Hold My Heart (2 page)

“You look perky this morning. Did
Speedy
get a lot of action last night?” I casually remark as I take a sip of my coffee, without as much as a glance his way.

“Ouch! You wound me, Lieutenant!” Tommy grabs his chest with his latte-free hand in mock offense, as the elevator doors open and we walk inside.

He pushes the button for our floor. This morning we are heading to the conference room for our much-dreaded briefing. We sip our coffees in silence as we ride the elevator. I venture a quick glance and recognize the look on Tommy’s face. It’s the same expression he gets every time my lame attempts to have a romantic relationship implode. He won’t look at me; instead, he studies the elevator numbers. I’m glad he doesn’t because he knows I hate pity. I hate people feeling sorry for me. I can’t look at him either.

We both have this aura about us, as if the shit we’ve been through is floating around like a storm cloud that follows us everywhere we go. Me? I carry it right on my shoulders. Tommy runs from it, always trying to leave it behind. Mine ends up ruining anything I’ve got going on in my personal life. Relationship SBS I should call it—smeared by shit. He usually does a better job at getting away from it, up until last year when his dad finally drank himself to death.

“Sorry about Rick, Lil.” Tommy breaks the silence, pulling me from my thoughts.

“That makes one of us,” I reply quietly.

I know he means well. To this day, I can’t get him to call me by my given name, Ileana. I went from ‘Lieutenant’ the first few years to ‘Harper’ when we finally became fellow agents. Off duty, he just calls me Lily, Lil for short. He’s the only person who calls me that.

I won’t tell him that our relationship is part of the reason I don’t do so hot in the boyfriend department. Men are so insecure. They never get Tommy and me. Add in the fact that I carry a gun and a badge, served in Afghanistan, and can handle myself during combat. Not a good mix for any man that’s expecting to play prince charming to my damsel in distress. Rick didn't even stick around long enough to spend the night. And the few men that are okay with everything still get to the point where they want to settle down, and I’m definitely not the
settling down
kind of girl.

The elevator arrives at our floor and we step out. We have to stop at our desks to grab some last minute paperwork before heading to the conference room for our eight o’clock meeting. The hallway is quiet and the floors are still shiny from the overnight cleaning crew.

Glancing up from my desk, I catch Tommy grinning to himself and shaking his head.

“What?” I frown his way as I gather our files.

He gives me a side-glance and smirks. “
Speedy
? Really?”

I guess he didn’t miss my earlier comment in the elevator about his manhood. If I ever want to sidetrack Tommy, all I have to do is bring up his extracurricular activities.

“What?” I feign incredulity. “I don't know what you call it. Little Buddy, Captain Rod, Happy Meal—”

“Christ, Lil, it's my dick!” he reprimands, and I laugh. “Happy Meal? Seriously, Harper.” He stops rummaging through his desk and faces me. “Come on, say it. I want to hear you say
dick
,” he orders, his bright green eyes staring down at me, his hands on his hips in challenge.

I’m a little stunned, but I play along. Glancing around before responding, I turn and stare him straight in the eye. I'm glad I wore heels today. Tommy is just over six foot tall to my five-foot, five-inch frame.

“You’re a
dick,”
I reply with a serious expression, my emphasis on the last word.

He throws his head back and laughs. Seeing Tommy laugh makes me smile. It's so rare lately, a genuine sound of joy from him. I want more. I don’t want to think about our case or my breakup.

“Holy shit, that's it isn't it?” Mockingly, I gasp, eyes wide. “That's what you call it,
Agent Dick
,” I whisper like a kid saying naughty words. “Oh my God, does he have a little badge he flashes? That’s so adorable!”

His laughter lights up his handsome features, fading a bit as he straightens himself, and then subsides as he once again feigns offense.

“Hey, cut it out. You’re gonna hurt his feelings,” he says, attempting to scold me.

His eyes meet mine, and I detect a hint of affection and relief. We maintain eye contact for a heartbeat, recognizing our mutual understanding. This is what we do. We keep each other sane.

We head down the hall toward the conference room. After a few seconds, I gasp and snap my index finger up in a
eureka
motion.

“
Dick
Tracy!”

