Her Last Chance Read online

  She was hiding something—nothing unusual there. Everyone lied to the authorities; it was a question of figuring out which lies mattered. Something told him this one mattered.

  There were no lights on inside her redbrick tenement. Marsh climbed the steps beside her and inhaled the subtle hint of citrus from her hair. Consciously he held his breath as she inserted her key in the lock and pushed the door wide. Tried to hold onto that soft fragrance rather than the faint odor of blood that clung to the ground floor apartment. It wouldn’t surprise Marsh if the other residents stayed elsewhere until the stench of violent death faded enough for them to regain the illusion of safety. He’d suggest a hotel but knew she’d never go for it.

  Josephine stood stiff and uncertain on the threshold. Her skin looked waxy. Marsh reached forward and flipped the switch and light flooded the hallway, shining off the mosaic tile floor and white walls that were smudged with patches of fingerprint powder.

  The door to the lower apartment was taped shut—it could be days before evidence response teams released it.

  The hairs on the back of his neck lifted.

  “Did the feds clear your apartment before you left?”

  “No.” Her eyes blazed at him. “Why would they? He left through the ground floor window.” Pointing at the sealed off door, she looked like she wanted to hit him. “Are you actively trying to freak me out or does it come naturally?” She closed the front door behind him.

  “A killer comes after you with a knife yet I’m the one scaring you?” Hoisting his bag over his left shoulder, he popped open his holster and took out his SIG-Sauer.

  Open-mouthed, Josephine watched him. Shaking her head, she started up the stairs. He let her lead. Let her unlock her door and then touched her arm and motioned her behind him. Despite the way she rolled her eyes he detected a frisson of alarm pass through her, as if she were only now realizing that she could actually still be in danger. The guy could have come back here. He’d know that her guard would be down after being questioned by the cops. He wouldn’t expect her to have an escort.

  The solid weight of his pistol felt reassuring as Marsh pushed open the door and flipped the light switches. There were no shadows, no monsters ready to jump out from behind the door. Marsh dumped his bag inside and waved her forward, setting the lock behind him. If the UNSUB was here, he wanted to nail the bastard before he hurt Josephine again.

  “He’s not here,” she hissed.

  God save him from civilians. “Unless you want to be terminally wrong, why don’t you stick close to me while we make sure?”

  He held out his hand, watched her reach uncertainly for his fingers. There was a jolt of awareness between them that widened her eyes on contact. Her skin felt satin smooth. He tugged her behind him, searched closets and each of the rooms, ending in her bedroom.

  Releasing her hand, he opened the tall slatted doors and searched the built-in closet, poked his head under the bed and when he was one hundred percent certain that the apartment was clean and secure, he holstered his weapon.

  Josephine sank down onto the bed, shrugging out of her jacket. Her head sagged and she looked as strong as a blade of grass. Her forearm got stuck and she jerked uselessly at the heavy sleeve. He went down on his knees, caught her hand which fisted instantly and eased the cuff over her palm, letting the coat slide off her shoulders.

  His elbow rested on her knee, heat sparking between them like static. The blue of her eyes was half-hidden by the fall of her hair. Her gaze settled on his lips and then shifted away. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  He eased away and raised a sarcastic brow. “What? No condom? Wasn’t a problem last time.” It was a mean thing to say, but she brought out the worst of him as she purposefully reduced everything that had happened between them to casual sex. There was nothing casual about his relationship with this woman.

  She hissed and raised a hand as if to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist. She started to jerk up her knee, but he applied just enough pressure with his elbow to protect himself.

  “Kick me in the balls again, princess, and I’ll handcuff you to the bed faster than you can say date rape,” he growled.

  “I didn’t rape you.”

  “You put Rohypnol in my scotch and said ‘Make love to me, Marsh’ and then dragged me off to bed and screwed me senseless. What would you call it?”

  “They were your drugs and you drugged me first. You kissed me.” Her mouth thinned. She strained to pull out of his grasp, but he wasn’t letting go until he got answers. He knew why she’d done it. She’d been trying to knock him out so she could escape protective custody, but things had gotten out of control. Desire had consumed them both.

