SEE HER DIE (2 page)

Elizabeth peeked past her friend to the woman in question as she scooted in at the end of a row. The rustle of silk and lightweight wool accompanied the efforts of those already seated to accommodate the late arrival. The woman was tall, impossibly thin and, of course, beautiful. Elizabeth did remember her. She was an actress. She’d just landed some big part in a movie. Elizabeth nodded in response to her friend’s expectant expression.

She remembered the party, too. She hated those kinds of parties, but Gloria dragged her to them, anyway. Hardly a weekend night went by without some sort of party Gloria insisted they simply could not miss. Luckily they’d only run into Brian once or twice. But no matter where they went, the crowd was always the same: a little too wild for Elizabeth’s liking. Gloria called her a party pooper, when the truth was Elizabeth was simply a homebody. She wasn’t into the party scene the way Gloria and her other friends were.

Besides, it had been only ten months since she and Brian parted ways. That was entirely too long in Gloria’s opinion for Elizabeth to still be afraid to go out on a limb with someone new. But Elizabeth didn’t see it that way. In spite of her mother’s desertion, she’d been raised in a small town where people mated for life, not for one night. She’d be the first to admit that Brian had not been the love of her life. Truth was, he’d been a means to an end. She just hadn’t seen it until it was too late. She had regrets, but only a couple.

Moving to New York had been the right thing to do. Breaking out on her own was also the right thing to do, even if it had been scarier than hell at first. But she’d survived.

She’d survived Ned Harrison, too, hadn’t she? How could Gloria have expected her to look for a new love when Elizabeth had gotten so tangled up in Ned’s web of deceit?

Elizabeth shook off the disturbing thoughts. She was a survivor. That was what her daddy always said, and her daddy had been a very smart man.

Moistening her lips to conceal the tiny smile thoughts of her father evoked, Elizabeth straightened and focused her attention on the priest’s words. She was here. She might as well pay attention. She darted a look at her friend. Gloria appeared to have finally settled in now that she’d scrutinized the crowd. A mixture of affection and respect bloomed in Elizabeth’s chest. Gloria was in a league of her own. It seemed impossible that Ned, the heartless bastard, had fooled her. Maybe even Gloria had her vulnerable spot.

Ned Harrison had been an expert at finding those spots.

Elizabeth drew in a heavy breath. They’d both survived Ned—but would
she
survive his murder? What if the police discovered her secret?

Special Agent Collin MacBride paid little attention to the priest’s words as he continued his evaluation of the attendees. The group was a veritable who’s who from the city’s high society and the up-and-coming. Mostly women. No surprise there.

Mac watched one woman in particular. Elizabeth Young. He shifted slightly so that he could see her better. Tall, slender. She wore a black dress, though not the kind one expected to see at a funeral.

Then again, none of the women present were dressed in proper mourning attire. Things had definitely changed since his days as an altar boy. He’d seen enough long, shapely legs and silk fabric to feel as if he’d stepped into the middle of a competition for the next top model, rather than a nave filled for a funeral service. Amid the variations of in vogue sameness was Elizabeth Young. She was decidedly different.

Tall, even wearing flat-heeled shoes, she didn’t walk with the same confident glide as the others. No nail polish, very little makeup. He’d gotten a pretty good look at her when she first entered the church. He’d been standing in the shadows near the massive double doors. She and her friend, one Gloria Weston, had hurried to find a seat as if they feared they might miss the opening act of the hottest new Broadway play.

Elizabeth Young wore glasses, the small, gold-wire-rimmed kind. Oddly enough, there was something appealing about the prim look the eyewear gave her or maybe it was the braid restraining her long hair. He cocked an eyebrow at the direction his meandering thoughts had taken. He’d definitely gone too many hours without sleep. Anytime he looked at a possible suspect and found her appealing in some way, he needed to recharge his batteries. Years of training and field experience weren’t supposed to just fly out the window. Where was his focus? Down the toilet, obviously, along with his patience for bumbling homicide detectives. He gritted his teeth when he considered how badly they’d screwed up on this one.

Next to him, Luke Duncan edged a bit closer and spoke in a low voice, “She doesn’t really look like the type who could bury a knife in a man’s chest.”