“Jesus, Lil, you’re seriously fucked up.” Tommy grins. “Although,” he says, his look full of mischief, “one thing I’m not, is
speedy
.” In a seductive tone, he adds, “I like to take my time…” His light brown eyebrows bounce up and down, a huge smile on his face.

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Oh, spare me the details of
Dick
Tracy’s investigations.”

He laughs because he knows I don’t like hearing the specific details of his sex life.

“Dick Tracy is an awesome name though.” He rubs his index finger across his chin in contemplation. “No, wait. I’ve got it.” He stops mid-stride. “T
ommy Dick
.” His face lights up, wide eyes peering down at me, mouth turning up in a huge grin at his own brilliance. “You know, like the huge whale—”

This time, I burst into laughter. “And I’m the fucked up one? You’re sick, Colton."

As we near the conference room, we both attempt to quickly regain our composure, put our agent masks back on, and leave our personal lives at the door.

Chapter 2

“Harper, Colton,” Special Agent in Charge Dan Teague, greets us as we enter the conference room.

“Sir,” Tommy and I reply in unison, as we take our seats. We look toward the door, confusion on our faces.

“Let’s get started.” Teague, bless his heart, is sparing us an audience. Good. He cuts right to the chase, wasting no time. “Well, what do we got?”

While Tommy proceeds to update him on the case, I remove all the info we’ve gathered from my cross-body briefcase.

“So far, eight victims over a span of twenty years,” Tommy says as I hand the first set of files across the table to Agent Teague.

“First three victims turned up in California in nineteen ninety-three. It took some digging to notice the pattern. All women, average height. All professional, single, and living alone. No fingerprints or DNA evidence for the first three victims,” I add.

“Three other victims were found in two-thousand-three in New York,” Tommy says, picking up where I left off. Like synchronized swimmers, we have the art of briefing down pat.

I hand the five remaining folders to Teague, continuing, “Same MO as the murders in ninety-three, and then, two victims this year right here in Chicago. The last victim after we caught the case from the Chicago PD.” Teague opens each folder, examines crime scene photos, and glances at the paperwork.

“All eight victims were Caucasian females, between eighteen and twenty-five years old. No sign of forced entry,” Tommy adds, “all strangled. No defensive wounds on any of the victims, but all were raped. DNA confirms we're looking for the same guy.”

“The DNA collected from the Chicago victims matched DNA collected from the last victim in New York ten years ago. Fingerprints found in the Chicago murders didn’t match any from the database.” Teague doesn't glance up. Instead, he looks through the files, as if searching for something. “We sent the DNA samples to Quantico. Results just came back, and there’s still no matches in the national database, which means the guy has no priors, so he’s off the grid,” I say.

We continue to spout out information, hoping to provide whatever answer Teague is searching for in those files. It bugs me that he keeps scrutinizing them as if we missed something.

It makes me feel like a scolded child.

Crossing my legs, I lace my fingers together, trying my best not to twirl my thumbs. Tommy reads my body posture and silently inhales a deep breath as if to tell me to relax. I throw a quick, questioning glare his way and he just shrugs as he straightens his unbuttoned jacket. Finally, Teague looks up and breaks the silence.

“Any tips coming in?” He continues to shuffle through the papers, as Tommy and I exchange a quick look.

Tommy sighs. “No, sir, nothing recent, but we have some junior agents minding the phones as we speak.”

Seamlessly, I chime in, “We’ve placed enough resources to mind the phones twenty-four seven if necessary until—”

Agent Teague sighs then interrupts with a stern voice, eyes darting from me to Tommy. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but this guy seems to have a pattern of three victims at a time. So far, already two here in our city. If we don't catch this guy and close this case, DC is taking over, and we’ll look like we can’t wipe our own asses.” He closes the files and drops them on the table. “So, what else do we have? What about the MO? Any leads on the dishrags or the location of the body?”

That’s the one clue we haven’t divulged to the press and ties all eight crimes together. Each victim was found in the kitchen, with a dishrag stuffed in their mouth.

We’re well aware the clock is ticking so I’m leaving this one to Tommy. With a quick glance, I silently give him the go ahead.

