Cold Hearted (Cold Justice Book 6) Read online

  “It’ll be at least a week until the crime scene is released.” Erin addressed the house mother. “But I can have an officer escort the girls to pick up some of their belongings today if they like. I’d really like you to think hard about seeing anyone in the street or hanging around last night—”

  “It’s the same guy who raped those girls last year, isn’t it?” Tanya turned accusing brown eyes on her. “Drew’s innocent, isn’t he? Cassie was right, and the bastard killed her to prove it.”

  Alicia covered her mouth and sobbed. “Poor Mandy. She wanted to help catch these assholes. But we all know Mandy wasn’t the main target. I saw the bodies. She was collateral damage the same way Tanya and I would have been if we’d been home.”

  “Don’t talk like that!” Tanya gasped.

  “It’s true.”

  The sound of the front door crashing open reverberated throughout the house. Erin braced herself when she heard shouting in the hallway.

  “Where is she? Where’s that bitch!”

  Here we go. She went into the main hallway, conscious of Darsh at her side. Would he back her up or watch the situation play out? Jason Brady and a bunch of Blackcombe Ravens football players stood in the doorway. Brady spotted her and immediately strode across and leaned down until they were nose to nose. Stale beer saturated his breath.

  “I just heard two girls were raped and murdered last night in the exact same way you arrested Drew for.” He jabbed two fingers into her chest. She gave him that one. “Is that enough evidence that he didn’t do it?”

  She shoved his hand away. “You need to calm down, Brady. This is an ongoing investigation, and you were not invited to this interview.”

  “Back off, pal.” Darsh pushed against Brady’s shoulder.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Brady swiped at his arm.

  “Agent Singh, FBI.” At least the fed sounded cool under pressure. “Let the detective do her job.”

  “If she could do her fucking job, Drew wouldn’t be rotting in a fucking prison cell.”

  “Back off, Brady. That is your last warning,” she told him.

  Jason Brady played wide receiver and was six foot four inches of pure muscle. His pals were wider and meaner looking. Brady leaned so close his stale beer breath brushed over her face. “Or what, bitch?”

  It was the spittle on her cheek that sealed the deal. Two seconds later, she had Brady flat on the floor with his arm pinned high behind his back as she dug the cuffs out of her pocket.

  “Jason Brady, I’m arresting you for threatening behavior. Assault of an officer.” She snapped the cuffs around one thick wrist. Jesus, the guy was strong. She didn’t ease up on the grip she had on him even though it had to be excruciating. The knucklehead seemed oblivious to pain. She checked behind her and half-expected a riot, but Darsh stood planted in front of her, stance wide, weapon in hand in a come-and-get-some-if-you-dare challenge. A huge guy who played defenseman lay on the floor, out cold.

  Mrs. Conway took control and started hustling the students out of her hallway—more effective than either the cops or the FBI in restoring order.

  Erin radioed for backup and a cruiser to transport Brady to the station. She jerked the young man unceremoniously to his feet and marched him out the door into the frigid January air. A growing crowd of onlookers was forming on the grass outside; murmurs grew into yells of outrage when they spotted Brady in cuffs. The atmosphere became downright ominous.

  No time to wait for backup. Darsh opened the rear door of his rental, and she stuffed Brady inside, secured his seatbelt, surprised when he didn’t struggle. He glared at her with such intense hatred in his eyes it made her stomach clench.

  “Get in,” Darsh ordered her.

  She glanced up to see some of the football players coming purposefully toward them. She slammed the door and walked calmly to the passenger door and climbed in. The fed immediately pulled away from the curb, and she turned in the seat to keep an eye on their prisoner.

  “Were you born a misandrist or did you grow into it?” Brady asked with a sneer from the back seat.

  “Fancy words,” she said, eyeing him thoughtfully. “I always forget you’re a smart guy under the Neanderthal. The only word I usually hear come out of your mouth begins with ‘c’ and rhymes with grunt.”

  “You’re going to regret this. I haven’t done anything wrong. Then again neither did Drew, did he?”

  Darsh eyed him in the rear view mirror. “You crossed a line back there, pal. You received several warnings and still put your hands on a police officer. This is your own fault.”

