Property Of (17 page)

Jesus, that woman could piss him off and turn him on quicker than any other woman he’d met. The sounds of her moans as he ground her crotch on his thigh were still tumbling through his brain as he filed Warner’s arrest report.

History told him to go slow with this woman, but hell if he could get on board with that. He wanted her, planned to have her, and wasn’t gonna dance around it either. Once he made up his mind that he wanted something that was it. Be it criminal or woman, he always got his man or in this case woman.

Reaching for the Shallow Grave file so he could comb through it as he’d done for the past sixteen months, he scowled when he realized it wasn’t his case anymore. Leaning back in his chair to see if Agent Parker was still in the office he’d sequestered, he watched as the agent left. Dallas was tempted to march into his office and see if he could find out what was really going on. Something about Parker’s explanation didn’t hold water. About to rise and take a chance on being caught, probably breaking all kinds of federal laws that would land him in jail in the process, his attention was diverted when a book landed on his desk. When he looked up, he found his partner smiling.

“What?”

“Your Ms. Royse has a dirty mind.”

Dallas’ brows shot up his forehead in surprise. “You wanna explain?”

“My sweet June gave me that last night,” Reed told him as he pointed to the book on Dallas’ desk. “Your Ms. Royse writes about Scottish Highlanders. June went out yesterday and bought that book. She said it’s so good she wants me to speak with a Scottish accent and wear a kilt for fuck's sake. I ain’t got the knees for a kilt, or the gut now that I think about it. Though the idea of the boys hanging free has an appeal I’ll admit.”

Nothing that came out of his partner’s mouth
ever
surprised Dallas, and this time was no exception. Chuckling, Dallas picked up the book and read the back description. Thumbing through the pages, he found several dog-eared. While he read the marked passages, Dallas felt his dick twitch. “Jesus, that leaves nothing to the imagination.”

“Turn to page two forty-five.”

Out of sheer curiosity, Dallas turned the pages until he found what Reed had marked. His dick didn’t twitch this time he was at half-staff after two lines so he shut the book. Christ, he hadn’t had a reaction like that since he was a kid looking through his friend’s playboy magazines. It was all he could do to keep from standing up and heading for his bike, destination, Swan Lake Drive and a certain Craftsman home.

Dallas wondered how long she’d been writing these sorts of books. How long she’d buried these desires while she waited for someone to unlock them. Grabbing his mouse, he logged on to the internet and typed in Grace Martin, author. A list of websites for her books pulled up, along with a Wikipedia page showing her age, education, and publisher. Then his eyes caught sight of a familiar website in the search engine. A link for a Grace Martin on Plenty of Fish stared back at him so he clicked it and froze when Nicola’s face filled his screen. After the kiss, they shared, and the way she’d lit up for him, the thought that other men were contacting her caused his jaw to tick, and his trigger finger to itch.

From the time they had been investigating the Shallow Grave Killer, they’d only had limited access to the online dating websites. They could view profiles and see how long a person had been a member, but they couldn’t get into their messages without a court order

At least not legally.

Dallas followed the law when it came to evidence. Though sometimes to get ahead of the criminals, he employed people to find information that otherwise couldn’t be obtained. This information never saw the light of day, of course, but if a secret message passed between lovers pointed him in the right direction, he slept at night knowing he skirted the law just a hair.

Picking up his cell, Dallas punched in a number he knew by heart. He’d come to an agreement with a local computer hacker to dig for information in places he couldn’t legally go. His hacker, Greg Powers, worked free of charge in exchange for Dallas’ expertise in law enforcement, a swapping of skills if you will.

When Powers answered, he was direct and to the point. “I need to know if a Grace Martin on Plenty of Fish, occupation, writer, who lives in Tulsa, is messaging with anyone. Her account says she created it on Thursday, March nineteenth.”

Dallas waited for a reply, then answered, “Right, when you get the information fax me what you pull up,” and then he hung up.

