Slave to Love (7 page)

She endeavored to say something before his eyes bored a hole through her resolve. “Why don't—”

“Caroline, I need—” he said at exactly the same moment.

They both laughed nervously. “You first,” she said.

After a brief pause he shook his head. “No. You go.”

“Okay. Why don't you fill me in on what was in the M.E.’s report on the Connors?”

His eyes flickered, taking her in as though he were coming to some sort of decision. “I could do that,” he finally said.

He strolled over, casually settling on the couch next to her.
Right
next to her. She determinedly ignored his knee bumping hers as he leaned forward to put his beer on the coffee table.

“Death by strangulation for Mrs. Connors, using the same kind of fabric strip as on the other two women. Based on the pattern of bruising, Forensics thinks it was probably a scarf,” he said. “Ligature marks on the wrists and ankles consistent with the same fabric. Light abrasions from the restraints, but not extensive enough to indicate a real struggle. No heavy bruising. Champagne residue on the wife’s body.”

“Champagne?” she asked, surprised. “On her body?”

“One of the things we’ve kept from the press. The torso’s covered with the stuff. Plenty in her stomach contents, as well. Same with the other female victims.”

“Body shots?”

He paused. “Mostly higher.”

“Aha.”
Was it getting warm in here
? “Was the lab able to identify the brand?”

“Coeur de Diable.”

“Expensive,” she mused. “I assume you’re questioning stores that sell it?”

He nodded. “There’s another...interesting thing the M.E. found the three women had in common.”

“What’s that?”

“Something else we’re keeping under wraps. As it were.”

“Okay.”

“They’d all had wax jobs.
Complete
wax jobs.”

It took a moment for his meaning to sink in. “Oh! You mean...” Heat suffused her cheeks.
Professional, Palmer
. She kept her gaze firmly locked on her wine glass. “I see. All three?”

She sensed him nod again. His thigh against hers moved slightly closer. “And there were traces of nipple rouge on one of the women’s breasts.”

Oh, Lord.

Never having experienced either, she was at a loss to comment. “I see,” she repeated, cleared her throat, then added, “Just traces?”

“Most of it was either wiped off or—” he shrugged “—wore off during the evening’s activities. There was also evidence of oral sex on all the husbands.”

Her cheeks blazed even hotter, but she managed to say, “Blowjobs, eh?” with fair composure. Definitely getting hotter in here.

Mick’s arm shifted to the back of the sofa. Behind her. “Mm-hmm.”

She did her best to ignore it. “What about the wives? Did they have, um...”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“So the men didn’t reciprocate?”

“Apparently not. Although...remember the leather residue? It was found inside them.”

“Leather?
Inside
?”

“We’re thinking gloves. Though—” he shrugged again “—who knows? There are a few other possibilities.”

His thigh against hers was getting hotter and more solid by the second. She struggled to concentrate, but the subject matter was nearly as unsettling as his nearness.

“What about semen?”

“In all the usual places. Lots of it. Wild nights in suburbia.”

“But no condoms,” she managed. “I don’t suppose the killer left his DNA anywhere?” She knew he hadn’t, or it would have been mentioned, but she was grasping at anything to keep the conversation moving.

“Just the husbands on the first two women. It’ll be a few days for the full results from the latest vics, but I suspect he’s been just as careful.”

Caro got up from the couch as nonchalantly as she could and wandered over to the mantelpiece, where she set about straightening the knickknacks and mementos. What she really wanted to do was fan her face. “So, does that mean the killer didn't rape the women? Or just that he used protection?”

“Good question.” Mick picked up his beer, his eyes tracking her movements like a killer watching his prey. “With this kind of organized murder, you'd expect him to rape her before he killed her. It's almost always part of the fantasy.”

“But this guy is unusual, right?”

“Right. The husband definitely plays a role in the fantasy, having sex with the wife while she's tied up and the killer watches. But from the amount and position of the semen inside her, the M.E. doesn't think it's been disturbed by subsequent intercourse with the killer.”

“So the leather...whatever...was used before the final time.”

“Yep.”

Mick rose and strolled to the other end of the mantel from where she stood. He fingered a framed photo of her graduation from the Academy which sat under the softly glowing Tiffany lamp, then ran his thumb along the uneven edge of the lamp shade. All the while he kept his eyes on her.

“Maybe he's using the husband as a surrogate because he can't perform himself,” he suggested.

She tore her eyes from his hands and slid away from the mantel. “Didn't Tim say that by staging the woman's body and cleaning up the blood from her and the bed, it indicates he wants to put her in a good light?” She walked over to her easy chair and sat on the arm. “To create an impression of purity and innocence?”

“Yes, that's what Agent Woodruff said,” Mick replied stiffly. “What's your point?”

If she didn't know better, she'd think her use of the profiler's first name irritated him.

“Well, maybe this guy doesn't
want
to have sex with her. Maybe that's not what this is all about.”