  He needed to hear the words from her mouth, to know whether or not it meant anything to her.

  “I didn’t mean to have sex. I never meant to go through with it, dammit.” She closed her eyes.

  “Then why did you?” His voice cracked. With one act the woman had ruined him for everything except pining after her like a lovesick puppy.

  “I—” Her chest heaved. “I must have gotten the dose wrong and then…” She opened her eyes and the stark blueness of them speared him. “I’d never done it before and it felt…good.”

  Dropping his head, he stared down at the hardwood floor and wondered if she was finally being honest or whether she was so skillful at reading men that she was playing him again. He let her go and she turned away, hiding her face behind a blond veil. The delicate line of her throat rippled as she swallowed.

  She rolled over the bed and got out the other side. Her face was white, her eyes flat. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I drugged you and forced you. It was rape. You should have me arrested.”

  He sat down on the bed and rubbed his eyes. Damn. He’d wanted to know if it affected her the way it affected him. He hadn’t meant to attack her with false accusations because they both knew he’d wanted her from the moment they’d met.

  Standing slowly, he dug his fingers into his hair, knowing he had to be honest, knowing he had to try and regain some of the integrity and honor that he strived to live by. He walked over to her, put his hands on her shoulders. Stiff as a Barbie doll she stared into his eyes, pride and shame battling in the tilt of her jaw, clearly expecting a sharp jab to finish the job.

  “It was the best sex I ever had,” he told her grimly.

  Her eyes flashed with surprise as she processed his words. “Are you crazy?” The walls went back up. “Or just trying to get in my pants again?”

  Marsh shook his head and walked over to the door. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” He wanted to tell her he never wanted to get inside her pants again, but he wouldn’t let any more lies stand between them. Sweeping his gaze over her body he had one last question about that evening six months ago. “You didn’t get pregnant?”

  Putting a pale, long-fingered hand over her stomach, she shook her head.

  “That’s good.” Marsh held onto the doorknob and said thickly, “Get some sleep.” Closing the door behind him, he leaned his forehead against the cool wood and wanted to bang his head. Good? So much for no more lies.

  Chapter Four

  ______________

  There was a stillness in the air, an expectancy that excited him. A gentle mist of rain sprayed his face and cooled his feverish skin. This wasn’t his neighborhood, this wasn’t his town, but it was his hunting ground.

  He blinked twice, winced at the soreness of his left eye. He’d covered the scratches with makeup, but that bitch was going to pay. The bite on his wrist smarted, but he’d covered it with antibiotic cream and bandaged it carefully. His knife nestled reassuringly in his pocket. Solid. Real. Safe. Sharp. Vengeful. Memories crowded in, stirred his blood and made the breath catch in his lungs.

  The bloodlust wouldn’t let go. It was getting harder and harder to think about anything except killing, and that worried him. The woman in the downstairs apartment had been too old to truly satisfy him. But who could resis
t the symmetry of getting to Josephine Maxwell through another blond-haired bitch?

  Not that she’d been a real blonde.

  Trees rustled as a cold blast of air raced up the street from the Hudson bringing with it the stench of rotten seaweed exposed by the receding tide. A couple strolled along the sidewalk, arm in arm, tensing slightly as they neared him.

  Invincible, the Blade Hunter smiled, nodded his head and said, “Evening.” His fingers tightened around the handle of the knife until his knuckles ached.

  The woman smiled back with the slack focus of one who’d had too much to drink. She was a blonde and he would love to teach her a few lessons about letting her guard down, but he didn’t linger. The boyfriend had jarhead written all over his Cro-Magnon face.

  Something slithered around his legs.

  “Ow!” He let go of the knife in his pocket and went down hard on the sidewalk, breaking his fall with his forearms, skinning his palms.

  Meow.

  A cat sat on the sidewalk looking at him, flicking its tail.