Tommy sits back in his chair, mustering his best alpha-male tone and demeanor. “Nothing on the dishrags. Quantico reports no similarities. Dishrags varied in brand and materials, most likely belonging to the victims. Seems the killer just grabbed it from the victim’s kitchen. As far as the post office,” he motions my direction, “ Agent Harper and I interviewed all the employees, as well as ran background checks. Everyone’s clean, but we will re-check them. We have junior agents checking through the list of PO Box holders but so far nothing. We plan to stakeout the building today. We'll follow the profile data we have, take pictures, and scout the place. We'll catch him.”

That’s all we can do, at least until we find something more substantial to go on. Hopefully, we’ll discover that
something
before another body shows up, another innocent girl dies, and the killer disappears for another ten years. No pressure, right?

No wonder I can’t sleep.

Agent in Charge Teague is still sitting there, silently brooding. After a few seconds of pondering Tommy’s magic super male bullshit, Teague nods his head as if he’s satisfied—at least for now.

“Good. I don’t need to remind you both that this is a huge case. I don’t want the DC Bureau thinking we can’t handle things in our own backyard. No hiccups. Keep me posted on what’s going on. I’ll deal with Upstairs.”

Teague gets up and so do we, like soldiers when a superior officer exits. Some habits die hard. Teague walks right out the door, heading toward the elevators. Just like that, we’re dismissed.

Once at our desks, Tommy and I get back to work.

We’re charting our progress and action plan in a nice, neat document, complete with a colorful PowerPoint chart. One of the downsides of the job, it’s tedious work, but necessary. Shortly after our morning briefing, Teague requested a presentation of all the data so he can brief Bureau Management.

Tommy has never been one for admin work. He hates it. Then again, he really didn’t have to deal with it much in the Army; I did. The perks of being an officer versus enlisted. Better pay, lots of red tape. He keeps getting up and pacing beside our desks, throwing this little stress ball up in the air and catching it. He’s lost the tie, and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone. Meanwhile, I’m doing the paperwork. It is our little dance, which is why we’ve always worked so well together. I make sure our T’s are crossed and our I’s are dotted, and he makes sure to keep upper management off our asses.

We’ve shared office space with two fellow agents for the last four years. Tommy sits across from me, while Brad Nelson and Charlie Ryan sit beside us, facing each other. The pacing seems to be getting to Nelson, because he finally says something.

“Colton, you mind? You’re making me jumpy.” He and Ryan are helping us out with this case on an as needed basis.

Ryan just shakes his head and smirks, showing off his one-sided dimple. He’s the oldest of our group. Like Colton, Ryan is prior enlisted and got his degree while in the service. A Jarhead Marine through and through. Real badass. He’s an older version of Tommy, with a lot more tats and a lot more attitude.

“Sorry,” Tommy mumbles, yet keeps pacing back and forth between the desks.

“By the way, Harper, Chris wants you to call her back.”

I completely forgot. Christina is Nelson’s new bride and one of my old friends from college.

I look up from my computer screen and over at Nelson. “Shit, tell her I’m sorry, I don’t have her new number.”

He seems annoyed. “Really?” he huffs as he reaches for a sticky note and scribbles her number down. He crosses in front of Tommy, making him swerve around in his pacing.

Nelson hands me the note. “Here, make sure to call her,” he scolds.

“I will,” I promise, but Nelson gives me a skeptical look.

I better because I know she’ll just keep calling. I knew Christina Reyes back in the day at Northwestern University. She was one of those people that stuck around no matter how much I pushed away. She was always bossy and pushy, which made her a good friend back when I was a scared seventeen-year-old trying to navigate in a very adult world. She was the only person to bother with me at the dorm. I always had my nose buried in books. She was persistent to the point that I opened my heart a crack and she wiggled her way inside, burrowed, and never left.

