Cold Hearted (Cold Justice Book 6) (11 page)

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 holding. 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.”

Math and death. Odd bedfellows. It reminded Darsh of all the bullet trajectory and windage calculations he used to do in his head on those rooftops in Baghdad.

“Liver temp suggests they both died between eight and nine last night. It’s a guess, but it’s an educated guess,” the ME finished.

So the killer had spent some time in the house after he’d killed the girls. Cleaning up? Destroying DNA? Arranging the bodies? Finding letters? Having fun.

“Any idea which girl died first?” Erin asked.

Dr. Grice pulled a thoughtful face. “They both have similar body types. Mandy’s temp was almost identical to Cassie’s, but Mandy was fully dressed whereas Cassie was nude.” The guy scrunched his face as if thinking hurt his brain. “Theoretically, Mandy would cool more slowly than Cassie. If I had to pick who died first, I’d say Mandy for the reasons I stated, but there’s only an hour or so in it.”

“So it’s likely the UNSUB entered the house, killed Mandy, then attacked Cassie—”

“The music bothers me in this timeline. He recorded that message from Cassie and then walked through and shut off the music?”

Erin frowned, her hands resting on her hips. “Okay, so as soon as Tanya leaves for the party, he lets himself in, kills Mandy using her music to hide the noise of the struggle from Cassie. Then, still using the music to disguise his actions, he attacks Cassie, ties her up, makes her record the 911 message, and then goes and turns off the music? Why would he bother turning it off?”

Darsh put himself in the place of the killer. He’d already killed one girl and had the other under his control but wanted to play with her… “To make sure no one walked in on him unaware. So he could concentrate on what he wanted to do to Cassie and not get caught.”

Erin’s lips pinched. “What’s to stop Cassie screaming for help?”

“I found traces of rubber in her teeth,” Dr. Grice put in.

“Ball gag?” Darsh asked.

“Probably,” the ME agreed.

The skin between Erin’s eyebrows tugged downward.

“Which he also took with him after he raped and killed her. So why not take the rope?” asked Darsh.

“He staged the scenes exactly as he wanted us to find them. Taking what he wanted from Cassie’s room,” Erin stated.

The letters from Drew Hawke. The magazine. The sheet.

“So he’s careful, meticulous, and ruthless,” Erin said. “Suggesting the rope wasn’t an accident. It was a message. A clue? A taunt?”

Darsh didn’t remind her that rope had been left behind after last year’s rapes. He didn’t need to. “Anything else, Dr. Grice?”

“Nope. I’ve taken multiple tissue samples and sent everything where it needs to go. These ladies can be released for burial unless someone requests a second autopsy.”

They thanked the ME, said goodbye, and came to an abrupt halt in the reception area outside the autopsy suite. Five people sat in waiting room chairs. Three men and two women.

“Parents?” Darsh muttered under his breath.

Erin gave him an abrupt nod and approached the group. She introduced herself and him.

“The Medical Examiner has just finished the autopsies—”

“When can we see our children?”

“I’m not sure—”

“Who did this to my daughter?” A man with steel gray hair stepped close to Erin. “The same person who raped those girls last year?” The man’s upper lip curled, and Darsh understood he was hurting, but Darsh wanted him out of Erin’s personal space. Why did everyone treat her as an acceptable target? “People said you were going after Drew Hawke because you hated football players. After the trial I was inclined to believe you were right about him, but not anymore, not after this.”