailed off.

Sean bit back a profanity that Lucy didn’t need to hear right now. Five weeks ago, her past had confronted her again when her rapist had been found shot to death only miles from her house. Why didn’t he see that she was in pain, even now?

“It’s not every night,” she added.

“Even once is too often.” He kissed her forehead again, and adjusted her into the nook of his arm. Her body curved against his. Her feet were cold. He pulled one of them between his calves to warm it.

Sean wanted to sleep in Lucy’s bed every night. He wanted to protect her from dangers real and imagined and remembered. He wanted to hold her close, to make love to her, or just listen to her breathe in peaceful sleep. He wanted to make her smile and hear her laugh every single day of his life. He wanted to show Lucy how much he loved her. He dreaded returning to Washington knowing they’d be going back to their separate homes.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I feel so empty. Like there’s nothing left inside and I’m alone.”

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t.” He found her lips and kissed her. “You’re never going to be alone. I’m here.” He kissed her again. “I love you, Lucy. I’m not going anywhere.”

I love you
.

Lucy’s breath hitched when she tried to tell Sean she loved him. She couldn’t get the words out. She wanted to, but fear stopped her, fear of losing Sean, fear of losing herself. Fear that she would never be normal, no matter how much she pretended that everything was all right. The nightmares, her past, her future—or what was left of it. She wanted to love Sean, she wanted to stay here with him, to forget that anyone else existed, to forget pain and sorrow so deep that if she thought about it she’d break into a million pieces and no one would be able to help her. She didn’t want Sean to suffer her burden. It wasn’t fair to him.

She was teetering on the brink. Her cool façade was just that, an act, a hard shell she’d erected not only to stop pain from coming in, but to prevent her emotions from leaking out. Sometimes she felt blank, without the capacity to love or hate, able only to exist. And sometimes the deep-seated fear and hate and regret and endless sorrow that simmered in her core threatened to boil over until she wanted to scream. How could she cultivate the ability to love someone, to hope for a bright future, when she didn’t even know if she had love to give?

She couldn’t speak, but she could give Sean a small piece of herself, show him that she needed him.

Lucy felt for his unshaven face and held it between her hands, then kissed him. She kissed him until she felt as warm inside as she was outside, wrapped in his arms. His body temperature was always raised; he could wear shorts in winter and be hot to the touch. She kissed him until all remnants of the nightmare memories that had been plaguing her for weeks faded far away into the dark corners of her mind. She kissed him as if she were dying and he was her only hope for survival. And maybe he was. Maybe he could save her from shattering.

It was a fine line between commitment and obsession, a narrow path separating sanity from lunacy. She walked it every day, an acrobat on a tightrope, fearing she’d fall straight down and there would be no safety net, personally or professionally. Lucy knew she could lose herself in her past just as easily as she could lose herself in her future. She felt close to being a whole, normal person only when she was pursuing justice, focused on helping others.

Except now. Except with Sean.

Her hands were on his bare chest, and she pushed him onto his back, rolling on top of him, never letting his lips leave hers. His biceps flexed around her body as she straddled him. She felt a groan deep in his chest. She had no words, no thoughts, just a deep, extreme physical need.

Never had she been so forward, so urgent, in lovemaking. Sean’s hands were on her back, holding her tight, as if afraid to let her go and lose this unspoken, overwhelming desire. She tossed her T-shirt and panties across the room and pushed down Sean’s boxers, without breaking contact for more than a fraction of a second. She needed his hands, his arms, his entire body wrapped around her, inside her, filling her emptiness, completing her as only he could.

She gasped as she controlled Sean’s entry, but slid down smoothly, firmly, without hesitation. She broke the kiss as her back arched up, sweat coating her body and his. She held still for a long moment, savoring this instant flash of pleasure so natural, so real, so primal. A wave of heat washed over her and she pushed the blankets off impatiently.

Sean pulled her back to his chest, his lips on hers, as their bodies moved in unison, jumping from first gear to overdrive. Lucy gasped each time he went deep, his hands pulling her onto him as he pushed himself into her. Their lovemaking was perfectly timed, as if they joined together like this every night and had for years, though it was all still new and fresh and exploratory.

Sean said something but Lucy couldn’t hear over her rushing blood, as every muscle in her body tightened simultaneously, then released in a flood of ecstasy that surprised her so much she exclaimed Sean’s name in a voice that sounded nothing like her.