Turns out she’d been working as a nurse at Northwestern Memorial hospital since graduation. We lost contact for a while, but by the time I came back to Chicago, we were emailing each other every so often. Once I got to Chicago, I avoided her as much as I could, until we ran into each other at the hospital two years ago. That was it. She hit it off with Tommy and to make things worse, about eight months ago we stumbled into each other at a downtown bar while Nelson and Ryan were with us. Just one look at her and Nelson was hooked. If I could put two people together in this world, it would have never been Brad Nelson and Christina Reyes. Nelson is an all-American boy: hair, perfect features like some real life Ken doll. The man stinks of old money. He’s a country club kind of guy, Ivy League school, uptight as hell. Christina’s parents are down-to-earth, working folks. Chris put herself through nursing school with merit scholarships and student loans while working nights. Raven hair, dark chocolate eyes, petite, curvy, and very
un
-Barbie. She’s also a free spirit, yet one look across that bar was all it took. Nelson asked me to introduce him and the rest is history.

I’ve never seen two people so crazy about each other. The uptight Nelson I knew when I began my assignment here is not the same guy, especially when he’s around Chris. I fold the piece of paper and stick it in my pocket when I hear Tommy growl in exasperation. He can't keep it in anymore.

“I feel like we’re being punished. ‘Hey, you haven’t caught this sick bastard, so make sure to lay out your failures on paper and put them in a nice presentation for us so we can sit around and criticize what inept agents you are’!” Tommy is seething with disdain and it spills from his pores. His beautiful features are contorted, brow furrowed, every muscle showing tension. He finally throws the stress ball across the room. Our fellow agents barely acknowledge his outburst. They are accustomed to it, and so am I.

I continue to pound on my keyboard, catching sight of him from the corner of my eye. He stands there, hands on his hips, watching me. I don’t look up. I just type. I know what our report is supposed to say, which is different from what I
want
to say. He walks to his desk and plops down in his chair as he runs his hand through his hair. He sighs heavily and seems to stare at his desk drawer, immobilized. His shoulders are slumped. If I look closely, I can see it. Tommy’s past, his ‘shit’ is sitting there, right on top of his shoulders, weighing him down as mine does me.

I can’t let him down. We’ve been through too much to let this case get the best of us.

“We’re going to get him,” I say with as much certainty and assertiveness as I can muster. Tommy finally looks up at me. I stare straight at him, my face impassive. It is a statement. A fact. “We will get him. It is not a matter of
if
, but
when
. And we will.”

I watch my words sink in: his shoulders straighten, his chest comes forward, and his face transforms into that smart-ass detective I know so well. He's back. He's managed to shake it off. His lips slowly curve into a smirk, his eyes sparkling with determination.

“Fuckin’ A we will.”

I grin back at him. And for just a moment, I actually believe it.

قلب

“Did I miss anything?” Tommy asks as he slides into the passenger seat of the car, carrying our coffees.

We’ve been sitting outside the Daley Plaza Post Office in the freezing cold for the last two hours. Most stakeouts are so unproductive and the odds of this one turning out any different are zero. Yet here we are. I take my coffee from Tommy's hand as he settles onto his seat and closes the passenger door.

“Nope. No ‘average, middle age, Caucasian male that blends in’ if that's what you're asking,” I quote the profile description, my tone laced with sarcasm. Frustration is getting the best of me.

“What else can we do, Lil? I mean, maybe we'll get lucky.”

Lucky.

“Yeah, whatever.” I glance at Tommy, and he looks as frustrated as I am.

“I don't like this either, Harper, but it's all we got. You got any other ideas, ‘cause I'm all ears?”

He's right. My bitching is not helping. I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck as I look toward the building. Instantly, Tommy notices.

“What’s up, Lil?” He is on full alert, switching his attention from me to the post office doors.

I don’t want to freak him out. I’m getting that feeling again. The one that tells me we’re running out of time. That shit is going to go from bad to worse soon.

“It’s nothing. I'm just…” I trail off, letting my head fall back onto the headrest and massaging the goose bumps off my nape.

“I know,” he says in a low tone.

We sit in silence, sipping from our coffees. Back in Afghanistan, I got these…
feelings
right before shit hit the fan. After a while, I started getting weird looks whenever my platoon was spared. I credited it to good Intel. Truth was, I couldn’t explain why we avoided so much shit there. Tommy is well aware of it. After all, he was there to witness it. It hasn’t happened in years, so I’m not bringing it up.

“We cannot control what this man does. All we can do is follow the evidence he leaves behind, and hope we catch him before he does it again.”