  “You must be fucking her to defend her,” Brady said bitterly. “I always wondered how any guy could get it up for such a cold bitch. Despite the hot little package, I bet it’s like nailing a corpse.”

  Erin glared.

  Darsh thankfully said nothing.

  But Brady wasn’t done. “Your husband couldn’t stand it, could he?”

  Erin’s flesh turned to ice.

  “Blew his brains out rather than face life with you.”

  Erin ignored the stiffening of Darsh’s hands on the wheel and forced herself to hold the student’s vitriolic gaze. Never show fear. She raised her chin. “Keep talking, Brady. It’s all fodder for the police report.”

  At that he shut his mouth, but insolently looked her over like he could see her naked. He hated her all right. She stared right back as her brain ticked over. Her cell rang. She checked it and mentally groaned. The Dean of Students was on the line. The guy had been very supportive of the rape victims last year, but with two new murdered students and the fact she’d just arrested another of his football players, he wasn’t likely to be happy.

  She let the call go to voicemail.

  It crossed her mind that Jason Brady had been in the courtroom almost every day last fall. He knew every detail of the crimes, and he would do almost anything to get his buddy out of prison. Would that include killing Hawke’s girlfriend? The idea ticked like a bomb in her brain. If it went off, the whole town was gonna explode.

  Chapter Six

  He drove up to the old farmhouse, careful to keep his tires in the established ruts. The snow was compacted almost to solid ice. The tires on his vehicle, even if they left tread marks, were so generic they weren’t likely to be traced in the unlikely event Erin noticed them and became suspicious.

  She’d be tied up for most of the day with the investigation, but he was still taking a risk coming here. A calculated risk.

  Taking care of Mandy had been more difficult than he’d expected. As much as he’d wanted to cover her face afterwards, he couldn’t risk it. Depersonalizing the victim revealed too much about the killer. Even so, he hadn’t been able to strip her or touch her the way he’d originally intended. Thankfully, he’d been able to do the deed without her seeing his face.

  Killing Cassie hadn’t been hard at all—what a bitch. His waist still stung from where she’d clawed him with her inch-long nails. Hitting her had been surprisingly arousing—an unexpected result from his change in tactics. He’d taken out his anger and frustration on the irritating bitch and enjoyed every fucking moment. It had been messier than he expected. He’d made her pay for that.

  The look on her face when he’d had her all tied up. The understanding in her eyes when she realized what he’d done, and what he was about to do. It was enough to make him hard all over again.

  Smoke poured out of a chimney, telling him the furnace had kicked on. He turned off the car engine and got out. Raised his face to the perfect blue of the sky as the cold wind whispered across his cheeks. It was quiet here. Peaceful. He’d visited a few times. He liked it.

  He walked up to the backdoor and inserted the key he’d had cut after he’d borrowed the original, and slipped inside. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet. The kitchen was large, but old fashioned, and Erin hadn’t really touched this room yet.

  He ran his hand over the raised grain in the old farmhouse table and glanced around.
The mail was stacked on the counter. She probably hadn’t had time to go through it yet after her vacation.

  He belonged here. He’d help her with this case now that he’d forgiven her for ignoring him yesterday. She’d probably been tired after her long flight. Well, she’d be a lot more tired now.

  It was a lesson, and he was the teacher.

  He wandered into the dining room. Last Christmas she’d stripped out the lath and plaster and replaced the wiring and insulation, and her brothers had come up and put up drywall. She’d never entertained a boyfriend here that he knew about. The thought settled him. Reminded him it was just a matter of time until she realized they were supposed to be together.

  Swatches of paint in various colors dotted the opposite wall. His favorite was a dark mossy green, but he had a feeling she’d go with the amber. In the living room, she’d gotten as far as gutting the place and inserting the insulation. Plasterboard was stacked on the floor, but she must be waiting for her family to visit again before finishing it off. The floors were hardwood, and they looked scuffed, but he had no doubt that by the time she was finished, they’d gleam.

  She was building a home for them, she just hadn’t realized it yet.