Sean thrust in a final time and held her tightly against him, their bodies hot and thoroughly pleasured. He didn’t let go when he was done, his hands moving from her butt to her back to her hair. He grabbed it in his fists and pulled her face to his and kissed her again, just as passionate and heated as before.

“Lucy,” he murmured into her mouth.

Lucy felt languid and so relaxed she didn’t think she could move. Sean sensed the shift inside her, and adjusted their position so she returned to the crook of his arm, but her head tilted so he could kiss her. She sighed contentedly, feeling like a lazy cat must when stretched out under a sunbeam.

“You’re smiling,” Sean said.

“I am.” And like a lazy cat, she was satiated and tired. She sank into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

TWENTY-SIX

The rain that had fallen in buckets half the night was now a light but steady trickle at seven o’clock Sunday morning. Suzanne had worn thick socks and rain boots, but her feet were the only part of her body that was dry.

The fifth victim of the Cinderella Strangler had been found outside an abandoned storage facility in Red Hook, where once again an underground party had been raging through the night. Jessica Bell had died practically a stone’s throw away in Sunset Park just one week ago.

Because her primary suspect was locked up on Rikers Island, Suzanne wanted to believe Sierra Hinkle had been killed by a copycat. But she’d stayed up half the night reading the report Lucy Kincaid had prepared for Hans Vigo, and she now believed she’d been wrong.

Suzanne had half expected the name, address, and phone number of the killer at the end of Lucy’s detailed analysis, but of course it wasn’t there. And while Lucy had stopped short of providing a psychological profile of the killer, Suzanne read between the lines. Lucy damn well had a psych analysis in mind, but she hadn’t included it, whether out of deference to the assistant director or because she didn’t want to go out on a limb.

Lucy had provided statistics regarding similar serial murders that gave information, but no conclusions. She’d taken Suzanne’s methodical time line and added in the victims’
Party Girl
information, which Suzanne hadn’t had before Friday, plus she’d incorporated the missing girl Kirsten Benton as a potential witness.

Lucy had seen one thing in the autopsy reports that Suzanne hadn’t, and the discrepancy had kept Suzanne from sleeping more than an hour. Because all she could think about was that if she’d caught the difference when she first got the case, she might have understood the significance in time to save the lives of Jessica Bell and Sierra Hinkle.

The lungs of victim #1 had traces of an ultrafine black powder that was sent to the NYPD lab. No lab report is attached to the autopsy report, or filed with other documentation. The other three victims had no black substance in their lungs. Per coroner, substance had been recently introduced to victim’s lungs and was possibly remnants of something that had been carried in the plastic bag used to asphyxiate the victim. The other three victims were likely suffocated with a plastic bag that had never been used—brought specifically for the purpose. Which suggests that killing the first victim had been spontaneous, using a bag that the killer had on him or her or found at the scene, but the other killings were premeditated
.

Suzanne remembered reading the note about the black powder, but had assumed that the lab couldn’t identify it, or was backed up, or
something
. Because she’d completely missed the subtle difference in the autopsy reports, she hadn’t followed up on the lab report or had Quantico take over the testing.

She’d noted the various crimes’ similarities: isolated location, victim’s age, intoxication level, and recent sexual activity. She hadn’t noticed that the first victim was most likely killed spontaneously, and the others systematically stalked and murdered.

Why?

Which was why Suzanne had called Sean Rogan and asked him to bring Lucy to the latest crime scene. Lucy may have held back her psychological profile in the report to Hans Vigo, but Suzanne would damn well get her to share her theory. Because if they couldn’t find the killer in the next six days, Suzanne feared that come next Sunday morning she’d be standing over another dead girl in the middle of another deserted lot next to one more abandoned building. And there were so many in the five boroughs of New York City, there was no freakin’ way the NYPD and the FBI could stake out every single one.

She was missing something, but damn if she could figure out what it was.

Vic Panetta looked as tired as she felt. “The group who found the body is sitting it out inside the building,” he said when he approached her.

“Where was the body found?” she asked.

He gestured to a temporary bright-orange shelter. “Though she was found quickly—we’re guessing less than an hour after she was killed—the storm saturated the area. There is an apparent head injury, like she hit her head on the bulldozer over by where she died, or a rock on the ground. Responding officers quickly put up a tarp and the crime scene team set up a larger tent.

