Her Last Chance (20 page)

The positive news was she had a new
commission. The bad news was she had to go out and meet with the client this
afternoon. She made a valiant attempt at a smile, but caught her grim
reflection in the glass of a framed photograph on her mantel.

“What’s going on?” Vince’s bass
rumble reached out from where he sat on the couch.

She glanced at the telephone,
wondering if Marsh would call or if they were over. They didn’t feel over, but
they didn’t feel together either.

“Are you in love with Laura?” The
words got through the knot in her throat with difficulty.

His chuckle made her want to smile.

“Honey, can’t you tell?” he said,
raising a thick brow.

“The way you checked out that
flight attendant’s ass?” she shot back at him, wondering if she was way too
uptight when it came to relationships.

He chuckled again, unperturbed.
“Laura and I have a
look, don’t touch
policy.” He grinned up at her.
“Although I’m not dumb enough to look when she’s around, nor do I want to. To
answer your question, yes, I’m in love with Laura.”

Josie noted his happy expression.
“So why does being in love suck so much for me?”

Taking his time, Vince started
reassembling the gun he was cleaning. “I take it your little shot at Marsh on
the plane this morning was an attempt to provoke some sort of a reaction?”

“Ya think?” Okay, so sarcasm wasn’t
something Vince deserved, not after he’d rocked her and wiped away her tears
earlier. Not when he’d protect her with his life.

She slumped next to him on the sofa
and pressed a cushion to her face. “He can’t even look at me. Not since he got
the call about Dancer.”

Vince stayed quiet for so long
Josie didn’t think he was going to answer. Despite her sweater, cold trickled
through her, stealing her earlier determination.

God, she hated the cold…

“In the teams, when we found out we
were about to go on a mission, most of the guys would get very quiet and
introspective.” She heard a metallic snap as he finished with the Desert Eagle
Pistol. Smelled the bittersweet scent of gun oil in the still air.

“Guys who are about to go into
combat don’t want sex. They don’t want to jack off. They focus on the mission
and on the job they need to do, so they can celebrate all that other shit when
the job is done.”

She frowned at him. “He was pissed
because we were in bed together when that monster was killing that poor woman—”

“Of course.” Vince nodded, tugged
one corner of his lips up in a mirthless smile. “Marshall Hayes is a good man
and was an excellent naval officer—a rare commodity, believe me. I’d imagine
he’s got a gutful of remorse that he allowed himself to be distracted during an
important investigation.” Vince raised his hand to stop her from interrupting.
“And now he’s trying to focus on getting the job done, rather than sitting
around holding your hand, or any other part of your anatomy for that matter.”

She smacked him with the cushion.

When he grinned his white teeth
were luminous against his dark skin. “He’s trying to keep you safe
and
get the job done.”

Could it be that simple…?

“You told Marsh you love him yet?”
Vince asked, stuffing the gun back into its holster and snapping the clasp
closed. “Because that might go some way to easing the situation.”

The bright afternoon light
reflected off the walls and made her squint. She hugged her arms tightly around
the cushion. “No.”

“He ever say anything to you?”
Vince asked.

The sigh deflated her chest. “No.”

“So you’ve got into some pretty
heavy shit with this guy, but you don’t really know how you feel about one
another?”

Swallowing back tears she nodded.

“Then why the fuck don’t you pick up
the phone and tell him?”

Josie laughed even as tears filled
her eyes. It should be that simple. But it wasn’t. Because she was terrified.
She’d spent a lifetime erecting barricades around her heart and only letting a
few people even touch the outer surface—not because she was tough—but because
she was weak. Marsh had rammed his way through her defenses and left her
completely vulnerable.

And it terrified her.

Because what if he didn’t love her
back? What if she took a chance on him but all he’d wanted was a quick fling? A
lifetime of insecurity was hard to fight, but dammit she was going to try to be
braver. Try to be more worthy of a good man like Marshall Hayes.