  His foot hit the bottom stair and with it, a growing sense of anticipation. The bare wooden boards creaked. He listened to them and mentally catalogued which to avoid should he need to move silently around Erin’s house.

  He smiled as he pictured coming upon her in the bedroom while carrying a large bouquet of red roses. Her eyes would widen and soften. She’d invite him into her bed.

  He’d been angry with her yesterday, but it had made him realize this was the way things needed to be. Soon, she’d have no one else to turn to. No one who believed in her, who loved her—except him. He’d be there for her. He’d love her. And she’d love him right back.

  She’d renovated four rooms upstairs, the bathroom, master bedroom, a spare bedroom, and an office. He walked into her room and drew in a deep breath. Subtly sweet, like the almond shampoo she favored. Her bed was unmade. Nightshirt and panties scattered on the floor. Even the idea of touching them turned him on, but he ignored the sensation, letting it grow in the back of his mind.

  Her suitcase sat on the floor, lid open against the end of the bed, belongings still inside. There was a fine residue of sand in the base. He touched the grit and then pulled out her sunscreen. Sniffed it and imagined himself lying beside her on the beach spreading this across her soft, smooth skin.

  He hooked her bikini with one finger and dangled it in the air. It was grass green, and there was barely enough to cover the bases. He whistled appreciatively. She’d look good in that. Something red and shiny caught his attention. His erection nearly burst out of his jeans as he held a pair of satin panties to his nose and inhaled the musky scent of the most incredible woman on the planet.

  She wasn’t perfect. She was dedicated and driven, beautiful and compassionate. Even thinking about the shape of her lips when she frowned aroused him.

  He knew he shouldn’t take the risk, but he lay on the bed, undid his jeans, and wrapped the panties around his aching cock.

  Lying in Erin’s bed with her scent surrounding him, it didn’t take long for him to climax. Afterwards, he lay staring at the ceiling Erin stared at every night, his head cradled by her pillow. His heart rate slowed as he thought about the flak she was going to get. His joy soured.

  It was necessary.

  She was going to get hurt.

  But he’d be there to help pick up the pieces.

  He cleaned himself up and stuffed the panties in his pocket. He should burn them, but he wouldn’t. He’d wash them and bring them back another day, and it would be a thrill knowing they shared this secret connection.

  A car engine roared in the distance, and he froze. Then the noise drifted away from the farmhouse, and he relaxed. He headed swiftly back downstairs. He needed to be careful. Not only was the FBI involved, the press were also sneaking around. He couldn’t afford to get lazy or complacent. If this plan worked, he was going to be the hero and get the girl. Now was his time to shine.

  * * *

  Jason Brady didn’t have a clue about women if he thought Erin Donovan was frigid, although the stubborn cop did try to convince the world she was a cold-hearted bitch. Darsh knew better. He glanced at her profile out of his peripheral vision, but she was staring straight ahead. Had her husband blown his brains out? Or was Brady spouting bullshit?

  Darsh had a lot of questions. He’d spoken to Jed Brennan earlier and confirmed to his boss the unstable situation in the town with its simmering tension just waiting to explode. He’d also asked for whatever background information he could get on Erin Donovan.

  The ME cleared his throat and brought Darsh back to the cool white room with its steel benches and incandescent lighting. The dab of Vic’s Vapor Rub under his nostrils didn’t mask the smell of death. The exposed corpses of the two young women made him wonder if he’d made a mistake joining BAU-4 investigating crimes against adults. God knew, he’d already seen enough death to last a lifetime.

  It didn’t help that every time he went near an autopsy room, he was reminded of his mother. She’d ended up on a slab in a cold room surrounded by strangers with some guy opening her chest and weighing her heart—assuming she’d had one.

  The counterterrorism unit, BAU-1, played more to his strengths. Three years ago, just before he’d met Erin, the Washington Field Office had become aware of an active terrorist cell in DC. Darsh had been on rotation with BAU-1 and had volunteered to go undercover.

