Cold Malice Page 3

  Summer after he graduated high school he’d replaced glasses with contacts and started working out. By the time he’d left for college he’d turned from the slightly overweight, nerdy kid with bad skin into a lean, ripped hottie. The fact she’d always thought he was beautiful was irrelevant. Nowadays he had no problem getting dates and she kind of wished the girls who’d ignored him back in high school could see him now. But the thought of her baby brother having sex made her queasy so she pushed the idea out of her mind.

  Irritably, she stabbed her finger at her calculator. She may as well be eighty considering her dating life. Most eighty-year-olds got out more than she did. Between getting dumped for her best friend and starting her own business, her love life had become more fiction than reality. Her lips compressed and she pushed away her self-pity. Tax season was just around the corner. This was her busiest time of year and she didn’t have time to even think about a relationship.

  So stop thinking about it.

  She made herself a coffee and turned on the radio for background noise. Ed Sheeran was playing. No more tall, dark and handsome taekwondo instructors, she decided. What she needed was an adorable redhead who played guitar.

  She’d barely sat down with her cup of coffee when the hourly news came on. A federal judge and his wife had been shot dead that morning only a few miles from here. An icy wave of horror stole over her as the announcer mentioned the judge’s name. Raine Thomas—an unusual name. She’d just seen it in a file in her brother’s desk.

  Why did Cole have personal information on a judge? A judge who’d been killed? Her hands jerked, spilling the coffee, burning her fingers, making her curse.

  She stood and sat back down again.

  No way would Cole be involved in something as despicable as murder. There had to be a reasonable explanation. Should she ask him about it? And say what exactly? Hey Cole, where were you this morning? Out committing double homicide?

  What if he lied? Worse—what if he told her he was involved? Then what would she do?

  Dread took a tight hold of her innards and gave them a slow, painful twist.

  She pressed her hand hard against her stomach. Could it be, despite all her efforts, he’d turned out like their father after all?

  No. She refused to believe it. Cole was the one person in the world whom she believed in and she wasn’t going to sacrifice that trust on the basis of a piece of paper.

  There was no way Cole was capable of murder. Maybe the file belonged to one of his buddies?

  Should she talk to the cops?

  Hell, no. That was not an option. That would involve answering a lot of questions she didn’t want to deal with.

  One thing she did know. Her brother couldn’t know she’d snooped through his stuff. She gathered up his paperwork, rushed back to the office, opened the filing drawer and slid each piece of paper back into its respective folder. With shaking hands, she pulled out the black file and debated whether or not she should take it with her.

  And what? Become an accessory? That realization had fiery panic licking along her nerves. The last thing she needed was anyone connecting that file to her. She wiped the cover and the pages she’d touched with her sweater and eased it gingerly back into place using the sleeve of her cardigan.

  Everything appeared like it had before. She shut the drawer and ran back into the kitchen and stood there, trying to catch her breath. Then she crammed her belongings into her laptop case, washed up her cup, dried it, put it away in the cupboard. Rearranged the kitchen table into its familiar mess. She stuffed her arms into her coat sleeves, searched around to make sure no trace of her visit remained.

  She took a breath. It looked precisely like it had when she’d let herself in thirty minutes ago.

  She left, locking the door behind her, and sat in her car for a moment, trembling, her heart racing as her carefully constructed world fell to pieces.

  Then she remembered whom she was dealing with. Her brother, whom she’d watched take his first steps, whom she’d walked to kindergarten, whom she’d taught to stand up to bullies. Her brother, whom she knew and loved with every molecule of her being. Not some violent asshole who liked guns or fighting, but a registered Democrat who bought her flowers on Valentine’s Day when she was single and called himself a feminist. For his birthday this year, he’d asked her to adopt an endangered species from the World Wildlife Fund in his name. No way would Cole commit murder, but she needed to know what was going on and how he was involved.

  Blind trust was for the gullible and foolish. She’d rather put her faith in facts and empirical data. Unlike people, numbers never lied.

  Chapter Four

  Mac pushed through the throngs of gawkers gathered on the sidewalk and held up his gold shield before ducking under the yellow crime scene tape.

  The victims’ house was in North Cleveland Park a few miles northwest of the National Zoo. It was a beautiful older building, worth easily upward of a million bucks in today’s market. Someone might kill for that alone.

  There was a uniform from the Capitol Police at the corner of the house, taking names and handing out gloves and booties. Mac signed the log book and covered his shoes.

  “You seen Agent Ross?” he asked the guy.

  The uniform gave a sharp shake of his head. He was solidly built with gray at the temples. His mouth compressed, eyes pained.

  “You first on scene?”

  “Yeah,” he acknowledged gruffly. “Knew the judge. He was a fine man. Didn’t deserve this.”

  Mac didn’t ask more questions. It shouldn’t make a difference, but the mood shifted when someone had a relationship with the vic. Dark humor, used so often as a way for law enforcement and medical professionals to dissociate themselves from the daily grimness of their jobs, was shelved. The victims became more human. More deserving of respect. It was wrong, but it was natural.