He nailed her with a bald stare. “Caroline, it's
always
about sex.”

“Yes, but not necessarily about
having
sex.”

His eyes narrowed and he took a few steps toward her. “You don't know a hell of a lot about men, do you?”

She doused a flare of annoyance. “Well, maybe it isn't a man,” she shot back, jumping up to pace behind the couch.

He looked momentarily astonished, then his brows knit together. “You must have been distracted when
Tim
was going through the part about ninety-eight percent of serial killers being male.”

The only thing distracting her from Tim's profile had been Mick's unrelenting gaze on her through practically the whole presentation. The same way it was distracting her now. She really had to pull herself together.

“I was listening,” she ground out. “I just think there might be an alternative explanation.”

He looked more than skeptical, but folded his arms over his chest and said, “Okay, I'm all ears.”

Lord, was he actually taking her seriously? Shocked, she took a sip of wine to stall for time. “Well, first of all, the killer doesn't have sex with the woman. Has the M.E. looked at the
husband
for traces of other partners?”

His mouth parted, then snapped shut. “I expect so.”

“Does the report mention anything?”

With obvious reluctance he admitted, “It doesn't mention that specifically.”

She refrained from smiling. She hadn't really thought this through, she'd just made an impulsive suggestion in reaction to his sex-biased assumptions. But now she was determined to see where she could take it—as unlikely as the theory was.

She paced back and forth behind the couch. “And then, there's the fact that the killer stabs the man in the back right after ejaculation, when he's completely vulnerable and most likely unaware of what their guest is doing.”

“The timing is part of the fantasy,” Mick explained with exaggerated patience. “It ties in with how the killer stages the woman's body after strangling her. The man defiling the woman enrages him and he kills the husband in a heinously vicious manner, then restores the wife to innocence after the repugnant act. Of
sex
. Maybe he witnessed his mother being raped when he was young, or something like that.” He took a swig of beer and looked pensive. “You're right, though. This could be about not having sex.”

Well, wonders never ceased. “Yes. But why couldn't it be a woman who is reliving a horrible experience, where she herself was the one being defiled? It would explain why she'd want to kill the man as he completed the sex act on a helpless woman, all tied up. And why she'd want the woman to appear pure and innocent afterwards.”

He nodded. “I see your point. But then why doesn't she just cut off the guy's balls instead of gutting him? Why kill the woman at all?”

She made a rude face, walked around to the coffee table and set her glass down. “Then, there is the fact that these couples seem to have no problem inviting a total stranger into their home, tying up the wife, and having sex in front of this person. A woman would be much less threatening.”

“True.”

She dropped onto the couch, spinning out the theory in her mind. “Lots of men fantasize about a
ménage à trois
with two women. I just think it would be much easier all around for a woman to get herself into a position to commit the crimes.”

“Maybe.” He walked over and stood in front of her. “But you forget how charming these killers can be. They come off as normal as the guy next door, so no one ever suspects them. They're talkers, able to put people at ease and make them do things they never even dreamed of.”

She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed another pull of beer, then swiped a drop of moisture from his lip with his tongue. Her pulse kicked up a notch.
What things could he make her do that she'd never even dreamed of?

She cleared her throat and forced herself to study her glass. “Yes, well. It was just an idea.”

“And an interesting one. It's good to keep our minds open to all kinds of possibilities,” he said in an oddly gravelly voice.

She felt the cushion next to her dip and tamped down on her increasingly wobbly nerves. “Does he take trophies?” she quickly asked.

“Family and neighbors haven’t spotted anything missing.” He paused slightly. “But I suspect he does. Something kinky. Like a collar or whip. Or...something like that.”

She blinked away the image that created, wishing she hadn’t brought it up. She couldn't get up from the couch again without looking totally obvious, so she scooted back a bit and slung her elbow over the back cushion. “So what's your theory?”

“About the killer?” He peeled off a corner of the label from the beer bottle. “He's a sociopath. Bad childhood. Abusive father, abused mother. Frustrated sexually, rigid in his habits. Doesn't trust people. A loner.” He shrugged. “You know, the usual serial killer spiel.”

She studied him, wondering about the man behind the cool, detached façade. She was beginning to think there was a whole lot more to Mick McGraw than what he let people see. “What about you?”

He looked up sharply. “Me?”

“Yeah. Do you trust people?”

He relaxed almost imperceptibly and gave her a wry smile. “Sure I do.”

“Uh-huh. That's why you're Mr. Warm-and-Friendly at work.”

He chuckled, going back to his label. “I like being the Iceman. Suits me.”

“Why? Why don't you want to get close to anyone on the job?”

He lifted his shoulders uneasily.

“Afraid someone you like will get hurt? That you'll lose your edge if it's a friend or a lover in the line of fire?”

“Partly that,” he said, rolling the bottle between his hands. “Partly ancient history.” He took a long draught and gave her a crooked smile. “Partly because I like my sex a little over the edge. Who needs that making the rounds at the water cooler?”