  The major advantage of his less than pearly-white complexion was if he grew a jihadi beard and stuck a prayer mat under his arm, he could pass for someone of Middle Eastern origin. With his looks, language skills, and military experience, he’d been in his element. He’d just pretended to be on the other side of the Abrams tanks during the fall of Baghdad. He’d helped the FBI and Homeland foil a plot to blow up the DC Metro. They’d swept up those bastards in an operation that had taken the extremists by complete surprise. He’d taken great satisfaction in arresting the ringleader who’d “recruited” him.

  Darsh had gotten happy drunk that weekend with the rest of his buddies, knowing they were lucky to have avoided a major catastrophe. Now he stared at the bodies of two young women, and the world once again felt off kilter. He rubbed his eyes. Maybe he should have joined HRT like they’d asked him to, but the idea of looking down his scope and taking more lives made him sick to his stomach. It wasn’t an issue he advertised to his bosses or co-workers. He’d do his job, but he didn’t get a thrill from handing out a death sentence every time he took a shot.

  He averted his eyes from Mandy Wochikowski’s chest as an assistant ME sewed up the Y-incision.

  It was one thing to die as a soldier. You picked up your weapon and made your choice. But murder was a violation. Murder was inherently wrong. Murder was also his job—a job where he got to make a difference by taking bad guys off the streets. Bad guys who enjoyed raping and murdering men and women like these. He might not like dealing with victims, but he sure as hell enjoyed nailing the killers.

  Erin stood quietly beside him, waiting for the ME to finish the post. Self-contained. Professional.

  Personal considerations aside, she seemed like a good cop—smart, dedicated, not afraid to swim against the tide if that’s where the evidence took her. But had she misread that evidence? Made a mistake? Maybe she wasn’t as smart as he thought she was. He needed to be objective about her and not fall for the kickass cop in an angel’s body.

  That scene on campus this morning had blown up out of nowhere. No wonder the DOJ was worried about this situation being a tinderbox. Erin had handled Jason Brady with surprising ease, although Darsh was glad he’d been there to back her up. The situation was too volatile for her to be riding alone. Brady had been ready to light the fuse that the girls’ murders had provided and had almost caused a riot. The asshole was now cooling his jets in ho
lding. They’d probably release him with a warning.

  “So to recap.” The ME’s voice once again dragged Darsh’s wandering thoughts back to the impersonal sterile room. The steel top table. “We’ve found no semen. No ketamine in either girl’s system. Scrapings from fingernails and swabs for contact DNA have been bagged and prepped to be shipped to the lab at Quantico. Cassie’s fingertips were dipped in bleach and then rinsed in water. We might find something, but the killer certainly stacked the odds in his favor.”

  Other physical evidence had been a bust except for the hair they’d found on Mandy’s sweater, which could have come from the killer or from a girl standing next to her in the line at Starbucks.

  “He probably wore latex gloves and a condom,” Darsh muttered.

  “Unless he wore a rubber suit there are still some places we might find skin cells. Don’t give up all hope, Agent Singh,” Dr. Grice chided.

  But even if they found DNA, it didn’t mean they’d get a name. DNA profiles had to match a known offender in CODIS, and he had a feeling this UNSUB was too meticulous for that to happen. Or maybe this was his first rodeo. He’d studied hard and knew how to leave as few clues as possible…

  “Cause of Death—asphyxiation. Note the petechial hemorrhaging in the whites of the eyes. They were both strangled, although in different ways. Mandy from behind, probably in an arm lock.” Dr. Grice demonstrated the move holding his arm angled across his own chest. “Cassie was strangled from the front, the assailant wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing hard from above. Her hyoid bone cracked. Trachea crushed. Cassie appears to have been raped, but Mandy showed no sign of sexual assault.”

  Just strangled.

  Darsh’s stomach churned. Maybe his dad was right, and this job was a way of punishing himself for all the people he’d killed.

  “Manner of Death—homicide,” the ME declared. Like there had been any doubt.

  “TOD?” Erin asked.

  “There’s always room for error, but at an average temp of 72F, the body stays about the same temp for the first hour after death, then decreases 1-1.5 degrees per hour thereafter. I adjusted for when the cops arrived and the resultant decrease in ambient temperature when you guys left the doors open at around three. I took my own readings and compared them to the local weather station.”