Cold Fear (11 page)

He respected love and devotion as much as the next man, even though it hadn’t worked out for him.

He and his ex had both been obdurately independent.

Frazer found the thought of spending every hour of every day with another human being cloying and claustrophobic. Constant company made his brain ache. Regular sex might make up for some of it, but Frazer liked his space, mental and physical. Now he was thinking about sex, after trying not to think about it ever since Isadora Campbell had turned back to look at him and blushed so prettily when he’d caught her.

The good news was she didn’t want to be interested in him any more than he wanted to be interested in her. Or maybe that was the bad news, considering they both seemed to be losing the fight against basic physical attraction.

Thankfully he was an expert at ignoring not only his own wants and needs, but also the wants and needs of others.

He nodded to the murder board he’d borrowed from the police department and set against the dining room wall. On it he’d put pictures of Helena, Jesse, the dunes, Helena’s father, the shovel, and the bracelet, which represented all sorts of complications he didn’t want to write down but had to. “What did you learn from the other teens at the party?”

Randall coughed up a noodle. “Let’s just say I don’t remember things being that…advanced…when I was in high school. Or maybe I was a lot more innocent than I realized.”

“Drugs?” asked Frazer.

“Drugs, sex, and rock ’n roll. A couple of the kids admitted there were uppers flying around the party, but nothing ‘major’.” He placed air quotes around the word and went back to inhaling his food. He chewed for another moment. “The alcohol was flowing and the Cirencester kid is going to be lucky not to get strung up if his parents lose their liquor license over this.” He pointed chopsticks at Frazer. “What really blew me away—pun intended—is a game they played where the guys all threw their cell phones into a bowl and whoever got picked out won a blowjob from one of the girls.”

“Happy New Year,” Frazer said wryly. “Who won?”

“Damien Ridgeway.”

He winced. “Was Kit the one delivering the prize?”

Randall gave a shrug. “Apparently. They disappeared together.”

“To the pool?”

Randall nodded.

Frazer had told Kit he wouldn’t tell her sister her secrets, but that didn’t mean others would keep quiet. It wasn’t his problem, but he couldn’t help feeling sorry for Isadora, and pissed that her sister was running wild. A lot of people might blame the guardian, but if he could take control of his life at fifteen, there was no excuse at seventeen.

Not his business. “What was the general feeling toward Helena?”

“Nice kid—maybe a little too nice. Not into drugs or screwing around. Top student, hard worker. A dancer. Overprotective parents, especially the father.”

Frazer thought of her narrow feet and long toes. It seemed to fit that she’d been a dancer.

The “overprotective parents” raised red flags, but parents were suspects in every murder investigation. “I’ll need to interview the family tomorrow. Chief Tyson told me both parents had to be sedated, and he had a female officer staying with them in the house tonight. She’s a family friend.” Which was useful as long as her loyalty lay with discovering the truth. “What about Jesse? What was the general feeling about him?”

“Didn’t find anyone with a bad thing to say about the young man. Ace student, captain of the football team, but not an asshole. Girls wanted to date him. Guys wanted to hang out with him.” Randall shrugged. “What’s the next move? My boss wants a report. I can’t stall her forever.”

Frazer pinched the bridge of his nose. Petra Danbridge was competitive and she was pissed with the BAU for hiring Rooney instead of her. Thankfully she didn’t know the reasons behind the choice, although in retrospect he’d much rather deal with Rooney on a daily basis than the SSA from Charlotte. Hanrahan had made a damn good choice for all the wrong reasons. Frazer wasn’t a case agent but he did outrank her, and he knew all the right people. He didn’t want to pull too many strings and draw attention to what was going on down here until he had to.

“I need another twenty-four hours if I can get it.” Even that wouldn’t be enough. Danbridge would either pull Randall because a single victim homicide wasn’t a federal case, or she’d put more investigators on it and figure out the Denker connection.

“I’ll do my best but if I get a letter of censure in my file—” Randall didn’t look convinced.

“I’ll deal with it.” Frazer promised. “The ME found a seashell placed inside the victim’s vagina.”