  “They’re around the back.” The uniform indicated with a jerk of his head. Mac headed that way. A black BMW sat gleaming in the garage. A tarp had been strung up over the entrance to shield the scene from prying eyes. Mac ducked behind the material and his stomach lurched.

  Now he understood why the patrol officer looked like shit.

  A man lay on the threshold. Gray suit, blood red tie falling in a wave over the stoop. No overcoat. No shoes. Mac moved closer and studied the body.

  Two shots. One to the chest. One in the head. Point blank range.

  An agent stepped into view. Late twenties. Average height. One seventy. Eager rather than weary, which was a promising sign. It was easy to let the job consume you.

  “Agent Ross?” Mac asked.

  “No, sir. Agent Atherton. You must be ASAC McKenzie?”

  Mac nodded. At least they’d been informed he was coming. “Medical Examiner here yet?”

  Atherton finished scribbling in his notebook and said distractedly, “On her way.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Two victims.” Atherton motioned for Mac to follow him inside.

  Mac edged around the victim before stepping into a clean, well-kept home. The acrid scent of burnt coffee filled the air, along with the metallic taint of blood.

  “Judge Raine Thomas and his wife of over thirty years, Kate,” Atherton said. “Murder-suicide looks unlikely because both victims were shot twice, and no sign of a weapon, unless someone removed it before we got here. ME should be able to tell us for certain.”

  In Mac’s experience when men killed themselves they didn’t start with one to the chest and a second to the head. They stuck the gun in their mouth and blew out their brains.

  Mac stepped into a high-ceilinged kitchen that belonged in a magazine except for the dark slick of blood pooled beside the body of a dead woman. She hadn’t died quickly or painlessly. Now he wished he’d skipped breakfast.

  She lay on her side. The chest wound was indicative of the bullet being fired from farther away, presumably the doorway. Powder burns on the victim’s skin suggested the secon
d shot had been taken at point-blank range. Part of her skull was obliterated. Blood streaks on the floor indicated at some point she’d tried to crawl toward her dead husband.

  Gold and diamonds glittered on her ring finger.

  “Signs of forced entry?” asked Mac.

  “Nope.”

  “Security?”

  “A basic alarm that was turned off. Bullet trajectory on the judge suggests the shooter was standing outside firing into the doorway. No signs of a struggle. No nine-one-one call. Neighbors didn’t hear a thing.”

  “They used a suppressor?”

  Atherton shrugged. “Looks that way.”

  Mac scanned the floor. No evidence markers for shell casings. “Shooter picked up their brass?”

  “Yup.” Atherton blew out a long breath. “Whoever did this didn’t leave anything obvious behind except two bullets lodged in each victim. No signs of robbery, either. The UNSUB didn’t take jewelry, laptops, wallets, phones or cash all of which are lying in plain sight. No obvious signs of sexual assault.”

  “Jesus.” Mac expelled a breath. A full pot of coffee sat on the counter, two pieces of toast in the toaster, two plates beside it. An open butter dish and jar of marmalade sat nearby. These people had been going through the motions of a normal workday morning when someone had walked in and shot them dead.

  It looked like a hit.

  “Any idea as to motive?” asked Mac.

  “Not yet.”

  “Could be personal? Or some sort of revenge attack? What do you know about the judge or his cases?”

  Atherton seemed pained, as if Mac was slowing him down. He probably was.

  “Federal Circuit Judge. Dealt mainly with patent cases and veterans’ affairs.”

  Hardly the hotbed of passion or vengeance, although veterans knew guns and patents could be worth millions.

  “Thomas ever receive death threats?”

  “I’m in the process of checking it out.” The man sighed and the eagerness dimmed a little. “It’s early days.”

  Mac glanced around. “Who stands to gain from the couple’s death?”

  Atherton checked his notes. “There are two grown children. We have agents talking to them both. They heard the news on TV.”

  Christ. Mac didn’t want to imagine how much that had sucked.

  Atherton continued. “We haven’t found a will yet, but there’s a safe. We also need to find out the name of their lawyer.”

  Mac asked the obvious question. “Could this be a hate crime?”

  The judge and his wife were both black.

  “It’s a little early to say.” This comment came from a new voice.

  Mac glanced up. The guy who stood in the doorway had dark hair longer than generally considered acceptable in the FBI, and sharp eyes that were the norm. “You’re ASAC McKenzie? I’m Mark Ross. What can we do for you?”

  Mac inclined his head as they shook hands. This guy did not like a superior being on his turf. “I started working in SIOC and wanted to see this crime scene for myself.”

  “I haven’t seen you around. How long you been at HQ?” Ross questioned, watching him closely.

  Mac checked his watch. “Two hours.”

  The other agents laughed, but then they all glanced uncomfortably at the dead woman lying on her kitchen floor.

  “That’s about as long as I’d last, too,” Ross told him.

  Mac put his hands on his hips. It wasn’t that, but why blow a reason to bond? “I’m the new liaison for the Crisis Management Unit at SIOC. I wanted to offer any assistance we can provide.”

  “Appreciate it, but I don’t think we need SIOC at this stage.” The tone was just south of condescending. “If that changes, we’ll let you know.”

  Dismissed.