“Oh, Jesus, she’s on the dating sites?” Reed asked. He was aware of Dallas’ hacker and kept a close eye on Dallas to make sure any information he garnered didn’t compromise any case they were working. He knew Dallas had a tendency toward winning at any cost and most of the time turned a blind eye to his activities.

“Not for long,” Dallas answered as he stared at his fax and waited. He didn’t care if his actions were intrusive. He wanted to know who, if anyone, he was up against.

***

Murphy’s Law clearly states that, “Anything that can go wrong, will.” Truer words were never quoted. You know how you think you’ve gotten away with something even though you really ought to have known better?

Picture it . . . oh, screw it; it was too humiliatingly infuriating with a huge dose of “I suck as a friend” to break down into a romantic fairy tale.

So here’s the long and short of it. I trudged around the corner and up the street to Rusty Crane, a fun little bar and grill that specialized in outdoor dining. Thomas Sheldon, I found out, was
not
Thomas Sheldon at all, but a sexy FBI agent by the name of Dane Parker. Color me surprised when he pulled out his badge and began explaining that he was on a special task force hunting the notorious Harvest Killer and they wanted my help. Now, I’ve explained before that I’m a doer not a watcher, so that being said, I was all ears and ready to do my part after he explained.

Agent Parker informed me that the Harvest Killer was some sort of computer expert and that our own Shallow Grave Killer, who they suspected might be one and the same, was most assuredly stalking his victims on a dating sites. When you considered the fact, I was about to write a book on the exact same subject, you can image my writer's brain stood up and took notice.

Agent Parker, who had gorgeous green eyes and light brown hair and who appeared to be older than I was by a few years, continued to explain that they’d had great success in the past tripping up predators who stalked victims online. Unfortunately, they were never successful with hackers because they knew they were being hunted. They were suspicious of anyone online and because of their skills knew how to ferret out the truth. This was where I came into play.

I was a real person, someone the hacker slash killer could verify. My pictures were out there on my book covers so there was no reason for the Shallow Grave Killer slash possibly the Harvest Killer to suspect me of working for the police. Agent Parker explained that they wanted, with my permission, to tweak my profiles on POF and SSD to attract the killer, and then they would monitor my conversations to see if he took the bait. They had a psychologist on staff who would analyze the men’s responses to my FBI issued questions, then determine if any of them fit their profile.

Coupled with the eerily coincidental fact, I was going to write a book about an online killer, and my almost obsessive need to help when I could, I hadn’t hesitated to answer, “Yes, of course, I’ll help.”

“You know when our computer expert happened upon your profiles almost immediately after you signed up on both sites, I had a feeling it was providence,” Agent Parker smiled.

“I have to tell you something though. I was online looking for research for a book I’m writing, as you well know, but what you don’t know is that the book is about a serial killer who finds his victims online.”

“Life imitates art,” Parker replied, “but you understand you won’t be able to use any of the information gained during this investigation in your book. Any information that passes between you and those who respond, once you agree, will be considered evidence obtained during a criminal investigation. You’ll have to sign a waiver to that effect before we continue.”

“I’ll agree to that if you’ll allow me to write my book loosely based on what happens during the course of the investigation. The names would be changed and the location would be different and any conversations I may see, of course, would be altered so they aren’t the same.”

“So we're talking about fiction, not non-fiction?”

“Exactly, I wouldn’t compromise your investigation, I’d just use creative license with the facts. I’d even agree to let your own legal department read the book before it’s published.”

Agent Parker sat back in his chair and grinned. I, of course, had noticed what a good-looking man he was but when he smiled like that, he was downright sexy. He wasn’t as dark and brooding as Dallas was, though it may be the standard issue black suit he was wearing that made him seem more civilized. Either way he was eye candy, and I made a mental note to create a character for him in my book.

“I’m curious about something,” I asked as I sized up Special Agent Parker. “Why didn’t you just confiscate my profile and have one of your own agents message the men?”

“That’s easy enough to answer. In the past, when we’ve used agents to draw out an UNSUB, they’ve been tripped up answering personal questions, such as “What’s it like to be a writer. The predators aren’t idiots and know when the answers don’t ring true. They disappear before we can get a lock on them. By using
you
to answer their personal questions it assures us the best possible chance of catching this guy.”

