Unspeakable (9 page)

“We just sit here?”

“Relax. Pretend you’re on a stakeout.” Troy flipped up a seat cushion in back and snagged a frosty bottle from the refrigerated compartment underneath. He held it out for her. “Beer?”

“No. Thank you. I shouldn’t drink on the job.”

He shook his head. “Can’t ride in a sports car. Can’t drink.” He rested the beer on the side of the boat and fished out a water bottle. He stood over her with it, dripping icy condensation onto her bare thigh. “You sure make a lot of rules for yourself, Agent McCord.”

She took the water and looked away. Instead of settling into his seat, he sat on the bench beside her, ratcheting up her tension level. He twisted the top off his beer.

“
So tell me how an agent who doesn’t speak Spanish gets posted to a border town.” He watched her reaction carefully as he tipped back his beer. He couldn’t see her face well in the dimness, but her shoulders stiffened.

“I don’t know, really.”

“You didn’t request it?”

“No.”

“But don’t new agents get some input?”

“Usually.” She took a sip.

“And what did you request?”

“D.C., Baltimore, New York. In that order.”

She wanted to be near headquarters. She must be serious about this profiling stuff.

She eased her knee away from his, and he smiled. Hell, maybe she’d be good at it. She had him nailed, obviously. But how hard was that? He was attracted to her, and he’d made no effort to hide it.

“And now you’re stuck down here, huh? What do you think?”

She watched him for a beat. Then she looked away. “I think it’s hot.”

“That’s it?”

She shrugged.

“Oh, come on. You’ve been here, what? Six months?”

“Seven.”

“In seven months, all you’ve noticed is the weather?”

He could tell he was pushing her buttons. Maybe she thought sharing an opinion would be like confiding in him. She seemed to prefer keeping people at a distance.

Which was fine with him. He liked a challenge.

She turned to look at him again. “You really want to know what I think?”

“
That’s why I asked.”

“Okay. I think the men around here need an attitude adjustment.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. They have one of three reactions to a woman with a badge: They ignore you, they talk down to you, or they try to get you into bed.”

“Hmm,” he said, knowing he fell squarely into the last category. “Interesting. And which of those hacks you off most?”

“The talking down,” she said immediately.

“Well, I apologize,” he said. “On behalf of my idiot Texas brethren. The talking-down thing—I assume you mean Breck and Maynard?”

“And my boss. And the guys I work with, and pretty much every man I’ve met since I set foot in this state. With maybe a few exceptions.”

“Cinco.”

She nodded. “Him. And my partner. They’re good ones.”

“What about me?”

She watched him, and he felt a warm pull of lust. He was definitely going to have to get around her defenses. It might take him a while, but it would be worth it.

“The jury’s still out on you. You’ve got your good points.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You’re the only one who calls me ‘Agent McCord,’ even though I know you mean it sarcastically.”

“See, now, I’ve been stereotyped. I don’t mean it at all sarcastically.”

“Right.”

“God’s honest truth. I have the utmost respect for every one of you people who risk your lives to enforce the law.”

She tipped her head to the side and watched him. He couldn’t see her expression clearly, but he could tell she was skeptical. She didn’t know him well enough to know he was serious. He respected the hell out of her chosen profession. Might have chosen it himself if the little problem of his criminal record hadn’t kept him out.

She looked out toward the causeway. The water lapped against the side of the boat and they floated for a few minutes without talking. The moon peeked out from behind a cloud, and finally he could see her face. She looked surprisingly peaceful. Maybe she’d just needed to vent.

“This reminds me of Lake Michigan in the summertime.”

“You from Chicago?” he asked.

“Mostly. We moved to Virginia when I was in high school.”

“Where abouts?”

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, and he thought she’d missed the question.

“Alexandria,” she finally told him.

“That’s just down the road from Quantico.”

“Yes.”

“FBI headquarters.”

She had her eyes closed, head tipped back. Expression carefully blank. And he remembered something that had been lodged in the back of his mind since he’d first heard her name.

“Hey, you wouldn’t happen to be related to John
McCord, would you? He’s a legend up there. Wrote a few books.”

“Yes.”

Troy sat forward and stared at her. “You’re related to Big Mac McCord?”