Randall froze in the act of eating and put down his food. The fact Denker liked to put objects inside the victims was in the case files. Randall knew what it meant. “So the guy is either an old associate or a new friend of Denker’s. Either way they must have communicated.”

Frazer nodded. “I have a call in to the warden to try and access copies of his mail and tapes of any phone calls. She hasn’t gotten back to me yet. I’m betting he’ll make a move soon and I want to be ready for him.” He’d also asked Parker to find out as much as he could without going through official channels. Having a cyber security expert on his team had made him rethink all electronic methods of communication. There were no secrets in cyberspace, unless you were the king of code and data manipulation.

“You think Denker’s going to suddenly plead innocent? Claim that his confession was forced?”

“I doubt it—I mean the victim was in the trunk of his car and the condom he used when he raped her was in a trash bag with her clothes. Not only that but the guy would lose face and his ego wouldn’t be able to cope if he suddenly claimed he wasn’t really the big nasty serial killer, but some poor asshole too stupid to plead innocent. All he can really hope for is that his sentence is commuted to life in prison with no chance of parole.”

“I’d rather get a bullet.”

“Yeah, but you’re not the one facing imminent death, and Denker’s in love with himself. He’ll do anything he can to stay out of the death chamber.” And Frazer didn’t intend to let him.

He looked back at the murder board. He’d drawn an arrow from the bracelet to the name “Beverley—1998.” Christ, that was the year Helena Cromwell had been born. Above that another box with the initials “FD” sat. He didn’t want someone snooping and leaking Ferris Denker’s name to the media.

Beverley had gone missing in February. Denker had been arrested later that summer. Frazer needed to determine the connection to the Outer Banks.

“How do we figure out if this new killer is an old associate or a copycat?”

Frazer finished his food and put the carton on the table. He’d worked thousands of crimes over the years and he always started the same way. “Look at the victim, the evidence. Work up a profile using inductive and deductive methods. Assume as little as possible until we can prove it. Right now we don’t even know for sure the attacker was a single male. We need those forensic results back ASAP. The Denker angle is just another aspect. Don’t get distracted by it.”

Randall nodded but looked unconvinced.

“Do you have the evidence list?” Frazer asked.

Randall retrieved his notes and passed over the information. Frazer went through it twice before he finally figured out what he’d been missing. “What the hell happened to Helena’s shoes?”

*     *     *

I
ZZY LAY IN
bed staring at the pale shadows on her bedroom ceiling as she listened to the rhythmic beat of waves in the background. A flash of an image played inside her mind—a little girl running in and out of the surf, her father shadowing every step and making sure she wasn’t dragged away as she giggled crazily and let him sweep her up into his arms.

Her throat ached. It had been a long time since she’d remembered anything good about her childhood without it being overwhelmed by other memories. She shifted restlessly under the covers, unable to get comfortable as thoughts of past and present collided.

Should she confess?

Damn. The whole point of leaving the Army and coming home was to make sure Kit didn’t have to go into foster care. Confessing would mean that sacrifice would go to waste. Her sister would find out the truth—on top of losing her best friend she’d have to face everything alone, then end up in the system and probably drop out and have to repeat the last year of high school. Considering the path she was already on, Izzy didn’t think it would be a good idea.

She only had to wait until Kit graduated. After all this time what did it really matter?

The sound of the wind rattling the shutters was both creepy and comfortably familiar. The cadence of the ocean soothed her and usually sent her straight to sleep, but not tonight. The sea was the only thing she’d missed when she’d been away all those years—not her mom, not her kid sister. She saw them regularly, if infrequently, but she didn’t miss them. Not the way she should have. They were a unit and she felt like an outsider.

It had added another layer of guilt when her mom died. She hadn’t been a very good daughter. Another reason to step up and do what needed to be done. But living back here in the town where she’d grown up wasn’t easy.

It was claustrophobic living in a community where people thought they knew you inside out just because they knew your relatives. Her family’s dirty secrets would make them shudder, and her and Kit would be outcasts. She pushed the thoughts away. Kit must never know—perhaps ignorance was the only real gift she could give her sister.