  Mac held Ross’s gaze but their silent pissing contest was interrupted by voices outside.

  “That’s the ME,” Atherton volunteered like a puppy trying to keep both owners happy. “Better watch where you step because she’s fussy about her blood spatter and scares the crap out of me. I’ll walk you out.”

  The last time Mac had felt this unwanted he’d been having an animated discussion about jurisdiction with a member of the US Marshals Service. But how would he feel if some bigwig from headquarters tried to insert himself into his investigation?

  Like a dog guarding his bone.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll show myself out.”

  Atherton and Ross nodded absently. They obviously didn’t give a crap as long as he left them alone to get on with their job. He walked through the beautiful home, with its warm colors and plush furniture, paused near the front door and studied a portrait of the judge in his robes. Another photo hung beside it, more informal with the judge kissing his wife.

  They appeared beyond content—they looked in love. Not a condition Mac ever wanted to suffer from again.

  He pressed his lips together. The murder of a black federal judge would be celebrated in certain circles. Bigotry and antigovernment sentiment was alive and well despite the fact they lived in the twenty-first century.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t a crime to hate people because of their job or the color of their skin. It was a crime to act on it. He pushed aside the old anger and disgust and let the agents do their job. There was more than enough crime to go around.

  Chapter Five

  “Great show today, Sonja.”

  The security guard in her radio station’s downtown DC studio offered her a high-five as she strode toward the back door of the building.

  “Thanks, Tommy.” She smiled at him and slipped outside into the frigid February chill. He was a young, good-looking guy and she knew he’d had trouble accepting her when she’d first started working here. But she’d won him over.

  She smiled smugly.

  Her goal was to win everyone over, one scared, ignorant, uninformed fool at a time. She paused to button up her pea-green, boiled wool jacket. It was a lot warmer than it had been at four a.m. when she’d arrived for work that morning but, even after six years in the US, she still wasn’t used to the cold. Delhi’s heat was akin to being put on a spit and roasted alive. Her parents still got excited every time she told them it snowed.

  Her smile dimmed. They wanted to visit, but she kept putting them off.

  Although hers was primarily a music show, she’d made a name for herself by being very public about the fact she’d been born into the wrong body. It was no more complicated or perplexing than that. She’d always known she was female, but somehow the genes had gotten mixed up and she’d ended up with dangly bits. It had been confusing as hell as a kid but at some point, she’d read a magazine article about transgender people and transitioning. That article had saved her life. It had suddenly been clear what she needed to do.

  Ironically, the main reason her parents were glad she lived in the US was because LGBT rights were more advanced here than in India. But if they ever found out the number of rape and death threats she got on a daily basis, they’d kidnap her and bring her back home.

  Sonja didn’t want them to worry.

  She was used to the anonymous hatred and bigotry of the internet. It was the all-encompassing love that she cherished. When someone reached out and said her story had helped them figure out what was wrong with their lives—that made everything worthwhile.

  She descended the steps, taking a quiet shortcut between two buildings to head to the nearest metro station. A late-night gig meant she’d had zero sleep. Still, it paid the rent.

  This morning’s show had been a lively one. She probably shouldn’t have called the senator from North Carolina a douchebag with the intelligence of an amoeba live on air, but when he’d insisted on calling her by her birth name, not her legal one, she’d lost her temper.

  Unprofessional, true. But her fans loved it. Haters were always gonna hate.

  She hitched her Michael Kors handbag higher up her shoulder and passed a woman wrapped up like they were in the middle of an Arctic vortex.

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sp; “Morning,” Sonja said sweetly. Her grandmother always said it cost nothing to be nice.

  The person’s expression didn’t alter but her eyes flickered as they passed one another.

  Sonja shivered. Those were the coldest eyes she’d ever seen.

  A second later a bolt of fire burned through her back and Sonja stumbled to her knees. For a second she thought she’d been Tasered. Then she saw the blood blooming on the front of her new coat—the crimson turning the pretty green to an ugly black—and the pain started.

  She couldn’t breathe. She put her hand on the wound and tried to draw in air but nothing happened. Her lung had collapsed.

  Footsteps crunched toward her, the sound ridiculously loud in the quiet of the morning. Pain made everything sharper. She bent her head back as the woman came around to stand in front of her, a large pistol in her grip. It looked like a gun out of the movie, fitted with one of those badass silencers.

  “Why?” Sonja wheezed. Hot liquid bubbled up her throat. Blood. Not a good sign. Her attacker raised the gun and pointed it at her face. Sonja wanted to scream but no sound emerged. She was about to die, she realized. She tilted her chin. If the bitch was going to kill her, she wouldn’t die cowering.

  “Why?” she rasped.

  But the woman didn’t answer. Cold malice shone brightly in her eyes as she pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Six

  There was one big downside to his new job. Mac was meeting her for lunch.

  He exited the J. Edgar Hoover building and turned north along Tenth, walking past the hulking concrete monolith that housed headquarters. The building covered an entire city block and although he’d only worked there for a day and a half, he’d been lost three times. Not because of his crappy sense of direction. Whoever had built the place inexplicably placed brick walls, seemingly at random, right in the path of where he needed to go.