She sighed.

“Shit, he’s your father, isn’t he?”

At last, she opened her eyes. She watched him warily, and he knew she was expecting some sort of reaction. Probably the same reaction she got from anyone in law enforcement circles who found out she was the daughter of some hot-shit FBI mind hunter, the man who’d practically invented criminal profiling.

And weren’t those some big-ass shoes to fill?

Troy sat back and looked at her. That chip on her shoulder made a little more sense now.

He swigged his beer and glanced away.

“You’ve heard of my dad,” she said.

“Read his books. Saw him interviewed once about the Green River Killer up in Washington State.”

The silence settled around them again. The former newspaper reporter in him wanted to pelt her with questions, but she probably got that a lot. So instead, he kept his mouth shut and just watched her. She’d turned to look at the bay.

His gaze wandered from her delicate chin over the swell of her breasts, to linger on those legs. She wore the same Nikes she’d had on this morning, and he wondered again where she’d stashed her gun. And if he’d get a chance to find out.

Now he was having sexual fantasies about Big Mac McCord’s daughter.

He reached across her lap. She tensed—then relaxed—as he rested his beer in the drink holder beside her chair.

“It’s pretty here,” she said quietly.

“Yeah.” Troy looked around to appreciate it. The water and the marshes were washed with silver. The breeze felt warm. He’d done some traveling these past few years—Thailand, Patagonia, the Australian Outback. He’d seen some beautiful country, but on nights like this, there wasn’t a place in the world he’d rather be than Laguna Madre.

“You ever spend the night out here?” she asked.

“Nah, the mosquitoes get fierce when the breeze dies down. I come out early sometimes, though. Before sunrise. Catch a few fish, watch it get light.”

“Sounds nice.”

He glanced over at her. A lock of hair blew in her face, and he reached out to tuck it behind her ear. She went still. They stared at each other, her chest rising and falling and their faces just inches apart.

A beam of light flashed in his eyes. She jerked her head around.

“Shit.” Troy squinted into the glare of the spotlight. Another boat, not fifty feet out. How had he missed it?

He’d been distracted, that’s how. He stood up now and watched the police boat approach them. Elaina got to her feet.

“Breck,” he told her as he made out the figures. “A couple others, too.”

“Stockton?” the chief yelled. “That you?”

The spotlight beam shifted, and Troy got a good look
at everyone on board: Breck, one of his officers, and some Coast Guard kid at the helm. The guy couldn’t have been more than twenty.

“Hey, there,” Troy said as they drew up alongside. “Y’all find anything?”

Breck frowned at Elaina, and the younger cop answered for him. “Not yet,” he said. “We’re still on the northwest shore, though.”

“Who’s south?” Troy asked.

“That’d be the Coast Guard. And the sheriff’s got the west side of the bay. You guys seen anything?”

“Not yet,” Troy said.

“What about the bridge?” Elaina directed the question at Breck. “If someone came out here to dump a body and noticed the patrol boats, it wouldn’t be a bad place to hide.”

“Maynard’s got it,” Breck informed her.

“We’ll cruise this stretch down to the point,” Troy said. “See what we can turn up.”

Breck scowled. Clearly, he wasn’t too happy about their involvement, but the man didn’t own the bay.

“Radio if you see anything,” he said gruffly.

Troy nodded. “Will do.”

The police boat pulled away, and Troy got the engine started again. He set a course from their current position down to Windy Point, which constituted the southern tip of the island.

For a while they cruised without talking. Troy followed an undulating route that mimicked the shoreline.

“That man hates me,” Elaina stated.

“He doesn’t like outsiders.”

“
He’d be smart to use me. Doesn’t he know I can get him funding for this thing? Maybe even some more manpower?”

“He’s got plenty of manpower, at the moment. Sheriff, Coast Guard. He’s probably even borrowed a few guys from the neighboring counties.”

Elaina shook her head. “Does he see what’s at stake here? We’ve got at least three dead women, probably four. And the time between victims is narrowing.”

Troy spotted a bump on the smooth line of the horizon.

“This thing needs a task force,” she said. “A coordinated manhunt.”

“Look. Up ahead.”