***

The cop was a hot
blonde with a
Playboy
figure, the top half of which was pressed against
Marsh’s shirt. “I didn’t have this much trouble getting solicited in Vice.”
Detective Lanie Jenkins sank her fingers into his hair and dragged his mouth
toward her, but still he resisted. Her Southern drawl reminded him too much of
Prudence Duvall and his gut twisted. He couldn’t do this.

He used both hands to hold her away
from him. “Give me a minute, please.”

She stood back and rolled her eyes.

These guys thought Dancer was good
for the Duvall murder but he had airtight alibis, involving several FBI agents,
for the previous two murders. Pretty much everyone had come to believe he
couldn’t be the Blade Hunter.

Marsh had taken his idea to the
captain of the Brooklyn PD—whose acquaintance he’d made last spring when Walter
Maxwell had been murdered—and convinced him that the killer seemed to have
focused on him and maybe they should set a trap. The plan was to assume Marsh
was some doomed Lothario and the real killer would turn his attention to this
new target and the cops would be ready for him. He didn’t have much to lose,
but this cop was putting herself in the line of fire. He didn’t think he could
cope with being responsible for her death too. And if Josie ever found out he
was kissing another woman it would destroy what little trust she had left in
him.

 “G-men really are duds.” Jenkins
scowled at him, then grabbed his hand and stuck it on her ass. He squeezed his
eyes shut for a moment and gritted his teeth.

“Now look like you know what to do
with a woman,” she said.

Catcalls started from some of the
uniforms standing at the end of the alley they’d cordoned off near the Precinct
for this particular photo-shoot. Marsh bet most of the guys standing there
would beg to fill this role. Meanwhile he’d rather be anywhere else.

Nelson Landry stood at the end of
the alley taking shots as if he was spying on Marsh.

Marsh had made more deals in the
last half hour than he’d made in his entire life and the last one promised an
exclusive to a reporter he might have wronged six months ago. Not that he could
have let the story about Elizabeth run, but there might have been a better way
to deal with the situation.

He was eating crow, with humble pie
for dessert.

Jenkins rubbed against him. “I
won’t tell anybody about your little problem, feeb—”

Josie being angry with him was
better than Josie being murdered in cold blood. So he pressed the detective up
against the wall, knee thrust high between her thighs, and kissed her deep and
hard, keeping her pinned against the wall.

Not that she tried to get away.

The lady was the hottest cop he’d
ever met. She was sexy as hell and she kissed him back, tongues tangling as she
tried to close the gap. A hell of an actress too.

Satisfied Nelson had all the
material he’d ever need, Marsh stepped back and held her gaze which was a
little less derisive. “Thank you for your help, Detective Jenkins, and please
be very cautious until we catch this killer.”

After a moment she grinned. “Let’s
hope we can draw this guy out before he attacks your girlfriend again.”

Their eyes met, guilt and gratitude
making him feel like the biggest prick ever, even as she grinned up at him and
ran a finger down his chest. “And if she dumps your ass, you know where to come
for some mind-blowing rebound sex.”

She winked at him and strode away,
every inch of her lush figure squeezed back into cop mode. One of the uniforms
dropped to his knees and begged to be next, but she flipped him off.

Marsh raised his face to the slice
of bright blue sky that glowed above him.
God help him
, he hoped he
never had rebound sex.

Chapter
Seventeen

_____________________

T
hirty minutes later Marsh
skimmed his eyes over the crowded squad room at the Brooklyn Precinct. The feds
were in the corner of the room, as far removed from eavesdroppers as they could
get. Walker sat on a table, one foot planted on the floor, the other dangling
in the air, swinging backwards and forwards.

The lieutenant was outlining the
plan to the next shift. They’d let the press believe they’d caught the Blade
Hunter, but the FBI, Brooklyn PD and NYPD knew better. Not that they’d released
Dancer, yet.

Detective Jenkins would work her
day shift and tonight, after the evening edition of
The
NY News
came
out, she would go back to her lonely apartment in Bay Ridge. Except tonight she
wouldn’t be lonely. They’d have officers all over her apartment building.