“We also have several potential witnesses. Because of the weather, there were only about half as many people at this rave as at the last crime scene, and many were still here when officers arrived. We have thirty names, prints, and phone numbers to follow up on, but we let them leave.”

“Prints?”

“We had everyone sign a roster and assigned a different pen for each person, bagged and tagged them.”

“Smart—the pen isn’t too small to get a viable print?”

Panetta held up an example. It was a large, smooth plastic pen, like one that might be found in a souvenir shop. These were dark blue, with
New York Police Department
in white.

Suzanne smiled. “And who found the body?”

“They’re inside. Three of them. The girl is the roommate of the victim, identified her as Sierra Hinkle, nineteen. Name is Becca Johansen. She and Sierra both work as waitresses in Brooklyn, three subway stops away. One guy said he was with Becca for most of the night; the other guy stayed, he says, because he’d met the victim earlier in the evening. My guess? They had sex and he’s worried his DNA will be all over her and doesn’t want us to think he killed her.”

“He said that?”

“Just the hinky way he was acting.”

“Vic,” Suzanne said, keeping her voice low so none of the other cops could overhear, “I asked Lucy Kincaid to come out and walk through the scene. I’m going to walk through with her.”

“Fine by me. Any reason why?”

She handed him a copy of Lucy’s report. “She put together information for an FBI profile that I read last night and sent off to headquarters first thing this morning.”

“It’s pretty obvious that Wade Barnett isn’t our killer,” said Panetta, “unless she identified the likelihood of a partner. Which I’m not ruling out.”

“No partner. Lucy didn’t make any conclusions, but I did. The most important thing is that she kept referring to the killer as ‘he or she.’ ”

“A female killer?”

“It’s not out of the realm of possibility. She quoted statistics of suffocation in murder cases, and far more women choose that method than men.”

“Yeah, maybe—in mercy killings and child murders, maybe. But this is violent.” He gestured toward the orange tent.

“It’s something we should keep in mind as a possibility.”

“I’d look first at Barnett’s younger brother.”

Suzanne was surprised. “Why?”

“You said yourself that Dennis drove Barnett to the parties. He stayed in the car. He would have seen if someone wandered off. Took the opportunity to kill them, get back in the car, and wait for his brother.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know. Maybe that’s a question for your profiler, or Ms. Kincaid.”

Suzanne thought about Dennis Barnett as a murderer. She didn’t see it. Truth was, she’d let her emotions get involved during her interview with him. She liked him, thought he was genuine. She’d had a mentally retarded next-door neighbor in Eunice—if you could call three acres over “next door.” Bobby was her age and had been teased and bullied because he was slow; other kids called him Forrest Gump. So Suzanne had bought a video of the movie, using every dime she had, and watched it with Bobby. Told him that Forrest Gump was a hero, that he met two presidents of the United States, and was a championship runner.

Bobby never got out of the small town, and worked as a busboy in a diner. Probably still teased and bullied, but Suzanne hadn’t gone back.

Dennis reminded her of Bobby. She didn’t want him to be guilty, but she couldn’t discount the possibility.

She saw Sean Rogan drive up in his black GT. “That’s them,” she told Panetta. “Can you tell your guys to let them through?”

Panetta got on the radio and cleared them.

Suzanne watched the two approach. Sean had his arm around Lucy’s shoulder. It seemed casual, but protective at the same time. She’d thought something was going on between the two of them, but it was certainly obvious now.

Lucy was pale and wore no makeup, and her wavy hair was down and tucked behind her ears, making her look younger than she had last night. Sean held a large umbrella over both of them.

Sean spotted Suzanne and gave her a look that surprised her—he was angry.

She met them halfway. “Thank you for coming out.”

“You called at six in the morning.”

“Right after I got the call. Sorry to wake you up.”

“I was awake,” Sean said.

“It’s fine,” Lucy said. “Really, thank you for including us.”

“I stayed up late to read your report,” Suzanne said. “But you didn’t give a psych profile.”

“I’m not a profiler. I thought you wanted me to compile the evidence and statements for you to send to Hans.”

“Yes, but I guess I expected a conclusion. I have the wrong guy in prison. I missed something, and I need to find out what before someone else dies.”

“Same M.O.?”

“Appears so,” Suzanne said, leading the way to the tent. “I haven’t seen the body yet; the coroner just arrived. Nineteen, waitress here in Brooklyn, has no affiliation at all with Columbia University, either as an employee or as a student. Neither does her roommate, who found the body.”