  “You okay, bud?” The jarhead turned back toward him, leaving his girlfriend wobbling uncertainly in high heeled inebriation. If he had her to himself he’d slide his knife expertly across her skin…

  He shook himself. Clambered to his knees. “Yes. Thank you.” The guy picked him up, almost lifting him clean off the floor by his collar.

  “You need help getting home?” The guy’s voice was gruff, fierce and unexpectedly considerate.

  ‘I will deal with them according to their conduct, and by their own standards I will judge them…’

  “I’m good, thanks.” He smiled. Brushed off his pants, no damage done.

  The guy lowered his brows and muttered, “Get off the streets, man—there’s a freaking lunatic slicing and dicing people like you for breakfast.”

  Meow.

  The dark haired stranger shot his boot in the direction of the cat, sending it fleeing between parked cars into the gutter.

  He watched, fascinated, as the Good Samaritan strutted back to his girlfriend. New York City. The city that never sleeps. A siren blared far off in the distance. A blast of hip-hop music poured out of a passing car. He grinned. He loved this city. Maybe he’d stay awhile.

  Chapter Five

  ______________

  Dancer thrust a copy of The NY News so close to his nose Marsh could smell the newsprint. He grabbed it out of Dancer’s hands, straightened up from the desk where he was overseeing Philip Faraday as the man accessed the galleries’ private inventory records.

  Front page and center was a picture of him and Josephine taken at last night’s murder scene, and alongside that, was a picture of him here with Lynn Richards.

  For fuck’s sake. He groaned. Hadn’t figured anyone would care enough to focus a lens on him. Then he read the byline—Nelson Landry. The little shit.

  Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he squeezed his eyes shut at the big, bold headline.

  SUPERCOP ON THE JOB.

  He was going to catch hell from his boss. The chances of this not getting to the director’s ears were less than zero. Good thing that financially he didn’t need to work.

  Philip Faraday craned his neck to see. “Looks like you had a busy night, Agent Hayes.” Turning back to the computer monitor, the man’s fingers tapped rapidly over the keyboard, calling up data. “That the woman you brought to the opening last night?” Faraday nodded to the newspaper.

  Marsh shot the guy a tight smile. If he could find out who sold the stolen art to the Faradays, he still had a slim chance of chasing down a lead, making an arrest and getting the hell back to Josephine before she figured out a way to leave town. “Do you have that information for me yet?”

  Wearing a burgundy shirt with gold cufflinks, designer sunglasses and black slacks, the art dealer looked sharp. And he was a damn sight easier to deal with than his flaky sister, Gloria, who teared up whenever Marsh asked her a simple question. He’d sicced Aiden and Dancer on her, which seemed to be working because she’d stopped crying, except when she looked at him.

  “I’m going as fast as I can.” Philip stopped typing and scowled up at him, the light glinting off his thick glasses. “Maybe I should get my lawyer in here.”

  There’d been a time when people had thought him charming. BJ. Before Josephine.

  “If you want a lawyer, feel free. But selling stolen property in this country will get you jail time. So why don’t you work a little bit harder on getting me that name and I’ll work hard at remembering you cooperated?”

  Philip averted his gaze and began printing out documents.

  Marsh’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his suit pocket, moved toward the floor-to-ceiling glass frontage that faced West Broadway.

  “Hayes,” he answered.

  “I’m being followed.” Josephine’s voice sounded clipped and breathless.

  “What the hell do you mean you’re being followed? You were supposed to go into protective custody with Walker and Nicholl.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “about that…”

  Sweat broke out along his brow. He could hear her footsteps echoing off the sidewalk, her breath raspy.

  “I changed my mind,” she said, like that was a sane option with a serial killer on her tail. Shit, she’d done the same thing with the mob after her so he should have been prepared.

  “Lied your ass off more like.” Deliberately Marsh bumped his forehead on the enormous windowpane and absorbed the reverberation through his brain. “Where are you now?” Don’t let it be somewhere deserted and quiet. I don’t want to listen while some bastard cuts you up—

  “The middle of Washington Square.”