Setting the trap and baiting the
hook.

“You really think this is going to
work?” The skin under Agent Walker’s eyes looked sunken and heavy. Red veins
formed a delta across the whites of his eyes and the stubble on his chin was
almost enough to be classified as a beard.

Marsh shrugged. Maybe not tonight,
but given time the Blade Hunter would go after the pretty cop—he was too
egotistical not to.

“You have a better idea?” Marsh
countered.

Walker gave a small laugh that
sounded anything but amused. “No.”

“Dancer is innocent.” Marsh walked
over to the vending machine and got black coffee that tasted so bitter he
gagged, but it fired up some neurons and he seriously needed something fired up
somewhere.

His brain ached.

“He was leaning over the body of a
dead woman with the murder weapon next to him.” Walker shot him a look full of
warning, so Marsh held his silence. “And Special Agent Dancer knew enough about
the murders to arrange a copycat killing—if he wanted to.”

“So why the fuck get caught?” They
didn’t get how smart the other agent was. NASA smart. Bill Gates smart.

“I’m not finished.” Controlled
anger battled the threadbare patience in Walker’s tone. “Dancer’s tox screen
came back positive for narcotics, but a smart perp could plan that himself. We
don’t know exactly how or when he received the drug. Might have taken just
enough to be found during a routine screen if he was caught, giving himself an
alibi. You said your boy was smart?” Walker’s eyes held his.

Marsh finished the lousy coffee,
crushed the paper cup in a tight fist. “But he’s not a killer. Dancer loves
women.”

“Yeah, so did Bundy.”

Fury rose in Marsh’s chest with
each particle of oxygen he drew in. He got in Walker’s face. He used to be able
to control his temper but in the last six months his control had evaporated.

“Hey, no fighting unless we all get
to play.” Cochrane cut it. “Preliminary DNA evidence is in.” The expression on
Cochrane’s face made Marsh’s heart freeze. “DNA from the semen matched Special
Agent Steve Dancer.”

Everyone in the squad room had
turned to face them.

This couldn’t be happening…

Turning away Marsh placed both
hands against the opaque glass of the precinct’s window, spread out his
fingers. He ground his teeth and felt the pressure build behind his eyes. “This
UNSUB is a pro. He’s been doing this all over the world for twenty years and
who knows how many people he’s set up to take the fall for him.” Marsh turned
back to face Walker and Cochrane, ignoring other prying eyes. “We have got to
catch this man before he kills again.”

“You really don’t believe your guy
did it?” Cochrane lowered his face. “Not even Prudence Duvall?”

“You think I couldn’t get your
semen if I wanted it?” Marsh held the detective’s gaze and watched him lose all
color.

“Jeez, there’s a visual I didn’t
need,” Cochrane rubbed his bald spot and backed away a step.

Prudence Duvall had invited Steve
Dancer to lunch. If she hadn’t ended up dead he’d have suspected her of setting
him up. Something inside Marsh’s mind clicked and suddenly it started to make
sense. To understand the crime, you had to know the victim.

“Dammit.”

“What?”

“Maybe Pru Duvall knew this guy.”

Cochrane paled. “Oh, shit. I can
tell I’m not going to like our next move.”

Marsh grinned at him. Walker looked
on, watchful but impassive.

Grieving or not, future president
of the US or not, he needed to talk to Brook Duvall.

***

About to knock on
the huge double doors to the Duvall’s Gramercy Park apartment, Marsh heard
raised voices inside and stilled his hand.

“I want that damn painting!”

“I don’t know anything about your
painting you selfish bastard. My wife just died!”

He exchanged a glance with
Cochrane. Did they stay and listen and maybe learn something, or knock on the
door and reveal their presence?

The scrape of furniture and the
crash of something fragile against an unyielding wall forced them into action.
Marsh unclipped his holster and Cochrane pulled his weapon as he stood to one
side. Ignoring the gleaming polished brass knocker, Marsh hammered hard against
the solid wood with the base of his fist.