She followed his gaze to the south.

“Sit down,” he ordered. “And hold on.”

“What is it?”

“A boat. South, near the wildlife park.”

“What’s it doing?” she asked.

“Leaving.”

Troy hit the gas, and the boat surged forward. Elaina gripped the side as the wind whipped ruthlessly against her. Spray dampened her face and hair. It soaked through her T-shirt. She strained to see over the pointed hull, which rode high above the water.

“Are we gaining?” she yelled over the din.

“Yes.” Troy stood at the helm, his gaze intent on the boat in front of them.

“Should I radio someone?”

“No.”

They hit a wave, and she pitched forward.

“Sit down!” he barked, and she did.

What was this guy doing? Why try to outrun another boat, unless you had something to hide?

She reached back and felt the Glock at the small of her back, beneath her T-shirt. She peered over the windshield again. They were definitely gaining. What had once been a dark speck was now a boat-shaped shadow skipping along in front of them. Troy closed the distance until they were parallel with the other boat. Soon they pulled ahead.

“Hang on.”

Troy made a sharp left turn, and Elaina grabbed the side. He curved around, then slowed abruptly. Next he flipped a switch, and a thick beam of light shone out across the water. A spotlight. Elaina surged to her feet.

“Damn it.”

“What?” she asked.

The shaft of light illuminated a white boat as it slowed suddenly. Then it seemed to stop, but Elaina couldn’t be sure. Her ears hummed and her body felt like it was still in motion. She squinted at the boat, at the lone man aboard.

“Goddamn it,” Troy said.

“What?”

“A police boat.” He switched off the spotlight. “It’s only Maynard. We’ve been chasing our tail.”

It was well past midnight when Troy swung the Ferrari into the Sandhill Inn’s parking lot.

“Thank you for the ride,” Elaina said stiffly, and he could tell she wanted to make a hasty exit.

“I’ll walk you in.”

“
That’s not necessary.”

“I want to show you something,” he said, and got out of the car. Jesus, she was paranoid. What’d she think he planned to do, jump her right there in the parking lot?

“This way,” he said, jerking his head toward the side of the hotel.

She hesitated briefly, then followed him past a twenty-four-hour convenience store to a gravel parking lot and a sign that said
PUBLIC BEACH ACCESS
. They crossed the lot and reached a wooden ramp that arced over the sand dunes. In less than two minutes, they were on the beach in front of the Sandhill Inn.

“You’re thinking he might have parked there,” Elaina said.

“Might have.”

“You’re saying he took his own car? I was thinking he walked up from the beach, then used the victim’s car to get to the boat dock.”

“Maybe he did. But this is another possibility.”

She glanced around thoughtfully. “It would make more sense,” she said. “The cars have been bugging me. All parked at the boat docks like that, no fingerprints, the victims’ clothes folded neatly on the seats.”

“Seems staged.”

“And too easy,” she added. “Like he’s leading us to the public docks. When in reality, he could be using another dock entirely. Maybe a private boat slip, either here or on the mainland.”

“Could be.”

Elaina looked up and down the beach. It was quiet. Just a few stragglers coming home from the bars, some not too steady on their feet.

“
Maybe he knocked on her door, tried to lure her out with him,” she said. “She might have recognized him from somewhere and said yes. Or maybe she said no, and he got out the syringe. An intramuscular injection doesn’t take that much precision.”

She was thinking out loud now, and Troy just watched her. He got that feeling again, like he didn’t need to be here; she was a million miles away.

“Either way,” she continued, “it wouldn’t be hard to get a woman off this beach. She could practically be passed out, and she wouldn’t look that different from everyone else stumbling home from the bars.”

She turned to Troy, and he could see the concern etched on her face. She was thinking about Valerie, who was probably dead by now. And she’d be thinking about the next girl, too. “Breck’s going to have to step things up. He needs help, whether he wants it or not.”

She looked out at the waves. The breeze kicked up, and she shivered.

“You’re wet,” he said. “You need to get inside.”

“I’m fine.”

But she was still shaking, and he stifled the urge to pull her close and warm her up. His thoughts were harder to stifle, though. He wanted to drag her inside and into a steaming-hot shower.