  Okay. “See any cops around?” He waved at Dancer, tried to get his attention, but the agent was handing Gloria coffee and patting her shoulder.

  “No,” Josephine laughed, “for once, no cops.” Beneath the laugh there was a whisper of fear that dug into his sternum.

  “Go sit on a bench near the fountain, and stay on the line. I’m on my way.” He held his hand over the phone, shouted to his coworker. “Dancer, Josephine’s slipped her FBI leash and now she thinks she’s being followed.”

  Dancer shook his head as he came toward him. “That woman has a death wish.”

  Marsh closed his eyes.

  “Sorry, boss, probably not what you wanted to hear.” Dancer tugged his ear.

  She was in a crowded area. He doubted a predator as savvy as the Blade Hunter would risk such a high profile murder location. Not when the thrill was in inflicting pain.

  The Total Mastery Gallery was situated between Prince and Houston St., SoHo. Only a few blocks from Washington Square.

  Marsh looked over at Philip Faraday, who’d swiveled to face them, shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation.

  Turning his back, Marsh lowered his voice for Dancer alone. “Arrange warrants for the bank and phone records and find out where the hell the Faradays got that painting. If they don’t give us a name by noon, take them downtown and charge them both with possession of stolen property. That’ll do for starters.”

  With his cell to his ear, he strode out through the huge glass doors and onto the street. “Keep talking to me, Josephine.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Josephine’s voice was calmer now. “You were right, I was wrong?”

  Taking one look at the bumper to bumper traffic, he jogged north on foot, dodging pedestrians. “Sounds like a good place to start.”

  She laughed, just enough to take the edge off his skyrocketing nerves. Then he cursed his colleagues at BAU. What the hell were Walker and Nicholl thinking?

  “How did you know about the scars?” she asked suddenly.

  Now there was a question he’d been waiting for and didn’t want to answer.

  “You checked me out that night you drugged me in Boston, didn’t you?” Her voice sounded distant as if she’d disconnected from him. That night he’d saved her from a mob hit and then drugged her so he cou
ld implant the transmitter and set up his plans without having to watch her every single moment. But if Josephine thought seeing her skin was an invasion of privacy he was pretty sure she’d flip if she knew about the microchip.

  “I put you to bed, remember? I started to undress you, but then I saw the scars…” Damn. At least that lie was better than admitting the truth, even though he sounded like a pervert. “After I saw them I figured you’d rather I left your clothes on.” This wasn’t a conversation to have over the phone.

  The silence drew out. He didn’t like the sensation of her pulling away.

  Dead leaves gathered in gutters, black and soaked from last night’s rain. The sky was overcast and heavy moisture damp in the air. A siren screamed going fast in the opposite direction. It was only eleven a.m., but Marsh hoped the park was packed full of people enjoying an early lunch.

  “Josephine? You there?” Fear soared at the silence and his heart punched against his ribs. “Josephine!”

  It took him less than two minutes flat out running. His leg muscles burned, hot air fired his lungs, but he was right there, heading for the centre of Washington Square, frantically searching the area for the blonde termagant who’d taken over his life.

  And there she was.

  Relief surged through him like a hot wave as he spotted her dressed in the same olive-drab jacket from yesterday. She was sitting hunched over on a bench, phone to her ear, one arm folded over her chest, legs tightly crossed, glaring at some guy who wore a banner proclaiming, ‘Are You Going to Heaven? Take a test.’

  She was safe. Pissed as usual, but safe. And not going to Heaven if he could help it—not today anyway.

  The trees were almost bare, a few orange sycamore leaves clinging tenaciously to survival. It was more than a little ironic they were standing on an old burial ground. He took a moment to regain his breath. Searched the area for possible threats, all the time keeping Josephine in his peripheral vision.

  There was one guy, sitting on a nearby concrete bench, The NY News spread over his knees as he munched on a sandwich. Mid fifties, jeans, thick rust-colored sweater, balding head with a compensatory beard. He looked like a university professor.