She rolled over in frustration. She’d been so tired when she’d gotten home, barely able to keep her eyes open. Now thoughts were whirling inside her head so fast they spun. A floorboard creaked and she froze, before realizing it was Barney moving from one spot to another.

When she’d gotten home, after putting the Chinese food in the oven to keep warm, she’d searched the house, weapon drawn, looking in every linen closet, in the showers, under every bed. No monsters. Not today. Kit had been asleep in her room with her headphones and the TV on.

Just as Izzy had relaxed, Agent Randall had knocked on the front door and nearly given her a heart attack. She’d handed over the food and spare keys with the firm warning that if anything was damaged at the beach house she’d be talking to his boss. He’d winked and promised to be good. Openly flirting and not shy about it.

Lucas Randall was exactly the sort of guy a woman like her should have smiled back at. He was good-looking, intelligent, funny, and approachable. He had a cute name, cute face, body that looked like it would be worth exploring under the G-man suit.

But when she closed her eyes it wasn’t him she saw.

She punched her pillow.

The faint sound of metal grinding against metal had her shooting bolt upright in bed. What the hell was that? She threw back the covers, went to the window and looked out. Her room faced south with a view of sea oats, sand, and ocean. She pulled on a pair of sweats beneath the oversized olive “go-army” t-shirt she wore to bed. She palmed the Glock-17 off her nightstand and checked that there was a bullet in the chamber. She kept it pointed at the floor, but away from her ever-present excitable dog, who was always game for a new adventure. Through the north-facing window in the living room she could see the cottage dimly lit as if someone was in the sitting room or had left a light on. It looked quiet, peaceful.

It was doubtful the noise came from her paying guests. Another faint grinding noise had her listening harder, trying to pinpoint the exact source. It sounded like it was coming from
under
the deck.

Raccoons? Ponies? Her father’s ghost?

“Dammit.” She slipped into a pair of flip-flops by the French doors, hesitated with her hand on the door knob. She could let Barney out to chase away whatever it was, but if he got bitten or kicked by a wild animal, a five-minute excursion would turn into an all-night adventure to the vet’s office. But what if it was the man who killed Helena last night? He’d have no compunction about hurting her dog.

Why would he be under your deck, dummy?

But what if he was? She shuddered.

The gun rested against her thigh with solid reassurance. She was armed and not afraid of going head-to-head with anyone, especially not with the FBI billeted next door. She wasn’t a fragile seventeen-year-old. Truth was, she never had been. If it was the man who’d killed Helena this thing would be over. The FBI would leave the Outer Banks and her secrets would remain exactly that.

She grabbed the flashlight she kept behind the curtain on the windowsill. “Stay,” she told Barney as she eased open the door, closing it on him before he could race off into the night. If it was a wild animal it’d run away as soon as she showed her face. If it was a person, she was armed and dangerous, and the FBI was right next door. She could shoot, she could defend herself, and she sure as hell could scream for help. She paused on the deck and looked across to the beach house. No movement there.

If it was a raccoon she had no desire to be spotted out here with her weapon. She didn’t need to be anyone’s comic relief.

It was dark, but the night sky clear. Suddenly she became aware of her heartbeat pounding through her ears, deafening in intensity. Distracting as all get out.

Come on, Izzy, where’s your backbone? Where’s your training?
She searched for her courage as she eased down the stairs, caught between wanting to scare whatever it was away, and wanting to catch anyone who was up to no good. Her hands tightened on the grip of her pistol. Finger off the trigger.

At the bottom of the steps, she flicked on the flashlight only to discover she’d made a critical error. The switch clicked uselessly and nothing happened. A frisson of alarm crackled through the air and a wave of gooseflesh swept over her bare arms. The feeling of menace grew as the silence stretched. Thick shadows saturated the space beneath the house and fear lodged in her throat. She shook the flashlight and banged it against her thigh as if that would help. It rattled uselessly. Shit.

“Who’s there?” She felt like an idiot, talking to shadows, but she made her voice as commanding as possible. Nothing moved except the sea behind her and the wind rustling through the dune grass with the hiss of snakes.