“FBI, NYPD. Open up.” He upped the
volume, repeated, “FBI, NYPD. Senator Duvall, open up, please. We know you’re
in there.”

There was quiet, broken by the
sound of footsteps slowly approaching the door, the indiscernible sound of
whispered instructions.

“You too, Admiral, don’t bother
hiding. We need to talk.” How screwed up was their investigation about to
become with so many politicians and bigwigs watching their own backs?

The lock clicked and the door swung
open to reveal a disheveled Brook Duvall, wearing the same clothes he’d had on
earlier. Iron-gray hair stood on end and a puffy red mark cruised one
cheekbone. Eyes were bloodshot from both tears and alcohol. Marsh smelled the
whisky on his breath.

Although if ever there was a day
when a man deserved to drown his sorrows, the day of his wife’s murder would be
it.

“May we come in?” Marsh asked.

Brook nodded, rubbed his throat.

Admiral Chambers had two decades on
Duvall. He hovered beside an overturned table, fists clenched, murderous rage
glittering in his eyes. He took an unsteady step, crunched fine porcelain
beneath his Rockport shoes.

“Admiral Chambers, so nice to see
you again.” Marsh felt anything but amused.

The admiral grunted.

“The admiral happens to be my
father’s best friend.” Marsh gave Detective Cochrane his most plastic smile and
was pleased that the detective grinned at him as they holstered their weapons.

“So you’re up shit creek with
everyone, huh?” Cochrane laughed, a deep cynical sound that said he’d been
there, done that.

“Never a dull moment.” Marsh turned
to the senator. “Is there somewhere we can discuss things like civilized
gentlemen?”

The senator’s PA barged through the
door behind them and glanced at the shattered vase on the dark hardwood floor.
“What happened?”

“Geoffrey, can you get the
gentlemen a drink please, and clear up this mess?” Senator Duvall patted the
other man’s arm and looked up at Marsh. “I gave the housekeeper the night off.
She was devastated.” Tears welled up in his eyes again and he looked away,
stumbled toward his office.

Marsh followed, doubting the
senator would get to the White House now, but who knew? If Duvall wasn’t
implicated in the murder of his wife, the sympathy vote alone might rocket him
into the Presidency. Now there was an angle to investigate—if he wanted to get
strung up by his balls.

The admiral followed, tailed by
Cochrane.

Cochrane was his new best friend
because the rest of his team was busy going through the church records and NYPD
wanted him under the microscope. He needed to find the killer and get Dancer
out. Then he’d deal with Josephine.

In the office, Brook poured himself
a tumbler of single malt and Marsh wished to God he could have one too.

“I need to know what’s going on,”
Marsh said quietly.

Duvall sank slowly into a wingback
chair as if his body was so weary he might collapse. Admiral Chambers helped
himself to a shot of whisky and then leaned against the oak mantle, warming
himself before the fire.

“Nothing’s going on,” the admiral
sneered.

Miserable old goat.

“Try again, Admiral.”

Cochrane was wandering around the
study, selecting and examining books from the dark bookshelves.

“Want me to arrest him for assault,
Senator Duvall?” Marsh asked the bereaved man.

“You wouldn’t dare…”

“Try me.”

The admiral’s mouth dropped open as
he stared at Marsh, the crimson in his cheeks fading to reveal parchment-like
white skin.

“But it’s up to the senator,” said
Marsh.

The admiral glanced down at Brook
Duvall who stared sightlessly into the flames. “Can’t prove a damn thing.”

“The same way you can’t prove
Prudence stole any painting from you. Do you know about this painting?” Brook
looked up at Marsh. “He says my wife stole it from him years ago and he picks
today
to come and claim it.” His head swung round to face Chambers. “Did you kill her
for it?”