Mac glanced at his brand-new partner, a kid fresh from the academy. Luke had a lot to learn that only experience would teach him. “They usually don’t,” Mac assured him.

What the hell did he think? That a killer walked around with an identifying mark stamped on his or her forehead?

Duncan shrugged, too cocky to be embarrassed. “I mean, she just doesn’t look like the type who screws around with some guy, then sticks him.”

Still waters ran deep more often than not, Mac considered, but said, “Harrison’s murder was an emotional kill, an act of passion. You saw the video. Miss Young is certainly capable of the necessary emotion.”

“Man, is she,” Duncan muttered wistfully.

Mac clenched his jaw as the images he’d watched on that video quickly played in the private theater of his mind. Oh, yeah, Elizabeth Young was definitely passionate. His pulse quickened as his mind focused on one particularly vivid image of her nude body. Streaks of gold highlighted her lush brown mane as it glided over her skin with her rhythmic movements atop her lover. Small, firm breasts jutting forward, begging to be tasted. She might not have that high-class walk down pat, but she damn sure had the art of sex down to a science. His body reacted to the memory.

He looked away, silently cursing himself. Elizabeth Young wasn’t just a suspect, she was the prime suspect in this high-profile murder investigation. He didn’t need a case of lust where she was concerned. The facts were all he needed. And he had several of those.

Ned Harrison had scheduled a dinner appointment with Elizabeth Young at seven on Friday night. By nine he was dead. The homicide detectives had found the very private, definitely X-rated video of Harrison and Young hidden in his bedroom. There was no way to determine when it had been made. Other videos had been found as well. More than two dozen. Ned had been a busy man. Half or so of the videos featured extended sex sessions with former patients. The others involved current patients. All the videos except Elizabeth’s had been safely tucked away in his walk-in closet, right behind his wall of Armani and Prada suits. Each had been labeled with a name and date—all except Elizabeth’s.

Mac didn’t know yet what made hers different but he would find out.
That
she could count on. It was an absolute miracle the NYPD detectives hadn’t given away that ace in the hole. At least they’d had sense enough to keep the videos to themselves when conducting their hasty interviews and spilling their guts to the media.

As if that fiasco wasn’t enough, the so-called rush on the forensics report that should have been ready yesterday was stuck in a political bottleneck. He’d had to fight like hell to get jurisdiction over this case. It was Wednesday and he hadn’t been allowed to interview any witnesses or suspects. Hell, he hadn’t even gotten the detectives’ reports until this morning. He hated delays. He hated screw-ups even more. One brash detective had royally screwed up by pushing Miss Young until she went on the defensive—the absolute wrong thing to do. What did they teach these guys in detective school?

Mac folded his arms over his chest and seethed.

Now, five days after the man’s murder, he’d finally gotten the word to proceed as lead on the case. If he could just get his hands on the damned autopsy report he’d be in business.

Yep, he hated delays, hated not knowing all the available facts. Simple things, like whether Harrison had sex before he died or if he’d been drinking or hitting his drug of choice. The only two things he did know at this point were the approximate time of death and the apparent cause of death. Brannigan, the shoot-first-ask-questions-later detective from the NYPD working on the homicide case supposedly in cooperation with Mac, was running down the history of the dagger. Was it a part of Harrison’s personal collection? Or had the killer brought it with her or him?

Harrison owned an extensive collection of antique swords and daggers. Too bad one of his toys may have been used against him.

Some hobby. Mac imagined the weapons gave the guy a sense of power. He wondered how powerful he’d felt when one was jammed deep between his ribs?

Mac hadn’t liked Ned Harrison. He liked him even less now that he was dead. It blew Mac’s ongoing case all to hell. As a member of a special task force he’d been watching Harrison for months, hoping for a break in the illegal and deviant Internet activities of a group known as the Gentlemen’s Association. Harrison was the first of the group they’d been able to pinpoint and identify. Now he was dead, leaving Mac back at square one. The Bureau wasn’t very happy about that, which only added to the maelstrom of the past five days.