Leaning forward so our conversation wouldn’t be overheard, Parker leaned forward as well, until we were only a few scant inches apart. When I opened my mouth to ask him exactly how this would work, I heard a motorcycle pull up at the curb out front of Rusty Crane. Rusty Crane’s patio area ran the length of the building and wrapped around the side. We were sitting on the side and could see the street. Glancing to my right, I watched dumbstruck as Dallas got off of his bike and leaned back against it as if he was waiting for someone. When I uttered, “Shit,” Agent Parker turned his head and froze.

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“Um, you could say that.”

We were far enough away that he might not recognize me, if he wasn’t looking for me. However, I had a sneaking suspicion that he was.
Damn, he must have run into one of the girls.

Agent Parker muttered, “Fuck,” then stood suddenly and took my hand drawing me from my seat.
Right you are Agent Parker. Let’s go inside the restaurant where I can hide.

However, he had other ideas.

This is where Murphy’s Law came into effect.

See, what I didn’t know was that he knew Dallas and they’d already gone head to head in some kind of macho man pissing contest (the rules known only by macho men and baboons). That being said, Parker decided not only to drag me down to the street where Dallas stood, but he wouldn’t let go of my hand while he did it. Which confused me to no end until they spoke.

Dallas was leaning against his bike, arms crossed on his chest, legs crossed at the ankles, giving off the appearance of someone who was laid back, relaxed. However, he was anything but if the jaw muscle he was working was an indicator. He stood from the bike when we got within five feet of him and thankfully, Parker let go of my hand. As soon as I got within touching distance, Dallas’ right hand shot out and grabbed me at the elbow, drawing me away from Parker and to his side. Parker watched this maneuver with a grin, then replied, “I see we have the same taste in women, Vaughn.”

Um, What?

“You’ve got one minute to explain,” Dallas fumed as he curled me into his side, which was all-kinds of nice, but I was too busy thinking ‘what the hell’ to enjoy it.

I looked back and forth between the two and saw one angry badass Detective and one grinning FBI agent who seemed to be enjoying himself.

What on earth was going on?

“Just setting a trap with the help of Ms. Grace, is that a problem?”

“Say that again?” Dallas bit out as he tensed and the arm around my shoulders grew tighter.

“The FBI has asked Ms. Grace to help catch the Harvest Killer,” Parker explained.

I looked up at Dallas when I heard a swift intake of breath right before he fumed, “Are you nuts? No way in hell will I let you set her up as a target for some psychopath.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold the damn phone.

“Now wait just a damn minute,” I jumped in, stepping away from him, “you can’t tell me what I can or can’t do. I’ve already given my word I’ll help.”

“Babe, I’m not about to let you set yourself up as bait just so I can dig you out of a fuckin’ grave,” he growled.

“That won’t happen ’cause I’ll never meet the guy.”

“We don’t have a fuckin’ clue how this guy is gettin’ at his victims. If you tweak his interest, and I promise, someone like you will tweak his interest pretty fuckin’ fast, he won’t stop until he has you.”

“Dallas this guy needs to be stopped I’m sure the FBI can protect me.”

Dallas’ face flushed a scary shade of rage this time and I took a step back since he seemed ready to explode. Enraged or not, I was going to stand my ground. I wasn’t about to let him intimidate me when we hadn’t even been on one date (which every girl knows has to happen before a man can claim any type right to tell her what to do, and vice a versa). Suddenly, I heard the girls call out from across the street, so I turned and moved toward them, more than happy to distance myself from the anger rolling off Dallas in waves. As I approached my friends I heard Dallas seethe, “You don’t use civilians to catch a killer. What the fuck are you thinkin?” to which Parker responded, “The FBI has in the past with great success, I might add. We need Ms. Grace—”

“Her name is Nicola Royse,” Dallas interrupted on a hiss, “and no fuckin’ way is this happening. You got control of my case, but you aren’t putting my woman at risk.”

His woman?