Brook leapt out of his chair and
tackled the admiral to the floor, the whisky glass crashing into the fire with
a shattering hiss of flame. Both men landed with a hard thud, but Brook had the
advantage of surprise and age on his side and straddled Chambers, gripping the
old man’s throat. “Did you kill her?”

Marsh looked on. If it looked like
Duvall was going to do serious damage he’d step in.

“I haven’t even seen her in years.”
Chambers’ hands fought for purchase on Brook Duvall’s fingers, but the senator
wasn’t giving up easily.

“You’re lying!” Tears started to
flow again and Brook looked up and seemed to realize what he was doing, or
maybe who his audience was. He stumbled off the older man and crawled onto his
chair, wrapped his arms over his head and wept.

Chambers sat up, loosened his tie,
undid his top shirt button and wheezed out a breath before he could speak.
“You’d know all about lying, wouldn’t you, you fucking queer.”

Oookay
.

Marsh scraped his fingers over his
eye sockets as he stared at the broken figure of the next would-be president.
There had never been a hint of scandal. “You’re gay?”

Duvall said nothing, sat with his
face hidden against his knees, shoulders shaking.

“Did you
ever
do her?” The
admiral asked with a leer. “Because she was rabid by the time she got to me.”

“She’d need to be,” Cochrane
muttered under his breath.

Chambers climbed to his feet,
wobbling unsteadily. Duvall sobbed harder and Marsh noted the PA stood at the
door, directing a vicious look at Chambers.

“So Pru was a beard?” asked
Detective Cochrane.

Duvall sat up straight, his gaze
going to Geoffrey in the doorway and Marsh put the final piece of the puzzle
together.

“It was her idea.” Duvall palmed
the tears off his cheeks. “We met in Savannah when her father was still alive.”
He glanced up and caught Marsh’s gaze. “I think he abused her, but she never
talked about it. She never talked about much.” He gave a bitter laugh, “She
caught me with Geoffrey in a compromising situation at some house party the
Huntingfords threw.” Brook closed his eyes.

“Geoffrey and Pru are…
were
second cousins. She knew I had political aspirations, and as she found me,” he
glanced at his PA, “
us
, literally in the closet, it didn’t take long to
convince us that we could actually make a marriage of convenience work. Plus, I
was in the Navy…” He looked away from Marsh into the flames. “You know how the military
loves homosexuals.”

“So lying to the American people is
an ethical way to start your political career and an okay way to win the
Presidency?” Marsh questioned.

Cochrane snorted while Admiral
Chambers sank stiffly into the second chair with a smirk.

Geoffrey came over and poured
himself a large one. “All those years…” He turned and looked at his boss, his
lover, shaking his head as if they’d lost everything. “I never thought it would
end this way.”

“Did you kill your wife?” Detective
Cochrane asked, a hard expression closing down his features.

The senator looked surprised. “Me?”

“Yeah,
you
. She get fed up
of the arrangement? Threaten to spill the beans?” Cochrane had a viable suspect
in his sights, and leverage to make a powerful man talk. “Spouses are always
top of the pile when it comes to murder.”

“But I thought a serial killer
murdered her?” He didn’t know they’d ruled Dancer out as the Blade Hunter.
Duvall’s eyes ricocheted violently, a pinball gone crazy. They came to rest on
Geoffrey and he held out a shaking hand that the other man took.

“You lovebirds got an alibi for
last night that doesn’t involve each other?” Cochrane’s New York accent got
thicker with each word.

The senator and his PA looked at
each other frowning. “We were in the Hamptons.”

The admiral laughed, a nasty ugly
sound.

“What about you, Admiral? Got an
alibi?” Marsh’s words stopped him cold.

“Me?” The old goat had the gall to
look affronted.

“Yesterday, you find out Prudence
took a painting that might be worth as much as fifty million dollars.” Marsh
watched the old man’s faded brown eyes grow cold. “You have an alibi for last
night?”

“I wouldn’t have killed the bitch
until after she’d told me where the painting was.” His lips twisted as he
looked into the fire.