Lucy followed Suzanne, listening to the facts of the case. She already suspected why Sierra Hinkle was murdered, she just didn’t know who killed her. But she’d keep her ideas to herself for now, because she needed facts. All she had was a theory.

“Who knew you had arrested Wade Barnett?” she asked.

“Everyone in the world,” Suzanne said sarcastically. “The
Post
reported that we had a suspect in custody early on, and then the six o’clock news broke the fact that the FBI had arrested Wade Barnett. Our statement that Barnett had not been arrested for murder didn’t mean squat to the press, who’d already found the same photo of Barnett and Alanna Andrews that you found. If they’d had that much interest in the dead girl, maybe we could have put the connection together earlier, but they didn’t care about her when she died. Not until a high-profile, wealthy real-estate investor was arrested.”

Suzanne was a hothead, Lucy realized. She’d seen a bit of it yesterday, but now it clearly showed. Suzanne reminded Lucy of her brother, Connor, a former cop who had a temper that had gotten him in trouble many times. It had taken marriage to calm him down some.

Suzanne entered the tent. “What do you have for me?” she asked the coroner.

Lucy and Sean were about to step inside, but the coroner barked out, “Two at a time only! This place is already too crowded.”

Sean squeezed her shoulder. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Thanks.”

“I’ll wait right here.”

Following Suzanne in, Lucy stood to the side, assessing the immediate area. There was a bulldozer just outside the tent, about eight feet from where the victim had died. The ground was soaked, concrete and mud and weeds. Several beer bottles and a broken whiskey bottle were near the victim, but they appeared to have been there for much longer than the girl’s body.

The coroner said, “Rigor has just begun, and I have her body temperature. Factoring in the temperature last night and this morning, I can state with a high degree of certainty that she died between one and three in the morning.”

Detective Panetta was standing outside the tent with Sean. “Her roommate last saw her at approximately one-thirty.”

“That gives us ninety minutes,” Suzanne said.

Lucy watched as the coroner finished his visual inspection. She noticed that the girl had a cut on her head. Right next to her head was a jagged rock about five inches across, a fresh scrape on the surface. “Suzanne,” she said, “I think she hit her head on that rock. That scrape looks about the same diameter as the cut on her head.”

The coroner glared at her. He was older, small and wiry, with gray hair and thick glasses sitting low on his nose. “I saw that. I haven’t let the crime techs in yet. Who are you?”

Lucy swallowed uneasily. Suzanne responded, “She’s with me.”

“Trainee?” he grunted.

“Something like that,” Suzanne said.

Sierra Hinkle was a brunette, wearing a red sweaterdress so short that when she fell, it had bunched up, exposing one bare buttock and her thong panties. Lucy desperately wanted to cover her, but knew the coroner needed to inspect the body before he could move it. At least the tent gave Sierra privacy from onlookers.

Lucy looked at the victim’s feet. She wore one silver shoe. It was glittery, but flat. She assessed the victim’s height—she was tall, probably five foot ten. Much taller than the other victims.

There was another key difference. Her neck was swollen and red. “Suzanne,” Lucy said quietly, not wanting the coroner to overhear her assessment. “Look at her neck.”

Suzanne did. “You’re right, it’s cut up.” Suzanne wasn’t as discreet as Lucy was trying to be.

The coroner snapped at Lucy, “You want my job?”

Lucy changed her tactic with the coroner. She really wanted to see something else on the body.

“Actually,” she said, “I worked at the D.C. morgue for the last year.” She glanced at Suzanne and mouthed, “
Gloves?
”

Suzanne reached into her back pocket and pulled out an extra pair of latex gloves. Lucy put them on and squatted across from the coroner.

“You have a different opinion on time of death?” he asked.

“No, I think you’re right.”

“You haven’t felt the body.”

He was daring her. Most cops were squeamish about touching the dead. Lucy wasn’t one of them. She pressed her hands into the victim’s stomach. “Organs still soft, pliable.” She moved her hands out from the center.

The coroner had the best time of death because he’d taken a rectal temperature and extrapolated from that. But the fact that rigor mortis had just begun—a process that starts about three hours after death—gave them a good guess at when she’d died. Still more important at this point was that full lividity—when the blood settled at the lowest point in the body, usually five to six hours after death—hadn’t been achieved. In fact, it appeared to have just begun, Lucy surmised.