It was certainly possible Harrison’s death was a well planned and executed hit designed to look like a crime of passion. The head of the Gentlemen’s Association may have learned that Harrison had been compromised. But Mac couldn’t see how anyone could know the feds were onto Harrison. Mac had been too careful. It made more sense that it was just what it appeared to be. But before he scrapped Harrison as a lead and moved on, leaving the final mop-up details to the local homicide detectives, Mac intended to be sure there was nothing else to be garnered about this secretive Association from Harrison’s life or his death.

Mac had collected every speck of information about the man his past offered. Harrison had risen above his humble foster child beginnings. Both he and his only sibling, a twin brother, had done well for themselves. His brother’s death four years ago had left Harrison alone in the world since he’d opted not to marry and have a family of his own. But men like Harrison were too selfish to give enough of themselves to have any sort of real family.

“Our lady is on the move,” Duncan warned.

Mac hauled his attention back to the present, his gaze seeking Elizabeth Young. She was working her way to the end of the row, muttering
excuse-me’s
to those seated between her and the aisle.

Just where the hell was she going? Heads turned as she dashed down the aisle, past Mac and into the vestibule.

He glanced at Duncan, giving him an unspoken command to stay put. Mac slipped quietly into the large entry hall. Young pushed up her glasses and swiped her eyes, then wrapped her arms around her middle but not before he saw the tremor in her hands. Had her heinous deed finally pinged her conscience? Or maybe she was just now realizing everything the cops had openly accused her of.

Without making a sound, he stepped closer and offered her the crisply starched handkerchief from his coat pocket. He never could tolerate a weeping female. “Are you all right?”

Elizabeth stared at the white handkerchief for several seconds before she reluctantly accepted it. “Thank you,” she murmured without looking at him. “I’m okay.”

Another step disappeared between them. “Did you know him well?”

Her head shot up. She looked straight into his eyes, then blinked. “What?”

“Dr. Harrison,” he offered, coming closer still. Close enough to watch the pupils of her eyes dilate when she realized she was alone with a stranger who was suddenly in her personal space. “I mean,” he explained carefully, keeping his voice low, gentle, “you’re so upset. I thought perhaps you were family or maybe his girlfriend.”

Her fingers clenched the white cotton. She didn’t even breathe—at least, not that Mac could see. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, frightened but too shocked to react. Her scent filled his senses. Not perfume. Soap or shampoo. Something soft and sweet, yet intensely appealing.

She shook her head finally, the movement strained. “No. I’m... a former patient.”

Mac shrugged. “I suppose losing your therapist can be overwhelming.”

Her gaze narrowed at the hint of sarcasm in his voice. Dammit. He hadn’t meant to let it slip out. She looked him up and down for the first time. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

He smiled, the one the ladies always told him they liked. All confidence and charm. If Miss Young liked it, she showed no outward indication. “Collin MacBride.” He offered his hand but she ignored it.

Clearly suspicious, she pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “Were
you
one of his patients, too?”

Smart lady. She watched closely for signs of deception. Elizabeth Young might look like the naive librarian who needed to get laid, but she hadn’t fallen off the turnip truck just yesterday.

“No,” he confessed. “Just a friend.”

She shoved the handkerchief back at him without having used it. “Thank you, Mr. MacBride, but I should get back.”

“Wait.” He stopped her before she could escape. She hesitated at the entryway to the nave and turned back to him. He cranked up the wattage of his smile. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

Something flickered in those amber eyes, fear, anger, both maybe. “No,” she said, her voice tight. “I didn’t.”

She left him staring after her. However smart she thought she was, whatever cover-up skills she’d learned since the last time she’d stabbed a man in the chest, it wouldn’t be enough. Mac would not give up until he knew everything she’d seen, said and done where Ned Harrison was concerned.

His smile widened. She had until tomorrow morning and then she was his.

Chapter Two

She’d had more than enough time for the shock to fade and the reality of Harrison’s death to steep into her conscience. That was assuming Elizabeth Young had a conscience. Considering the bout of tears she’d suffered at the funeral, Mac was relatively certain she still had one. Duncan had been right in that respect. Mac really didn’t see her as a coldblooded killer. But jealousy could drive people to do things they normally wouldn’t. Or maybe she’d found out what Harrison was doing with his videoed sessions. That would piss anybody off.